i 
 
 1 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 ETC, 
 
A MODEL FATHER 
 
 ETC 
 
 By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "Joseph's coat," etc. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 1888 
 
 [Ail rights reserved\ 
 
LONDON : 
 
 HENDERSON, RAIT, AND SPALDING, PRINTERS, 
 3, AND 5, MARYLEBONE LANE, W. 
 
 \ 
 
0 r 
 
 A/1 . ' -r 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAGB 
 
 A MODEL FATHER 9 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZI ..249 
 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES 301 
 
 I 150338 
 
MODEL FATHER. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 A PRETTY girl was standing in an English lane 
 drawing patterns in the dust with the point of a 
 parasol, and bending over her work with an nn- 
 deceptive pretence of interest. A handsome 
 young man was looking on, apparently more 
 interested in the girl than in the patterns. 
 
 "My last picture sold for twenty pounds," 
 said the young man, "and I painted it in a 
 fortnight. That's at the rate of five hundred a 
 year. We could live on that, surely." 
 
 The pretty girl went on tracing patterns in 
 the dust, and answered nothing. 
 
 " I don't mean to say I make as much as 
 that at present," said the young feUow, "but 
 there's an average. If you'd only say ' Yes,' 
 I'd work like a nigger." 
 
 She murmured that he worked too hard 
 already, still with her face bent over that 
 futile labour in the dust. 
 
 B 
 
10 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Not half so hard," he answered, "as I can 
 work, as I will work, if only youll say ' Yes.' " 
 
 The girl studied her patterns with her head 
 on one side, so as to give her lover a view of the 
 top of her coquettish little hat, while she smiled. 
 The young man moved a little nearer, and then 
 a little nearer still. Next he put an arm about 
 her waist, and drew her to him very gently. 
 She, still more gently, made a movement as if to 
 unwind his arm, and perhaps at first she meant 
 it, but finding him too strong or too determined, 
 she submitted, and allowed it to rest there. 
 
 "Say 'Yes,"' murmured the young man, 
 bending downwards and sideways to get past the 
 obstructive coquettish little hat. But its crown was 
 so obstinately presented to him that he had to 
 throw away the cane he carried, and seize her hand 
 with the hand thus set at liberty, before he could 
 turn her round. Matters were so far mended 
 then that he could see the extremely neat parting 
 of her glossy brown hair, with a loose escaping 
 curl on either side the forehead. Q-rown insolent 
 by this time, he set a finger under her chin, and 
 raised her face slowly, though her eyes were still 
 fixed on those foolish patterns at her feet, and 
 the point of the parasol still went tracing about 
 among them, guided by the disengaged hand. 
 She felt no temptation to smile now, but was 
 on the contrary, wonderfully serious. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 11 
 
 "Say *Tes,'" murmured the young man 
 again. His persistence could scarcely have 
 frightened or distressed her, it was so gentle, 
 yet a tear rolled down each flushed cheek and 
 dropped, star-shaped, among the dusty lines. 
 The young man did what many young men 
 would have done under the circumstances. 
 He kissed the traces of the tears, and drew 
 the girl a little closer. " Say ' Yes,' " he 
 murmured again. 
 
 Shakespeare (who was not wholly ignorant 
 of the cycle of experience on which these two 
 yoimg people were entering) has written that 
 ^^to hear with eyes belongs to Love's fine wit." 
 And at this, the third time of asking, the lover 
 saw the maid's lips shape the word, though it 
 came so faintly it failed to reach his ears, 
 near as he was to her. 
 
 She escaped in a while with the glossy 
 brown hair somewhat disordered, and the 
 coquettish hat a trifle on one side. The 
 young man took up the walking cane he had 
 thrown down a minute or two before ; the 
 girl shyly accepted his proffered arm; and 
 they walked away together. The two 
 star-shaped tear-drops lay in the dust 
 amid the tangled lines. 
 
 " Dear eyes," said the happy lover, " they 
 shall never shed another tear if I can help it." 
 
 B 2 
 
12 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Jack/' said the girl, "you must be quiet — 
 you must really. I shall be quite a fright." 
 Her little gloved hands arranged the coquettish 
 hat and the escaping curls again, and what 
 with that action (which, though simple, was 
 remarkably pretty and engaging to look at), 
 and what with the pride, and shyness, and 
 tenderness in her eyes, she looked altogether 
 so bewitching that the hat was somehow 
 disarranged again, and the curls peeped out 
 more wantonly than ever. But after this the 
 young man called Jack consented to keep a 
 watch upon himself, the more easily perhaps 
 because a near curve in the lane brought 
 several cottages in sight. 
 
 For perhaps two minutes after the lovers 
 had rounded this curve the lane kept its summer 
 evening stillness. The sun was setting in a 
 clear glory of amber, and the birds, for the 
 most part, were going to bed, and were silent. 
 Only here and there a convivial finch who 
 was inclined to late hours chaunted a rollicking 
 stave or two ; but even these roysterers were 
 sleepy, and deep tranquillity was settling on the 
 fields. A face rose over the hedge which bounded 
 the lane on the sunset side, a face on which 
 the signs of many conflicting emotions were 
 plainly inscribed. A voice, deep, rich, and 
 husky, broke upon the evening stillness. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 13 
 
 " Cassio," said the voice, I love thee. 
 But never more be officer of mine/' 
 
 " Cassio be hanged ! " said another voice ; 
 ^ who is the fellow ? " 
 
 "A brother of Appelles,'* answered the 
 man with the rich bass voice. 
 
 "And who is heV' 
 
 "I would indicate," said the bass-voiced 
 man, "that the fellow is a painter. His name 
 is Cameron, and — 
 
 * The poor soul would fain deny, but dares not, — 
 
 my daughter called him Jack." 
 
 With this the speaker came upon the road, 
 and was immediately followed by his com- 
 panion. The man with the bass voice was 
 tall and inclined to be portly. He was dressed 
 with an air of rigid propriety in well-fitting 
 glossy black broadcloth. He displayed a good 
 deal of stiff high collar, and a good deal of 
 stiff white shirt-cuff. His boots and his hat 
 shone splendidly, and his black kid gloves 
 and black satin stock were so new that they 
 also beamed, though with a milder lustre. 
 He had a square, pale face, with very movable 
 eyebrows, black and strongly marked. His 
 cheeks were bluish-grey with close shaving, 
 and his nose was a pale magenta. When a 
 sentence or two had cleared the bass voice of 
 
14 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 its huskiness it was a very fine one, and its 
 owner seemed to take a prodigious pride in it, 
 and to relish it, as if it had been a fine old 
 port or generous Burgundy. Whenever he 
 came to a quotation — even though it expressed 
 the deepest misery— there was a lurking look 
 of cheerfulness upon him, and a furtive note 
 of joy sounded in the magnificent bass voice. 
 It was plain that he was annoyed, and it 
 was just as clear that the possession and 
 employment of the magnificent voice consoled 
 him. 
 
 His companion was a lad of two or three- 
 and-twenty, with a conspicuously graceful 
 figure, and a conspicuously vacant face. His 
 features, like his hands and feet, were small 
 and delicate, and his face was as smooth as 
 an egg, in spite of assiduous shaving. 
 
 The man with the voice was Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett, the well known tragedian, and the 
 other was one Greorge Weatherley, the only 
 representative of an old house in those parts. 
 He had lands and houses, and money in the 
 funds, old plate and old wines in plenty, 
 roomy and well-stocked stables, and whatever 
 else the ownership of which is popularly supposed 
 to help to make life pleasant. 
 
 Look here, Mr. Bassett," said the youngster 
 who was pale and perturbed, "you must have 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 15 
 
 had some sort of a notion about this, you 
 know." 
 
 "No," said the eminent tragedian. "Like 
 Desdemon, she hath deceived her father." 
 He laid both gloved hands upon his broad- 
 cloth breast and sighed so heavily that he 
 shrugged his shoulders. He enjoyed the 
 quotation so profoundly, in a mournful and 
 despondent way, that he repeated it in a 
 hollow murmur, dropping his hands listlessly 
 at his sides to express spiritual lassitude follow- 
 ing on the shock of discovery. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," said the 
 youngster ; " it's a horribly caddish thing for 
 a fellow like that to stand in a girl's light — 
 isn't it? Suppose his dam pictures didn't 
 sell? He'd have to starve, now, wouldn't 
 he, by Jingo ? Then she'd be nice and happy 
 wouldn't she, now, Mr. Bassett, wouldn't 
 she?" 
 
 " You are quite right, dear boy ; " said Mr. 
 Bassett. Jack Cameron, who was a fairly 
 prosperous young painter, would have seemed 
 a good-enough match for his daughter, a 
 month ago. But circumstances alter cases. 
 Jack had neither lands, nor houses, nor money 
 in the funds, nor old plate, nor old wines. 
 Mr. Weatherley was decidedly the more 
 promising son-in-law of the two. 
 
16 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 "Now, if she married me," pursued young 
 Weatherley, blushing and stammering somewhat, 
 "she'd be well off, now, wouldn't she? And 
 she's never been on the stage yet, and what she 
 was going to do isn't anything to anybody, is 
 it? And the wife takes the husband's position, 
 doesn't she, Mr. Bassett? And I'm my own 
 master, and over age, and there isn't anybody 
 who could control me, is there? 
 
 " Nobody, dear boy, nobody," said the eminent 
 tragedian mournfully. 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Bassett," the youngster began 
 again; "you can't have any engagements on a 
 Sunday evening. You come over to my place, 
 now, and let us talk things over and see what is 
 to be done. I'm not going to be beaten by a 
 fellow like that; and I'm my own master, and 
 nobody can dictate to me about my choice, can 
 they, now?'* 
 
 " It is a pity, dear boy," said Mr. Mont- 
 gomery Bassett, with ponderous solemnity, " that 
 you never spoke out until this evening." 
 
 "Well," said young Weatherley defensively, 
 " I hadn't made up my mind ; but I've made it 
 up now, and I thought I'd tell you first, because 
 that was honourable, wasn't it ? And then I'd 
 no sooner begun — had I, now ? — than that fellow 
 comes spooning Miss Bassett along the lane, on 
 the other side of the hedge, confound him ! 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 17 
 
 Who asked him to shove his nose in, I should like 
 to know? I didn't." The fact that Mr. 
 Cameron had not waited for his invitation seemed 
 to wound the young man deeply. " But I say, 
 look here, Mr. Bassett," he continued, " you're 
 not going to stand this, are you? Because I'm 
 not, I can tell you." 
 
 " I admire your spirit, dear boy," returned 
 Mr. Bassett, "and whatever influence I have 
 shall be exerted in your cause. But I am a 
 father, and though I am but a poor stroller," 
 — he rolled his r's at this point with a long- 
 drawn exaggeration of humility, — ''and by 
 Act of Parliament a vagabond, I have a 
 father's heart. I cannot force the inclinations 
 of my child." 
 
 Young Weatherley took a gloomy view of Mr. 
 Bassett, and began to switch in a savage fashion 
 at the flowers along the banks of the lane. 
 Coming in a little while upon a gateway, where 
 a mouldering old heraldic lion ramped at nothing 
 across a time-eaten shield, they entered and 
 walking up a wide and trimly-gravelled drive, 
 approached a handsome mansion of warm brown 
 stone, beautiful with ivy and many-coloured 
 mosses. Mr. Montgomery Bassett looked on this 
 desirable freehold mansion for the first time, and, 
 it is curious and worthy of remark that the 
 beauty of young Weatherley's residence made 
 
18 
 
 A MODEL FATHEh. 
 
 Jack Cameron's advances to Miss Bassett look 
 almost criminal and shameful. Tlie inside of the 
 house confirmed this shadowy and half-formed 
 opinion. The furniture of black oak, or 
 mahogany liquidly lustrous with two hundred 
 years of polish, the magnificent pier-glasses, 
 the rich hangings, the subdued gold of ancient 
 picture-frames, the yielding carpets, one and 
 all accused Jack Cameron with such assured 
 voices, that his sweetheart's father began to 
 hold the meanest opinion of him. He 
 thought of his daughter living here as the 
 legal mistress of all these splendours, and of 
 himself as a frequent and honoured guest. 
 He positively mw a visiting card, of the 
 best ivory cardboard, on which was inscribed 
 in neat copper-plate characters, curly as to 
 the capital letters — " Mrs. Weatherley, The 
 Grange, Oakenham." He stuck this trophy, 
 in fancy, into the frame of a pier glass in 
 his London lodgings, and saw many envious 
 tragedians and comedians looking at it. All 
 this, like other dreams, lasted scarce a second. 
 
 It's a nice little box of a place, isn't it, 
 Mr. Bassett ? " said the host. 
 
 " Charming, dear boy, charming," responded 
 the eminent actor, speaking with some effusion. 
 " It needs but one thing to complete its 
 beauties " 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 19 
 
 "What's that?" asked Mr. Weatherley in a 
 less friendly tone. 
 
 "The beautifying presence of Woman, dear 
 boy," replied the tragedian in a rumbling 
 murmur. 
 
 "You ain't blind, Mr. Bassett, to the ad- 
 vantages of my position, are you ? " asked 
 Mr. Weatherley anxiously. " She would be 
 consulting her own interests now, wouldn't 
 she, if she took me in place of that other 
 fellow? And you'd rather see her married 
 to me, wouldn't you?" 
 
 "Otherwise," replied the great tragedian 
 (who had once failed as Falstaff, and was 
 therefore familiar with the text), " call 
 me horse." He held out a hand, and Mr. 
 Weatherley accepting it, rather doubtfully at 
 first, thought better of it, and wrung it 
 with a sudden vigour. 
 
 "I don't smoke here," said the host; "but 
 I've got a little den upstairs. We shan't 
 be any the less comfortable if we have a 
 cigar and a glass of wine, shall we?" The 
 guest laughed — a mellow peal — and rubbed 
 his hands. "Come this way, Mr. Bassett, 
 and leave your hat in the hall." 
 
 Mr. Bassett left his hat in the hall and 
 followed the youngster up-stairs, with a 
 jaunty step. He felt almost as if he were 
 treading the floors of his own ancestral home. 
 
£0 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Surely, if the girl could see the house 
 young Weatherley lived in she would have 
 too much wisdom to refuse him ! It was, 
 certainly, a splendid chance for any young 
 woman. 
 
 Young Weatherley's notion of a glass of 
 wine seemed liberal. In answer to his 
 orders the butler set upon the table a bottle 
 of Burgundy and a bottle of champagne, 
 together with decanters holding port and 
 sherry. 
 
 " They're all good, Mr. Bassett," said young 
 Weatherley, "and you can't make a mistake 
 amongst 'em. The cellar's known all over 
 the county." 
 
 "Call me Mont, dear boy," said Mr. 
 Bassett, in a sudden glow of friendship ; " I 
 hate the formal Mister." 
 
 Again a slight air of doubt crossed the 
 host's face. 
 
 " I'll call you Bassett/' he said, by way of 
 compromise. " Try a weed ? They're first-rate, 
 and they've been in the house three years. 
 The governor was a judge of what was good. 
 Now look here — you'll use your influence, 
 wont you?" 
 
 " I discern in you, dear boy," said the 
 tragedian, drawing off the brand-new kid 
 gloves and pausing to blow into them, lest 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 21 
 
 they should wrinkle, "I discern in you 
 qualities which I am persuaded would make 
 a woman happy. But your attachment seems 
 to me — excuse a father's anxiety, dear boy — 
 of very rapid growth." 
 
 " No, it isn't, Mr. no, it isn't, Bassett. 
 
 You remember that night when you took 
 me to the house dinner at the Cannibal 
 Club, when I called on you next day. 
 That's twelve months ago to-day, isn't it, 
 since I saw her first ? That isn't sudden ; is 
 it, Bassett ? And I've proved that I was in 
 earnest, haven't I? Why, I've travelled more 
 than two thousand miles, and I've seen you 
 in Coriolanus, and Macbeth, and Hamlet till 
 I'm Shakespeare-sick, just to have an excuse 
 to call on you. Haven't I, now?" 
 
 This was not altogether complimentary to 
 the eminent tragedian. But, like a father, 
 he bore it for his daughters sake, and 
 nodded in reply, with a gloomy action of 
 the eyebrows, which seemed to indicate a 
 knowledge of the hell it is in sueing long to 
 bide. 
 
 "Now, you'll use your influence, wont you 
 Bassett ? " asked young Weatherley again. Mr. 
 Bassett having executed an extremely solemn 
 shake-hands, nodded in silence, emptied his 
 champagne glass and resumed his seat. The 
 
22 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 cigars were assuredly excellent, and the wine 
 realized his loftiest expectations. The tragedian 
 rather bragged of his judgment in the mat- 
 ter of wines, not altogether without reason, 
 and he thought what a pity it would be if 
 his daughter's refusal of an advantageous 
 match should shut him out from a house in 
 which was kept so praiseworthy a cellar. The 
 appointments of the little room were really 
 luxurious. In the fast-fading light which 
 yet lingered, the guest could see the grounds 
 of the Grange, their trim gardens, wandering 
 walks and lofty trees. And who on earth — he 
 asked himself — was Jack Cameron, that he 
 should stand between him and a partnership in 
 all these joys and splendours ? He began to 
 dislike Jack actively. 
 
 ^'You won't allow her to throw herself away 
 on that fellow, will you now, Bassett?" 
 demanded the host. Perhaps, though he was 
 not a young man of very keen perceptions, he 
 had an idea of the direction in which the 
 tragedian's thoughts were travelling. Mr. Bas- 
 sett sighed. 
 
 ^'The female heart, dear boy," he answered 
 despondingly, 'Hhe female heart." 
 
 "No; but look here, Bassett," said Mr. 
 Weatherley, " doesn't it stand to reason now, 
 that I'm a better match for her ? " 
 
 "Compared with him, dear boy," responded 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 23 
 
 Mr. Bassett, "your excellence sticks fiery oflP 
 indeed. He is no more like to you than I to 
 Hercules." 
 
 "And he hasn't got such a position to offer 
 her, has he, Bassett?" 
 
 " He has not, indeed," replied the tragedian 
 sadly, "he has not, indeed." 
 
 Mr. Weatherley in his nervousness made 
 considerable assaults upon the Burgundy, and 
 Mr. Bassett in his appreciation of its qualities 
 made progress with the champagne. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Bassett," said Mr. 
 Weatherley, by-and-by. " That's the last glass 
 in the bottle, and I shall have had enough. 
 And now I'll have it out with you. I'll make 
 you a proposition." 
 
 "A moment," said Mr. Bassett. "Port is a 
 warmer vintage than champagne. Your Pom- 
 mery-Grreno is excellent, dear boy, but it leaves 
 a chill within. A little port will act as a cor- 
 rective. Good wine is a good familiar creature." 
 
 The great tragedian's nose had assumed a 
 warmer tone, and his voice was deeper and 
 mellower than ever. 
 
 " I say," said Mr. "Weatherley dogmatically, 
 "that I've got a proposition. Listen me. If 
 I marry int' your family, I don't marry you's 
 well, do I Bassett ? " Mr. Bassett paused in 
 the act of raising his wine-glass to his lips, 
 
24 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 and there was an air of some discomfiture 
 upon him. " Now, do I, Bassett ? " demanded 
 Mr. Weatherley. 
 
 " Certainly not, dear boy," said Mr. Bassett, 
 with outward heartiness. 
 
 "Very well, then," continued the host, who 
 kept his eyes open at this time by dint of 
 holding his eyebrows at the top of his fore- 
 head ; " if you use your influence, you'll expect 
 something, shan't you, Bassett ? " 
 
 " Sir," cried the actor, " I am imwilling to 
 understand you." 
 
 "Then I'll explain," said Mr. Weatherley. 
 "On the day on which I'm married to your 
 daughter — and mind you, Bassett, I'm willing 
 to put this into writing whenever you like — 
 on the day I'm married I'll give you a cheque 
 for a thousand pounds." 
 
 " Sir," said the actor, rising from his seat 
 and gulping down his glass of port in an 
 agitated manner. "Am I to regard this as 
 an insult, deliberately planned. 
 
 "Eh," said Mr. Weatherley feebly. 
 
 " Your manner undeceives me," said Mr. 
 Bassett, gazing with an inquiring look upon 
 his host. " I will not believe that an insult 
 was intended. But, dear boy, you are not 
 yet a father. You can know little of the 
 workings of a father's heart. But you meant 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 25 
 
 well, dear boy — you meant well, and I forgive 
 you freely. Shake hands, shake hands. Un- 
 thread the rude eye of Eehellion and welcome 
 home once more discarded Faith." 
 
 The tragedian spoke in quivering tones, and 
 shook hands, in token of forgiveness, with so 
 stalwart a grasp that Mr. Weatherley writhed 
 out of his chair with a somewhat ghastly smile. 
 
 "Wass the matter?" he inquired dreamily, 
 as he resumed his seat. Mr. Bassett filled and 
 emptied his glass before the fatherly agitation 
 of his spirit had subsided. 
 
 " You are young, dear boy," he answered, 
 " and you cannot understand a father's feelings. 
 I cannot bargain to sell my child for lucre." 
 
 " Bassett," said Mr. Weatherley, with vinous 
 tears, "I'm afraid I've made most ungentle- 
 manly proposition " (he called it ulgemptly 
 prition, but Mr. Bassett understood him and 
 nodded a mournful but forgiving assent) ; 
 "now didn't I, Bassett? And I feel ashamed 
 of myself, and so I ought to, oughtn't I, 
 Bassett?" 
 
 Say no more, dear boy,^* cried Mr. Bassett 
 warmly, " say no more." 
 
 "You're a noble fellow, Bassett," said Mr. 
 Weatherley. "Have some wine." After re- 
 newed hand-shakings Mr. Bassett had some 
 wine, and Mr. Weatherley joined him. 
 
 c 
 
26 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "In this I bury all unkindness, Cassias/' 
 said Mr. Bassett, as he touched glasses with 
 his young friend. The butler entering with 
 the lamp at this juncture, Mr. Weatherley 
 demanded more wine, and the man, with an 
 incredulous look at the empty bottles, obeyed 
 the order. In the presence of the light the 
 young gentleman began to blink, owl-like, and 
 in a little while he fell asleep. The elder 
 gentleman smoked and drank with a luxurious 
 air until the decanter of port had yielded its 
 last drop. He then made one or two in- 
 effectual attempts to arouse his host, and finally 
 rang the bell. 
 
 "Your young master," he said, addressing 
 the butler, "is slightly unwell. He will be 
 all right in the morning. Upon occasion," he 
 continued, "this is pardonable," waving his 
 hand at Mr. Weatherley's recumbent figure, 
 on which all Mr. "Weatherley's garments were 
 making a wrinkled progress towards his 
 shoulders. "As a continuous practice it is to 
 be condemned. You behold in me, young man, 
 one long past the prime of life, and as sound 
 as a trout. For — what saith old Adam 
 
 *In my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood, 
 And so mine age is like a lusty winter, 
 Frosty but kindly.' 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 27 
 
 I will call and pay my respects to Mr. 
 Weatherley in the morning.'^ 
 
 *'Very sing'lar sort o' party," said the 
 butler, gazing after him as he went with 
 jaimty swagger down the stairs. 
 
 "A thousand pounds is a nice round sum, 
 no doubt," said Mr. Bassett, as he lit one of 
 his host's cigars. He had taken the precaution 
 to secure a handful before ringing for the 
 butler. "A thousand pounds is a nice round 
 sum, no doubt," said Mr. Bassett, "but an 
 annuity would be preferable — decidedly/* 
 
 c 2 
 
28 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTEE n. 
 
 Mr. Wttjjam Cassidy was over head and 
 heels in love. The fact that this was, and 
 had been for some sixteen or eighteen years, 
 his customary condition effected no abatement 
 in his present joys and sorrows. He had 
 not hitherto approved himself as a faithful 
 or a constant swain, but whilst the tender 
 passion lasted it absorbed him completely 
 until he was out of sight of the lady, or 
 in extreme cases for some half hour after- 
 wards. That he was single at thirty years 
 of age was his fortune, but his fault by no 
 means. He had excited the tenderest senti- 
 ments in the breasts of many young women 
 in various ranks of life — ^he had proposed to 
 a dozen and been accepted by some of them; 
 twice he had bought the magic circlet after 
 careful and tender measurement of the proper 
 finger, and twice he had sold it at an 
 appalling reduction. One very small cockney 
 — brother of one of the neglected ladies — had 
 followed Bill with a riding-whip for days, 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 29 
 
 with the avowed intentioii of chastising him 
 as his perfidy deserved, but on encountering 
 the culprit, who was big and a notable 
 athlete, had foregone his revenge, rather than 
 have his sister's honoured name dragged 
 into a police-case. The proclamation of this 
 magnanimous conclusion so affected the false 
 lover, that having first laughed until he cried, 
 he went home with the youth, and made 
 a new proffer of his hand and heart to 
 the sister. But the lady (having made 
 matters up with a chemist's assistant in the 
 neighbourhood — an old flame of hers who 
 was about to set up in business for himself, 
 and had been loyal through many reverses) 
 rejected him with scorn, and he went away to 
 enjoy a momentary heartbreak. 
 
 He himself believed that with each new 
 attack the symptoms increased in virulence, 
 and he was so far gone on this last occasion 
 that his most intimate and trusted friends 
 began to take and offer (with due caution) 
 odds of ten to one, twenty to one, and the 
 like, on the chances of his final settlement. 
 
 Mr. Oassidy was an artist of great promise, 
 though not as yet of any very great performance. 
 At times, when his dress clothes were in his 
 possession, he went into society, and shone re- 
 splendent in the midst of circles of gay faces 
 
so 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 — ^for he carried good humour with him 
 wherever he went, and people caught it as if 
 it had been an epidemic — and made butterfly 
 love to heiresses with unabashable, beautiful 
 Irish impudence. At other times, when, from 
 circumstances over which he had exercised no 
 control, he was for the time deprived of 
 society's conventional evening garb, he stopped 
 out of society, and spent his evenings at the 
 Cannibal Club, where the head waiter was 
 always willing to give credit. 
 
 The Cannibals were artists, actors and 
 journalists, and taking them altogether they 
 were a charming set of people. The elders 
 were singularly kindly, and lovable, and 
 mellow-hearted, for it was a rule with the 
 shallower sort of man to leave the Cannibals 
 when he succeeded in life, and to put up 
 for the Eoscius or the Eclectic, and so only 
 the better sort of oldsters, who had some 
 spring green left under the winter white, 
 stayed behind. Mr. Cassidy was on familiar 
 terms with all of them, more or less — the 
 sad-faced, sad-voiced, mild-mannered man who 
 had written a hundred screaming farces — the 
 genial and amiable author of "The Lust of 
 Blood," the lightest-hearted old man in 
 London (and the crawliest work yet printed) 
 — et hoc genus omne. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, U 
 
 But on a certain summer Monday evening 
 none of these likeable people were within the 
 Cannibal precincts. The waiter lounged by 
 the buffet at one end of the room and 
 yawned portentously, his only amusement or 
 distraction the killing of occasional flies with 
 the professional napkin, and Mr. Cassidy, in a 
 terribly despondent state of mind, sat at the 
 centre table and turned over the pages of an 
 illustrated journal with unusually bilious 
 opinion about the artists engaged upon it, 
 nearly all of whom were his personal friends. 
 
 The fact was that Mr. Cassidy had that 
 afternoon (after suffering the pangs of love 
 for the unheard-of period of three months) 
 screwed his courage to the sticking point and 
 proposed. The lady (whose father was also a 
 Cannibal) had accepted him, and it seemed 
 probable that Mr. Cassidy was fairly caught. 
 The pitcher goes often to the well, but at 
 last it comes home broken. It was not this 
 reflection which filled the accepted lover's 
 heart with gloom. In the ardour of the 
 cliase he had pleaded to be married in three 
 months' time, and his plea had been granted. 
 At that moment he carried all his worldly wealth 
 in his waistcoat pocket, and it amounted to one 
 and sixpence. In these circumstances even an 
 Irishman might well feel sober for an hour. 
 
32 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 Almost everybody was out of town at this 
 season — the theatres, most of which were open 
 to Mr. Cassidy at most times, were insuflEer- 
 ably hot and stuffy — and Mr. Cassidy had 
 nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nobody to 
 talk to. At that moment he would have 
 welcomed the advent of his bitterest enemy, if 
 he had had one, and at the rattle of the door 
 he looked up with interest. 
 
 "Aha! Mont, me boy, ye're looking jolly. 
 How are ye?" 
 
 " Dear boy," said Mr. Montgomery Bassett, 
 shaking hands with ponderous cordiality. " And 
 how is town? Stands Scotland where it did?" 
 
 "Scotland Yard's where it used to be," 
 returned Mr. Cassidy, brightening visibly. 
 "Ye'U have been in the country among the 
 daisies and the milkmaids, eh, me boy ? " 
 
 "A fortnight's run at Oakenham," responded 
 Mr. Bassett. " The usual thing. Coriolanus, 
 Macbeth, Hamlet ; Hamlet, Macbeth, Coriolanus. 
 House crammed every night, and brimming 
 over. Hot? The very memory of it burns my 
 throat. Greorge. Whiskey and soda. Scotch. 
 What do you take, dear boy?" 
 
 "Mont, me boy," said Mr. Cassidy, when 
 each was provided with a tall tumbler, and 
 they sat facing each other, " I've news for ye/' 
 He was so full of his own secret that he would 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 33 
 
 proTDaWy have sprung it on the waiter had he 
 been left lonely for another ten minutes, and 
 was almost ready to stop strangers with it in 
 the street. "I'm going to be married. What 
 do ye think of that?" 
 
 "You always were, dear boy," said Mr. Bassett. 
 
 " Now don't," said the artist, with a grimace, 
 half -peevish and half -droll. "I'm a gone man 
 this time. It's as fixed as the transit of Venus, 
 and as safe to happen." 
 
 "And who," asked the tragedian, "is the 
 happy woman?" 
 
 " It's that that fixes it," replied Mr. Cassidy. 
 " She's a Cannibal's daughter." 
 
 " Quite a family arrangement," said Mr. 
 Bassett. 
 
 " Quite. It's Matilda, the only and ac- 
 complished daughter of Horace Leverett, Esquire, 
 scenic artist, of Maida Vale." 
 
 " Stick to it, dear boy." cried the tragedian. 
 " All happiness attend ye. I have my little 
 budget of news also." 
 
 "Ye don't mean to say you're going to get 
 married?" cried the artist. 
 
 "Not I," returned Mr. Bassett, "but my 
 gyurl. William, dear boy, you threw sheep's 
 eyes in that direction once. She might have 
 done worse than take you, but in a worldly 
 sense — in a worldly sense, dear boy — she has 
 
34 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 improved upon anything at the Cannibals. I 
 received last night — only last night — an offer 
 for her hand from the most manly and charm- 
 ing young member of our landed gentry with 
 whom it has been my good hap to be 
 acquainted. It is not a secret, for the thing 
 will be in The Scourge next week. The happy 
 man — I think I may call him so without vanity, 
 dear boy — ^the happy man is Mr. George 
 Weatherley, of the Grange, Oakenham." 
 
 "Whew! That's a catch," said Mr. Cassidy. 
 "I know him. He's worth fifteen thousand a 
 year." 
 
 " Five-and-twenty," said Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett tranquilly. Not that he knew any- 
 thing about it, but it was pleasanter so. 
 
 "And what does the young lady say?'* 
 
 "She confessed her attachment," said Mr. 
 Bassett artlessly. " The young fellow has 
 been following us about for a year. He 
 tried to make it appear that he followed me 
 for the sake of my acting. Of course, dear 
 boy, I saw through that from the first." 
 
 "Of course ye did," replied the artist, 
 perhaps with a readier assent than the actor 
 had meant to ask for. 
 
 " The presentation of Hamlet strikes a 
 responsive chord at times," said Mr. Bassett, 
 "but that chord rarely vibrates for a year 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 35 
 
 together. I began to observe. I watched the 
 gradual growth of affection on both sides. 
 Last night I was upon the point of 
 demanding his intentions when he anticipated 
 me by a proposal. I carried the news to 
 Mary, who accepted it with that modest joy 
 which characterises a cultured English gyurl 
 under such circumstances. It is a relief to 
 me, dear boy, for now that I have no one 
 to toil for I shall bid the boards farewell." 
 
 " They're fine news, Bassett," said the 
 friendly Irishman. "The lad's a nice lad, 
 and the girl's a good girl. I drink their 
 health, and long life to them." 
 
 " Thanks, dear boy," responded Mr. Bassett, 
 who was visibly affected. He blew his nose 
 to reveal his feelings, and put away his 
 emotion and his handkerchief together. " By 
 the way," he asked, " can you tell me the 
 address of that fellow, Cameron.^" He spoke 
 with some severity of tone, and Cassidy ask- 
 ed in turn — 
 
 " What Cameron ? Jack Cameron ? " 
 That's the man's name. I want to find him." 
 
 "His address is the same as mine," an- 
 swered Cassidy. " We live in the same house, 
 use the same sitting-room, and paint in the 
 same studio. Jack and myself are like the 
 swans of Juno, or the Soyamese twins." 
 
36 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Thanks, dear boy," said Mr. Bassett, who, 
 for some reason, looked less at ease than he 
 had done a moment before. The clock 
 striking a half-hour at this moment, he made 
 a solemn reference to his watch, and arose 
 from his seat. "I go — the bell invites me. 
 Farewell, dear boy. Farewell." 
 
 "What's your hurry?" demanded Cassidy. 
 "Stop and take another." 
 
 "Impossible, dear boy, impossible," said Mr. 
 Bassett regretfully. "Affairs of state. Is 
 Cameron in town ? " 
 
 "He's been away a fortnight, but we never 
 write letters to each other unless we want to 
 borrow money, and that's mostly a poor 
 chance," said Cassidy. " But talk of the 
 devil — Jack, me child, we were that instant 
 takin* awee your character." 
 
 Enter the identical handsome young man 
 who the night before, in a country lane a 
 hundred miles from London, had ruffled a 
 pretty girl's hair and the heart of a father 
 and rival. Now this handsome young man 
 was evidently in the gayest spirits. His 
 face shone with smiles, and his eyes sparkled. 
 The very carriage of his head betokened 
 jollity and freedom from all care. 
 
 " How do you do, dear boy ? " asked Mr. 
 Bassett, shaking hands with a look of em* 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 37 
 
 barrassed hurry. "I've something of con- 
 sequence to say to you. Shall you be at 
 home to-morrow at noon ? " 
 
 " I've something of consequence to say to 
 you^^^ said the young fellow, with a light- 
 hearted laugh. "Shan't I come to your 
 place ? " 
 
 "No," said the tragedian hurriedly. "I 
 call on you at twelve to-morrow. Ta-ta, 
 dear boys, ta-ta." 
 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett dashed into the 
 street and roared "Cab" in a voice of 
 mellow thunder, to indicate the pressure upon 
 his time. Cassidy and Cameron sat down 
 together. 
 
 "What have ye been doing?" asked Cassidy. 
 "Working," said the other, with a sly, 
 happy look at his friend's face. 
 "Where?'' 
 
 "Down at Oakenham." 
 
 "All the time there?" 
 
 "All the time there." 
 
 "Then ye'd meet old Bassett. He's been 
 playing there, he tells me." 
 
 "No, I didn't bother myself about old 
 Bassett." 
 
 "Then ye don't know the news about 
 his daughter down there." 
 
 Gad ! " said Jack. " Has he found it out ? " 
 
S3 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Found it out?" replied Cassidy. "It 
 doesn't seem to be much of a secret. It's 
 a grand match for her." Jack Cameron's 
 eyes fairly danced at this. 
 
 "He didn't tell you who it was, did he?" 
 
 " Faith, then, he did," said Cassidy drily. 
 "But I've news nearer home. I'm going to 
 leave ye, chum of my childhood. I'm going 
 to be married meself." 
 
 "Not you," said Cameron. "Come, come, 
 Bill, old man, my case is serious, and I ex- 
 pect to be congratulated. As for you. 111 
 congratulate you when you're married, but 
 not before." 
 
 ^^YouWe going to be married, are ye? It's 
 as catching as measles, and everybody seems 
 down together." 
 
 "You absurd old idiot," said Jack, shaking 
 him by the shoulders laughingly. " Didn't 
 you say Bassett had told you?" 
 
 "About his girl? Of course I did." 
 
 "And told you whom she was going to 
 marry ? 
 
 "So he did." 
 
 "Well?" said Cameron. 
 
 "Well," responded Cassidy. 
 
 "Well, whom did he say?" 
 
 "Young Weatherley, at the Grange at 
 Oakenham." 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 •'mat?'' cried Jack. "The liar!" But 
 iie had turned pale for all that. 
 
 "Jack, I'm afraid this'll be bad for ye/' 
 
 "Pooh!" said Jack. "The girl's as true 
 as steel, Bill, and she promised me last night." 
 
 " Bassett," answered Cassidy, " said 'twas 
 last night that she promised young Weather- 
 ley. He says 'tis all arranged, and will be 
 in the peepers next week. Jack, Jack, me 
 boy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. They're all 
 alike. He's worth twenty-five thousand a 
 year, Bassett says." His gay, good-natured, 
 handsome Irish face was troubled. "Be a 
 man and forget her, Jack." 
 
 You don't know her, Bill," said the other, 
 striving to speak naturally and lightly. "The 
 little girl's as true as steel, and everybody 
 knows Bassett. He's the greatest liar unhung." 
 
 "Then he'll be none too creditable as a 
 father-in-law," said Cassidy. "Let her go." 
 He began to relate the tragedian's story at 
 full, but Jack stopped him. 
 
 "You believe Bassett?" 
 
 " Be George, I do, then," answered Cassidy. 
 "And since she's like that, you're well escaped." 
 
 " Well," said the lover, looking straight 
 into his friend's eyes, "I don't believe Bassett, 
 and I'll believe nobody but the girl herself. 
 I shall know in half-an-hour." 
 
40 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 " You're going there ? " 
 "I am."^ 
 
 "Then I'm with ye. I'll wait outside till 
 ye know." The two set out together and 
 walked in silence for awhile. " What'U ye 
 do if it's true, Jack?" 
 
 " It isn't true ! " Oassidy looked at him, 
 and saw in the gaslight that his face was as 
 white as a sheet. 
 
 "Jack, it might be. It may be. It's a 
 great temptation. Why would he lie for 
 nothing? What'U you do if it's true?" 
 
 " Do ? " cried Jack. " Whistle her down 
 the wind ! But — true ? It's as big a lie 
 as the world holds anywhere. I know it. 
 The little girl's as true as steel." 
 
 The emotional Irishman felt the tears sting 
 his eyes. 
 
 " ' Twill be a heavy trial," he said to 
 himself. " The lad's heart's fresh, and tenderj 
 and gentle, and he'll feel it bitterly." 
 
 They said no more just then on either 
 side. From the Strand to Bloomsbury Square 
 is not a great distance, and the two young 
 men walked fast. 
 
 "I'll walk up and down this side of the 
 square till ye come back again," said Cassidy. 
 Jack crossed the square and rang the bell at 
 the door of the house in which Mr. Mont* 
 gomery Bassett had apartments. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 41 
 
 "Is Miss Bassett within 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the maid. 
 
 " No " said Mr. Bassett, appearing from a 
 side room, and taking a hat from the stand 
 in the hall. "I expected you, Mr. Cameron," 
 he added. "I had reason to believe that 
 the news I gave Mr. Cassidy this evening 
 would bring you here, if he repeated it." 
 
 His voice shook a little, and his face in- 
 dicated anything but self-possession. When, 
 on the stage he told TuUus Aufidius ( in 
 what the critics thought his finest passage ) 
 that like an eagle in a dovecote he had 
 fluttered the Volsces of CorioK, he was wont 
 to look exceedingly brave and noble, and 
 ready to face armies. But it is not only in 
 real life that a man may play brave parts 
 without much inward heroism. Whilst he 
 spoke he put on his hat and moved towards 
 the door, laying a tremulous hand on Jack's 
 sleeve. The young fellow mechanically obeyed 
 the impulse thus given, and retired a step. 
 He was not within the house, and the 
 tragedian, stepping out, closed the door with 
 a bang. Cameron turned and faced him in 
 the street. 
 
 " I have the very best of all reasons for 
 disbelieving the story you told to Cassidy to- 
 mght," he said. The two men stood not 
 
 D 
 
42 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 far from a street lamp, and sideways to it, 
 so that each could see the other's face with 
 some clearness. Neither liked what he saw. 
 The great tragedian looked shifty and ill at 
 ease — much like a detected liar, the young 
 man thought, and yet he feared worse for 
 himself and his sweetheart than that would 
 prove. And a quarrel with the man — which 
 hardly seemed avoidable — would help him little 
 in any case. The young artist, on the other 
 hand, looked to Mr. Bassett's eyes unplea- 
 santly tall, strong, well-knit, and resolute. 
 There was not in Jack's mind the faintest 
 thought of violence, but his anger and his 
 loyalty so braced him that he unconsciously 
 carried his walking cane like a sabre at the 
 slope, and Mr. Bassett thought the attitude 
 threatening. 
 
 "Dear boy," he began in propitiatory tones, 
 " I was an unwilling witness to your inter- 
 view with my daughter last night in the lane 
 at Oakenham." Jack lowered his stick with 
 such a gesture that Mr. Bassett retired a step. 
 
 "Well?" said the artist. 
 
 " I know, therefore, on what admirable 
 grounds you base your claim. I have no 
 doubt that, but for the offer subsequently 
 made, my daughter would have married you 
 if you had continued to desire it." 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 43 
 
 "And after seeing what you saw, you 
 thought it honourable to ask Mr. Weatherley's 
 intentions." 
 
 " Dear boy ! said Mr. Bassett in deep- 
 toned disclaimer. 
 
 " You told Cassidy that," Jack said sternly, 
 father," said Mr. Bassett, unwillingly 
 accepting the position, " has a right to do his 
 best for the interests of his child." 
 
 ''You think you do your best for your 
 daughter by going about to trap her into 
 cupidity — by asking her to deny an honest 
 love and to marry a man whom she dislikes, 
 for money ? " 
 
 ''Pardon me, dear boy,^' said Mr. Bassett. 
 "I am responsible to myself. You feel ill- 
 used. That is natural. I am sorry for you, 
 but you will soon get over it. I have acted 
 in my child's best interest, and I am glad 
 that she sees things in a sensible light. You 
 must allow that she is a free agent. And I 
 must beg you to understand, dear boy," he 
 continued, growing bolder, for Jack was 
 standing with bent head by this time, and 
 no longer troubled the actor with his eyes, 
 "I must beg you to understand that every- 
 thing is over between Mary and yourself, 
 and that I will not have her molested in 
 her choice." 
 
 D 2 
 
44 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Bassett," said tlie young fellow, looking 
 up again white and stern, "I don't believe 
 you. Your daughter has no blot of your 
 own nature in her. Take me in to see her. 
 Let me hear the news from her own lips ; 
 for until I do, I shall know that you are a 
 liar. I can see it in your face. Take me 
 in, and let me hear it from her." 
 
 " No " said the tragedian, " I can't do that, 
 dear boy. I can overlook your insult to me; 
 you are not master of yourself, and you will 
 regret it hereafter. I am acting for the best 
 interests of my child. I have no doubt that 
 she sacrifices a romantic dream, but she sees 
 things in their common-sense aspect — their 
 business aspect, dear boy — and — " 
 
 " I'll not believe it," cried the lover, so 
 that his voice rang clear across the square. 
 How should he believe it, with her kisses so 
 fresh upon his lips ? And yet, many dreams 
 have fallen into pieces so, and — the brittle 
 picture broken — the world has looked cold and 
 bleak beyond the shards, for many and many 
 a hapless lad and lass. And he knew that 
 well enough 
 
 The cry which his pain and rage had 
 wrung from him brought Oassidy at a swift 
 walking pace from the other side of the 
 square. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 45 
 
 "You stick to your story, Bassett" he 
 said, breaking in upon them with no ceremony. 
 
 Jack's me dearest friend, and I've a right 
 here, in a way, since 'twas to me ye told 
 the news." 
 
 "I am very sorry, dear boy," said the 
 actor, who welcomed Cassidy's arrival with 
 all his heart. *'The gyurl has chosen sensi- 
 bly, and of course Cameron's hurt. But it 
 is impossible that I should accede to his re- 
 quest, and allow him to pain my daughter 
 (and himself) by a useless interview. She 
 has thrown him over to marry a richer man, 
 and she has done it of her own free will, 
 and, on the whole, with my approval, and of 
 course it was extremely painful and imwel- 
 come to be used in that way." 
 
 "Jack," said Cassidy, "if 'tis true, and 
 that seems likely, ye'd not care to see her 
 and to hear her humiliate herself by speaking 
 it. It's hard enough upon ye already. Let 
 Bassett ask her to write." 
 
 "I accede to that," said Mr. Bassett, with 
 so much eagerness and confidence, that Jack's 
 heart for a moment died within him. 
 
 " I never had a line from her," he said 
 miserably. "Let her tell me of something 
 which only she and I know of, or I wont 
 believe the letter comes from her." 
 
46 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Ton can have her own statement by first 
 post to-morrow,'* said the father. "I can 
 forgive the poor boy's natural suspicions," he 
 added in a mellow murmur to Cassidy. 
 
 "Very well," said the poor lad with feeble 
 bitterness. "Come along, Cassidy." He 
 moved a step or two and turned erect. 
 " Bassett," he said in a steady voice, " if you 
 play me false I'll kill you." A minute 
 later, when he and Cassidy were twenty yards 
 away, he began to sing: "Souvent femme 
 varie — Bien sot est qui s'y fie ! " Then he 
 broke down altogether. "Never,'' he said with 
 a bitter sob, " never believe in honour or honesty 
 any more. Bill. I believe it. My God, I 
 believe itl And my heart's — like — lead.'* 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett, admitting himself 
 by a latch-key, hung his hat upon the stand, 
 and entering the darkened side room from 
 which he had emerged at the sound of Jack 
 Cameron's voice, struck a match, lit the gas, 
 and pulled down the window-blind. Next 
 he took a decanter of whiskey from a cup- 
 board, and, having twice filled and drained a 
 wine-glass, drew a cigar-case from his breast 
 pocket and began to smoke. He was not 
 at ease, and the pallor of his face had taken 
 an unwholesome tinge. 
 
 " The lad hit you hard, Mont," he said to 
 himself in a deep murmur. "A sensitive 
 nature like your own is unfit for that sort 
 of work. It would have been easier to 
 leave him to his dreams, but the duties of a 
 father are not to be slighted for the sake of 
 any little friendly sentiment. Now, Mont, go 
 and see your little gyurl." 
 
 He was so nervous and so ill at ease, that 
 he filled and drained the wine-glass again 
 
48 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 before he obeyed his self-imposed command. 
 When he had put away the decanter and 
 locked the cupboard, he began to sing in his 
 ponderous tones a snatch of a stage song: — 
 
 *^ Then let me the cannikin clink, boys, clink, 
 Then let me the cannikin clink ; 
 For life's but a span, and a soldier's a man, 
 So then let a soldier drink, boys, drink, 
 So then let a soldier drink." 
 
 It may or may not have struck him, as he 
 went upstairs, that a song of lago's was too 
 appropriate to the circumstances. He stopped 
 short in his chant just as he had begun it 
 for a second time, and mounted in silence. 
 At the door of a back room on the second floor 
 he paused for a few seconds, and then 
 knocked. 
 
 Coine in," said a girl's voice. 
 
 "Jfay I come in?" asked the tragedian 
 with massive playfulness, as he opened the 
 door a little. His face was ghastly. 
 
 " Not unless you are good and handsome," 
 eaid the voice, with a laugh. 
 
 "I am hideous and a monument of vice," 
 replied the tragedian. 
 
 "Oh, pray come in, in that case," said the 
 voice merrily. A light step crossed the 
 room, and the fingers of a small white hand 
 were laid on the edge of the door. Mr. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 4D 
 
 Bassett held the handle and there was a 
 little playful struggle, in the course of which 
 the father composed his features, until feeling 
 himself presentable he allowed the door to 
 yield, and entering suddenly, embraced his 
 daughter in both arms and kissed her on 
 both cheeks. 
 
 Mary Bassett was a pretty girl, as has 
 been said already, and unless her eyes were 
 more deceptive than even the eyes of young 
 women are apt to be, she was as good as 
 she was pretty. She looked good, emphatically. 
 Her nose was piquant, and saucy, and sensible, 
 whilst her lips were very mobile and full of 
 feeling. Her chin was resolute without being 
 unfeminine. Her eyes — deceptive or undecep- 
 tive — looked like absolute honesty. They 
 were of so dark a grey that by gaslight 
 they looked almost black, unless you were 
 closer to them than a young man under 
 ordinary circumstances would have a right to 
 be. Then — according to Jack Cameron — they 
 were of an infinite soft depth, and lighter 
 in tone than they looked when seen from a 
 distance. It had been noticed — ^by the same 
 authority — that though she was not tall, being 
 five feet four or thereabouts, she had a way 
 in moments of dignified anger of looking six 
 feet at least. If it is added that her com- 
 
50 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 plexion was of a singular delicacy of bloom 
 and purity of pallor, the description will be 
 complete enough to leave the reader in the 
 dark as to her aspect — which is about as 
 much as can be expected of any description 
 of a pretty woman. 
 
 One thing was clear. If she had the 
 wreckage of any young man's peace upon her 
 conscience, she bore it with wonderful equa- 
 nimity. 
 
 " My darling," said her father, sitting down 
 with his back ^to the light, and pulling for 
 a moment rather fiercely at his cigar, " I have 
 been to the club this evening— to look for 
 letters. I saw somebody there, and learned 
 a trifle in the way of news." 
 
 Indeed ? " said the girl, standing at the 
 table and playing with a bit of lace there. 
 She blushed a little as he spoke. 
 
 " And as a consequence," he went on, " I 
 want you to write a letter. 
 
 Yes ? " she said, looking up with a puz- 
 zled face, as if she thought her first fancy 
 a mistaken one. "To whom?" 
 
 " To Mr. John Cameron," said the tragedian. 
 If his voice shook somewhat, the girl did 
 not notice it. 
 
 "Why?" she asked, with a blush more 
 vived than before. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 51 
 
 "Asking him," said Mr. Bassett, with 
 occasional pauses between the words, each 
 pause occupied by a pull at the cigar, *'to 
 call upon you and me in his approaching 
 visit to Southampton for the arrangement of 
 matters of which, as I am informed, you and 
 he alike are cognisant. I believe him to be 
 a thoroughly good young man, my dear, and 
 I am rejoiced at his choice and proud of 
 yours." 
 
 His voice shook noticeably now, and the 
 girl observed it. What was likelier than 
 that a father's heart should be moved a 
 little at the beginning of a parting from his 
 only child? She stole gently to him, and 
 put an arm about his neck, and nestled to 
 him with a kiss. 
 
 " Have you seen Jack to-night, papa ? " she 
 asked tremulously. 
 
 " Is it J ack already ? " asked Mr. Bassett 
 with shaky gaiety. 
 
 She answered with a half-tearful laugh, — 
 "It has been Jack for a month past" 
 
 "I have seen him to-night," said the 
 tragedian, more shakily and huskily than ever. 
 "He has made a formal proposition for your 
 hand and I have accepted it, contingently on 
 your own acceptance, of course. We shall be 
 in Southampton to-morrow at the old address, 
 
52 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 and he follows — to paint a portrait there — on 
 Wednesday. I promised that you should 
 write and ask him to call upon us there, 
 and that you should write to-night. "Write 
 now, my darling, and I will take the letter 
 to the post before I go to bed, so that he 
 will have no anxiety." His voice almost 
 failed him half-a-dozen times. 
 
 "Papa," said the girl, with tender tears, 
 "you are grieved to lose me?" 
 
 " My darling," he answered, with a tremor 
 that shook him from head to foot, "I have 
 looked forward to it, and I shall be resigned." 
 
 " Papa," she said, " papa, I never dreamt 
 that you would feel it like this. But we 
 have never lived apart for a day, have we, 
 dear? And it must not lead to a separation 
 now. I said so, darling, only yesterday," she 
 went on, hiding her burning, tear-stained face 
 upon his shoulder. "I told him that I 
 could not bear to live apart from you, and 
 that w^hen we were married, you must have 
 rooms in our house to live in whenever you 
 came to town. And Jack agreed to that, quite 
 gladly and readily, papa. He did, indeed." 
 
 "Very well, darling," he said, caressing her 
 with a hand that trembled like a leaf. "Very 
 well. Write your letter, dear, and let me 
 take it to the post. Why, what is this 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 53 
 
 glittering on your finger? An engagement 
 ring?" He had been looking for some such 
 sign, whilst they had talked together. 
 
 *'He gave it to me yesterday at Oaken- 
 ham," she answered, with a mingled shyness 
 and frankness which became her prettily. Her 
 father made a motion to draw it from her 
 finger, but she resisted gently. 
 
 " What ? " he asked, with a quavering pre- 
 tence at gaiety. " Mustn't even papa's fingers 
 be entrusted with it ? " 
 
 "No," she answered, blushing and smiling. 
 *'He made me promise that it should stay 
 there until" — 
 
 "Until you were married?" He finished 
 the sentence over which she faltered. 
 
 " Yes," she said shyly, nestling her face 
 against his breast again. 
 
 " Let me look," he said, holding it to the 
 light and bending over it. "An opal with 
 four seed-pearls. A pretty ring, my dear. 
 Wear it until you substitute a plainer one. 
 Now write your letter." 
 
 She kissed him brightly and moved away. 
 He sat, still with his face in the shadow, pul- 
 ling at his cigar whilst her pen scratched over 
 the paper rapidly. In a minute or two she 
 brought the letter addressed and stamped, and 
 laid it in his hands. 
 
54 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Is it a pleasant task, dear ? " she asked. 
 
 "Pleasant and painful," he responded. "I 
 shall not see you again to-night, dear. Not 
 that I shall be out late, but my thoughts are 
 busy. Good-night." 
 
 In perjured treachery and all base intent, 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett's good -night kiss 
 came near to the salute of Judas, and he felt 
 it so. But as there never was a criminal whose 
 crime showed itself to his own eyes in its own 
 true form and hue, so he, with only occasional 
 pangs of conscience and occasional meaner pangs 
 of dread, brought himself to say that he was 
 acting for the girl's ultimate good. These little 
 youthful sentiments were never of a very per- 
 manent character, he told himself, and never 
 altogether free, even whilst they endured, from 
 much sentimental dross. He thought, ho- 
 nestly enough, to be just with him, that Love 
 was a pinchbeck sort of jewel at the best, and 
 would have reversed Solomon's proverb had 
 he known it, preferring the stalled ox and 
 hatred therewith to a dinner of herbs in lov- 
 ing company. 
 
 As he emerged upon the street he tore open 
 the envelope and drew forth the sheet of 
 paper within it, and disposed them in his 
 breast pocket. He walked hastily until he 
 came to the Tottenham Court Boad, and en- 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 tering a tavern there, he called for a glass 
 of whisky, and standing over it, read the 
 letter through. It was so gay, and tender, 
 and affectionate, that it knocked loudly at his 
 heart more than once, short as it was, and 
 more than once he was half inclined to aban- 
 don his device. One passage he noted in par- 
 ticular, a passage in which his daughter told of 
 his attempt to remove her ring and of her resis- 
 tance. She had not forgotten, so she wrote, 
 the kisses her lover had given the ring be- 
 fore he gave it her. One for love, and one 
 for constancy, and one for happy fortune. 
 And gaily and tenderly, as girls use when in 
 love, she said that he should have those three 
 kisses given to his gift every night without a 
 pause or break — one for love, and one for 
 constancy, and one for happy fortune. 
 
 The tragedian put up the letter, and in- 
 structing the waiter to follow with a sheet 
 of paper, an envelope, and pen and ink, he 
 walked into a room reserved for the regular 
 evening habitues of the place. There he wrote 
 this : — 
 
 " My dear Cameron, 
 
 regret to say that my daughter 
 was aware of your attempt to see her this 
 evening, and is so disturbed that she is not in 
 a condition to send you the letter I promised 
 
56 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 you should receive. She undertakes, however, 
 to send it in the morning. 
 
 "I am, my dear Cameron, 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Montgomery Bassett.'* 
 
 He addressed the envelope, and leaving 
 the house, dropped the letter into a pillar-post 
 hard by, and walked slowly homewards. 
 Arrived, he locked himself in his own room, 
 and there burned his daughter's letter in the 
 empty grate, stirring it carefully and relight- 
 ing the charred fragments of it once or twice 
 until nothing was left of it but grey ashes. 
 He solaced himself with more whisky, and 
 when he went to bed slept heavily, to awake 
 in the morning with a headache, and with no 
 sense of rest. At an unusually early hour he 
 went out, having first written a second letter 
 which ran thus : — 
 
 " My daughter is still strongly averse to the 
 writing of the promised letter, but I have asked 
 her for a token, and she promises to enclose in 
 this, some toy — a ring, as I presume — received 
 from you on Sunday last at Oakenham. She 
 instructs me that if I say that associated with 
 the gift there were three wishes — one for love, 
 one for constancy, and one for happy fortune 
 — you will recognise the words as your own, 
 and will know that this comes from her. I 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 67 
 
 do not think it necessary to add anj^liing to 
 this communication, — whicli must be as pain- 
 ful for you to receive as for me to write, — 
 but I rely upon you to act as becomes a 
 gentleman, and not to persecute my daughter 
 with appeals which must be fruitless." 
 
 Bearing this elaborate villany with him, he 
 made a tour of two or three jewellers' shops 
 until he found a ring which looked so like 
 the miserable lover's gift to Mary, that he 
 could perceive no difference between them. 
 This he bought and placed in the envelope, 
 and having registered and posted the letter, 
 walked home again to make preparations for 
 his journey. All through the morning his 
 daughter's gay, innocent talk, and the sound 
 of her voice as she sang about the house, 
 stung him almost unbearably. He feigned 
 sleep in the railway carriage as they travelled 
 together to Southampton, and Mary occupied 
 herself with a book of poems, and her 
 own fancies. Once or twice she drew 
 off her glove to look at her lover's gift, 
 and believing herself unobserved, kissed it 
 thrice— once for love, and once for constancy, 
 and once for happy fortune. Her father, 
 with his travelling cap drawn over his eyes, 
 saw her through half-closed lids, and in his 
 wicked heart began those unavailing remorses 
 
 E 
 
58 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 whicli are tlie companions of deliberate crime. 
 He suffered horribly already, and he saw 
 plainly enough that he would suffer more in 
 the future. He knew that his scheme would 
 bring him no comfort even if he carried it 
 to triumphant fulfilment, but however miser- 
 able it might be to go on, he found a 
 backward step impossible. Whatever new 
 villanies might be needed for the purpose, 
 Jack Cameron and his daughter must be 
 kept apart. 
 
 He played Macbeth that evening, and the 
 newspaper critics next morning told their 
 readers that he had never played so finely. 
 It was a tradition in that school of tragedy 
 to which Mr. Montgomery Bassett belonged, 
 that at certain portions of the play the actor 
 himself should be so wrought upon that it 
 should be dangerous to interrupt the flow of 
 his emotions, even behind the scenes, where 
 the spirit of the part was to be kept up by 
 much solemn striding to and fro, and many 
 eavage execratory murmurs. The eminent 
 tragedian had always supported this tradition, 
 and now, with a genuine mental passion 
 added to an assumed mental passion which 
 had grown almost real through years of 
 habit, he was dreadful to the supernumeraries, 
 and the carpenters read terrors in his eye. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 59 
 
 Mr. Bassett's last five nigtits at that house 
 were long remembered, and became a tradition 
 of the local stage. When on the Thursday 
 night he played Othello, the rising young 
 artist who was cast for lago suffered terribly 
 at his hands. The great tragedian's deep 
 voice throbbed with anguish and rage as he 
 took that lago by the throat and shook him 
 at the line — 
 
 If thou dost slander her and torture me.'' 
 He haled the young man about the stage, and 
 dashed him hither and thither with prodigious 
 strength and violence, and the stage manager 
 at the flies almost whispered as he addressed 
 the leading lady with the statement that Bassett 
 was in force to-night. There is probably not 
 much more humbug behind the scenes than 
 there is elsewhere. But there is a little humbug 
 there, and everybody agreed to believe that Mr. 
 Montgomery Bassett was not acting when he 
 left the boards, but that he was absolutely 
 inflated with the passion of the part, and 
 could not help striding stagily, and scowling 
 and muttering, and folding and imfolding his 
 arms, as he awaited his cue in the slips, or 
 his call in the cramped limits of his dressing- 
 room. So that the great tragedian began to 
 make capital of his remorse, and to draw 
 satisfaction from his own misery of spirit. 
 
 ^ 2 
 
60 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Mary had expected a reply from Jack on 
 Wednesday morning, and had watched the 
 postman on his rounds. When his knock 
 came down the street her heart would flutter 
 until it had gone by, and had faded out of 
 hearing on the other side, and then for a 
 while she would be listless. Wednesday passed 
 and Thursday came, but no letter, and she 
 began to be nervous about Jack's health, and 
 to have fancies about railway accidents and 
 street disasters. Thursday night found her at 
 the theatre, where she watched the play with 
 little interest, and her mind was with her 
 lover all the evening. 
 
 The door-keeper knew her, and she ran 
 round to her father's room in the pause 
 before the last act. She found him in his 
 paint and his stage jewels, pacing up and 
 down and muttering, and there was a scent 
 of Scotch whiskey in the air. 
 
 Wait here," he said abruptly, when he 
 saw her, and left the room at once to wander 
 in semi-darkness about the back of the stage, 
 or to stand still with folded arms staring 
 gloomily at the workpeople until they shook 
 under his gaze; and the leading lady, hear- 
 ing of his mood, chose to think him dan- 
 gerous, and flatly refused to play the part 
 out unless he gave a promise through the 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 61 
 
 stage manager to murder her more gently 
 than he had shaken lago. 
 
 " Mr. Bassett," said the stage manager, Miss 
 Montmorency is afraid of you. You are in 
 such magnificent form to-night, sir, that the 
 poor thing is actually trembling at the thought 
 of the bolster." 
 
 "Tell her," said the great man in his mag- 
 nificent hollow tones, "that she needs not fear 
 me. I will deal gently with her." And he 
 took to striding to and fro again, with his chronic 
 humbug and his flogged artistic rage, and his 
 real fears and miseries all mounting so high in 
 a mingled tide within him that he felt abso- 
 lutely proud of himself, as if he were really a 
 dark and noble criminal of fiction, like the 
 Corsair of Lord Bjrron. 
 
 Mary was not unused to this sort of display, 
 and was not surprised at it. She knew her 
 father's reputation, and had a great pride in it, 
 and she was accustomed to hear him talking 
 with his friends of that artistic passion which 
 at times controlled him. Sitting there, she 
 noticed that the house was unusually silent. It 
 had been until now remarkably demonstrative, 
 and its present quiet argued triumph. When at 
 last the applause broke out at the fall of the 
 curtain it sounded through the whole building 
 like a hurricane. Mary slipped out of the 
 
62 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 room and saw her father answer three times to 
 the resounding plaudits of the audience. This 
 pleased her so that for the moment she forgot 
 her little nervous anxieties, and thrilled and 
 glowed with pride in him. 
 
 ^* Since Macready played here last," said the 
 stage manager, "I assure you, Miss Bassett, 
 there has been no such performance witnessed 
 here." 
 
 The company applauded behind the scenes 
 when the great man came back after his final 
 bow, and he saluted them in solemn silence. 
 He signed to his daughter to await him, and 
 the stage manager politely entertained her in 
 the green-room until Othello appeared, pale and 
 languid, in his glossy broadcloth and spotless 
 linen, to escort her home. 
 
 " You had a great triumph to-night, papa," 
 she said, taking his arm as they came upon the 
 street. 
 
 " I do not care to speak of it," said Mr. 
 Bassett. " I have other things to think of." 
 The girl was discomfited, without knowing why. 
 
 The little fears and anxieties about Jack 
 began to come back again, and to assume 
 larger proportions. Her elastic step grew dull 
 on a sudden, and she walked in silence. Their 
 lodgings were not far from the theatre, and 
 were soon reached. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 ^^Mary," said her father, facing her in the 
 sitting room, " I have heard very unpleasant 
 news this evening. Has Mr. Cameron replied 
 to your letter ? " 
 
 ''No," she answered, with a pale face and 
 eyes widened. 
 
 " If," said the tragedian, dashing his hat 
 upon the ground — "if he has trifled with you 
 but no. It is beyond belief." 
 
 " Papa ! " she said, quietly enough. " What 
 is it ? There is nothing to be alarmed at in 
 this brief delay. Something has prevented 
 him from writing. I shall hear to-morrow." 
 
 '' I am not eager to suspect him," said the 
 actor, walking up and down the room with a 
 disordered step. " But if he has played you 
 false, it were better for him that his mother 
 had not borne him.'' 
 
 "You know something?" she began. "No. 
 You know nothing against Jack. I am not at 
 all alarmed about him. I shall hear to-morrow." 
 
 "It would be a false mercy to shield you 
 from the truth, my child," said her father, 
 pausing in his walk, and regarding her with 
 a terror-stricken face. " I have tried to doubt 
 it, but it is beyond doubt." 
 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett was undoubtedly, 
 unless all his critical contemporaries lied or 
 were mistaken, a fine actor; but neither he 
 
64 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 nor any actor that ever trod the boards conld 
 have acted the face and voice with which he 
 spoke. He knew that well enough, and he 
 trembled lest his child should read him. But 
 his consternation and misery were so real that 
 the girl never doubted the origin of his dis- 
 turbance, and so the very cowardice with which 
 he played his part helped him to its proper 
 presentation. 
 
 " What is it ? she asked defiantly. " Tell me." 
 " What is it ? " he cried, turning his miser- 
 able white face upon her. "He is a hound, 
 a scoundrel. He has abused your faith. He 
 is here in Southampton now — here in the town 
 — visiting the woman to whom he will be 
 married in a fortnight — if he lives so long ! " 
 
 The girl's face was as white as his, but she 
 answered quietly, — 
 
 " You have been deceived. I don't believe 
 it, papa. I refuse to think about it. I wont 
 dishonour him, and I wont dishonour my- 
 self, by thinking seriously of it for a second." 
 Her own denial gave her confidence — the very 
 sound of her own voice quieted and fortified 
 her. "Poor dear papa," she said, standing 
 on tip-toe to embrace him, and speaking 
 with a half-gay pity now that she was so 
 sure at heart again. "I can see how much 
 you have been troubled by this silly tale." 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 65 
 
 " My poor child ! " he answered, ghastlier 
 than ever now. " My poor child ! " 
 
 He sank into a chair and shed real tears. What 
 with whisky and that stale, flogged passion of his 
 business, and her tenderness, and his remorses 
 and pretences, he was all unstrung, and as he 
 wept he did half feel a rising rage against Jack 
 Cameron, and a pity for his own child, as if the 
 lie had all been gospel truth. A mere common 
 liar could not have risen to this height of men- 
 dacity. Poets reach such a stage in the pursuance 
 of their craft sometimes, and Mr. Bassett had 
 spent his life in the simulation and the practice 
 of the emotions. 
 
 His tears shook her faith, and she began to 
 cling to him, half in pity, and half in terror lest 
 the dreadful story should be true. He took her 
 head to his breast, so that she might not see his 
 face, and she felt the sobs that shook him. It 
 broke upon her then that it was — it must be — 
 beyond a doubt in his mind, or he would not be 
 so moved. But then the loyalty of her own heart 
 rose in rebellion at the shameful story. She 
 recalled her lover's kisses, she saw the laughing 
 tender light in his honest eyes — surely his 
 eyes were honest — she felt his strong, manly arm 
 about her waist, her head lay again upon his 
 shoulder. Grirls remember these things when lovers 
 prove false, and for some moments they can find 
 
66 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 no belief in falsehood, and the past is back again, 
 and the vows are true. No, no, no, her heart 
 cried out to her — he cannot be false. And then 
 with a sickening revulsion — It must be true, and 
 no faith or hope of mine can cure it ; and the 
 poor thing, with her head lying over that Judas 
 heart, began to cry passionately and terribly, 
 whilst the hands that had opened her letter 
 caressed her, and the lying voice tried to soothe her. 
 
 When at last she lifted her piteous face and 
 looked at him, a pang went through him. But 
 there was no going back, and he had his part to 
 to play. 
 
 " You wont think about him, my darling," he 
 said, with real tenderness and pity. His remorse 
 began to burn him like a fire, and yet he had laid 
 it upon himself to lie, and to break his child's 
 heart for greed, and there was no way out of it. 
 You wont fret about him." 
 
 "If this is true," she said, standing erect before 
 him, and wringing her disordered hair backwards 
 with both hands, " don't have any fear for me, 
 papa. I shall not break my heart for any male 
 flirt of them all. Grood-night, dear.'* She kissed 
 him vehemently with no doubt of him. " I have 
 you left, papa," she said, sobbing. " Grood-night, 
 dear." 
 
 The tragedian sat alone an hour later, and 
 the decanter was empty before he left it. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 67 
 
 " She bears it pluckily," he murmured some- 
 what thickly. "And it is all for her good, 
 and she will marry young Weatherley now to 
 show the other fellow that she doesn't care 
 for his desertion. He will make her a very 
 good husband, and she will have everything 
 that heart can wish for." 
 
 Mr. Bassett arose with a headache next day, 
 but his daughter did not rise. He had no 
 great appetite for breakfast, and he waited 
 her coming for a long time. At last he 
 sent the landlady to arouse her, and the 
 woman, after a few minutes' absence, came 
 down with frightened looks and ran into the 
 sitting-room, with no preliminary knock. 
 
 "Miss Bassett is ill, sir," she said. "Come 
 and look at her." The tragedian pushed 
 past her and ran upstairs to his daughter's 
 room. 
 
 Mary was sitting upright in bed, with her 
 brown hair about her shoulders. Her eyes 
 were amazingly bright and restless, her face 
 was flushed, and she was talking nonsense 
 volubly. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " cried the terror-stricken 
 father. 
 
 " I'm afraid, sir," said the landlady, " that 
 she's in a raging fever," 
 
68 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Jack Cameron, arrived at his own rooms, sat 
 down with a book before him, and made a 
 dogged pretence of reading. His chum lit 
 a pipe and regarded him with troubled, 
 friendly eyes. Jack's book was of very 
 small value to him, as you may fancy, except 
 as a shield for his emotion; but he read on 
 steadily, line after line and page after page, 
 understanding nothing. He had already shown 
 more than he cared to show, and was resolute 
 to keep a guard upon himself for the future, 
 but his heart was full of rage and wounded 
 love and pride; and, these passions rushing 
 through him every now and again like a very 
 tbmpest, he had much ado to keep his limbs 
 still. 
 
 To be in love means much to a clean-hearted 
 youngster. You have jogged along with the 
 crowd, content to be no better than your 
 neighbours, satisfied with an every-day morality 
 and commonplace ambitions after money and 
 worldly ease, and all on a sudden some beautiful 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 69 
 
 new presence dawns upon your life, and beckons 
 you to a level you had done no more than 
 dream of. And this sweet presence, which 
 bears actual airs of heaven with it, grows 
 more and more lovely and beneficent, and 
 beckons you higher and higher, and smiles 
 kindlier and kindlier, until in some unguessed- 
 of moment it turns with a face of hideous 
 derision and mocks your folly that believed 
 in it. This is to be jilted for money. Your 
 soul rises in despair and self-disdain, and 
 the goddess of your worship tells you that 
 the love of woman is a cheat, and a heart 
 of cankered brass a poor lad's only safe- 
 guard. 
 
 All this was true to Jack Cameron, 
 because he believed it to be true. 
 
 He would not have been the honest lad 
 he was if many doubts had not reached his 
 heart. Loyalty finds it hard to believe in 
 disloyalty. Cassidy watched his friend almost 
 with terror, his quiet seemed so unnatural, 
 and in a while his fears assumed a shape 
 so threatening that he stole from the sitting* 
 room and locked up his friend's razors. 
 
 "This kind of thing," he said to himself 
 gloomily, "has ended that way before now." 
 
 After an hour or two spent in trying quietj 
 Jack rose and filled his pipe, and at this sign 
 
70 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Cassidy begun to bustle about the room and to 
 set glasses and a bottle on the table. 
 
 "To tbeir father with the lot of them/' said 
 Cassidy suddenly. "What do we want to go 
 getting married for? We've got each other, 
 that's been chums now for a dozen years and 
 more, and we'll just try to be content at that, 
 Jack, me boy, and let the baggages slide." 
 
 "Bill," said Cameron, breaking silence for 
 the first time since his entrance, " make me one 
 promise." 
 
 "Anything in nature," answered Cassidy. 
 " Never speak about this any more. Never 
 hint at it." 
 
 " I wont then," said the Irishman tenderly. 
 "Have a glass of whisky. Jack." 
 
 " No. I wont drink now. Grood night." 
 " Good night." 
 
 The heart-broken lover went to his own room 
 and walked gloomily up and down all night. 
 His companion sat in the chamber beneath and 
 listened to his footsteps. 
 
 " They're all alike," said Cassidy to himself. 
 " When was / ever unhappy except when I 
 was danglin' afther a petticoat ? But I'll have 
 to marry now if I spend the honeymoon in the 
 workhouse, and that looks likely. Faith, I'd 
 rather stop and be a companion to the poor 
 boy there. I know what it is, Jack, me lad, 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 71 
 
 for IVe been through it myself, as often may- 
 be as most men, and I can feel for you/' 
 
 The watcher in the lower room dozed, and 
 woke to see the first grey gleam of dawn break 
 through the crevices of the window shutters. 
 The step was still going to and fro, to and fro 
 overhead. Cassidy began to think his friend 
 took the matter too much to heart, but the 
 thought of going to bed and making himself 
 comfortable whilst his companion suffered in 
 solitude never occurred to him; a fact from 
 which it may be argued that friendship was a 
 sentiment more solid and enduring than love 
 in his case. He threw open the shutters noise- 
 lessly and let the summer morning light into 
 the room, and, filling his pipe, sat down to 
 read with the monotonous footsteps still going 
 to and fro, to and fro overhead. 
 
 Howland Street, as everybody knows, is at the 
 same time in the middle of Prague and near 
 the middle of London. It is not an early 
 street, and only the roll of a passing cab or 
 a mail-cart in the great thoroughfare near at 
 hand broke on the silence until long after 
 broad daylight had settled down upon it. But 
 when Cassidy had dozed again and again 
 over his book the first of the morning cries 
 sounded on his ear, and after no great inter- 
 val the postman's knock came down the silent 
 
72 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 street. The watcher having thrown up the 
 window quietly to observe the progress of the 
 postman, marked the cessation of the footsteps 
 overhead, and, listening, heard the creaking of 
 the window as it rose in the room above him. 
 
 "The poor lad can't believe she's fooled him 
 yet," said Cassidy sadly. 
 
 The postman's knock sounded at the front door, 
 and Cameron ran rapidly and lightly down stairs. 
 He came back with the false letter the trage- 
 dian had written the night before, and Cassidy 
 intercepted him on the landing. He had read 
 the note already, and he slipped it into the 
 Irishman's hands without a word, and passed 
 upstairs again. The footsteps were going to and 
 fro once more as Cassidy read the wicked lines. 
 
 "She's disturbed is she, poor thing?" he 
 said bitterly. ''That's a pity." He threw the 
 epistle on the table, and went wandering dis- 
 consolately about the room, but hearing the land- 
 lady astir, he fled like a guilty ghost to his 
 own chamber. By-and-bye Cameron appeared 
 before him half-dressed. 
 
 " Have you seen my razors, Cassidy ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " I — I borrowed them," said Cassidy, blush- 
 ing and stammering. Jack stood by whilst 
 he unlocked the drawer in which he had 
 hidden them. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 73 
 
 " You old fool," he said with that friendly 
 brutality young men use when they want to 
 hide themselves. 
 
 I was not so certain of that same," blun- 
 dered Cassidy ; but Cameron, returning no 
 answer, marched off with his recovered property. 
 He looked rather stern than miserable, Cassidy 
 thought, and indeed the young man's heart 
 had been oftener filled with rage than with 
 any other passion during that dreadful night, 
 and by this time it had hardened into an 
 intense, bitter contempt for the girl he had 
 loved so dearly. His first cry under the 
 blow had been repeating itself in his mind 
 all night: "Never believe in honour or honesty 
 any more ! " He told himself how salutary the 
 lesson was, and the firstfruits of Mr. Mont- 
 gomery Bassett's plot declared themselves in 
 the growth of a trustful, affectionate youngster 
 into a cynic. He met his chum at breakfast 
 as usual, but without the usual greeting, and 
 having forced himself to eat some little food, 
 he went downstairs to the studio and began to 
 work. Only yesterday he would have light- 
 ened labour by the singing and whistling of 
 many cheery staves — he had a whistle like a 
 thrush's note — and Cassidy, as he worked on 
 his own side of the studio, missed the cus- 
 tomary sounds of merriment. 
 
 F 
 
74 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 " Hang it all ! " said the perturbed Irisli- 
 man, regarding his work with disfavour, ^Hhe 
 shadows are painted in mud and the lights 
 in chalk. How are you doing, Jack?" 
 
 Well enough," said Jack shortly, and 
 silence fell again. 
 
 Art," said Cassidy, is nothing apart from 
 the oydayal. The last picture I painted — 
 'twas finished last week, and Isaacs has it — 
 had a fine original notion in it. Two girls 
 sitting on a rustic bench with a poodle dog 
 between them. Now this is a loftier concep- 
 tion even than that. Two girls sitting on an 
 esplanade, with a poodle dog apiece. There's 
 liberality for you ! " 
 
 Jack would have obliged his chum with a 
 laugh in the old times, and now the Irish- 
 man missed that friendly contribution to the 
 gaiety of the day. 
 
 ''Bad luck to me," he grumbled, "I don't 
 know whether the girls are more like poodles 
 or the poodles are more like girls. I can't 
 paint to-day." Jack worked on in silence, 
 and Cassidy fidgeted miserably for an hour 
 or two. A knock came to the door at about the 
 usual hour for luncheon, and the servant appeared 
 with a letter pinched in the cleanest corner of 
 her apron. Cassidy took it and passed it on 
 to Cameron, recognising Bassett's handwriting. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 75 
 
 "The letter's registered, sir," said the girl, 
 and the postman wants a receipt." 
 
 Jack walked out into the hall, letter in 
 hand, and by-and-bye returned with it, still 
 unopened. Cassidy, pretending to be busy, 
 watched him furtively through a mirror which 
 stood in one corner of the room. With bent 
 brows the young fellow read through the 
 letter, and then searching the envelope drew 
 forth the ring, and after looking at it for a 
 minute tossed it lightly away, and began to 
 laugh in a manner so harsh and unnatural 
 that Cassidy was frightened by it. 
 
 " One for love, and one for constancy," 
 cried the hapless lover, " and one for happy 
 fortune. Love, and constancy, and happy 
 fortime." He stooped to pick up the ring 
 and held it high at arm's length. "I gave 
 her this," he said, still laughing in the same 
 mad, unnatural way, " on Sunday night. 
 Before I gave it I kissed it, once for love, 
 and once for constancy, and once for happy 
 fortune. And now read this." He cast the 
 letter towards his friend, and it fluttered to 
 his feet. Cassidy lifted it and read it through, 
 and then the two faced each other. 
 
 "Jack," said his friend, "if ye thought 
 about her twice after this, ye'd be less than 
 a man." 
 
 F )d 
 
76 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 " Thouglit about her ! " cried the poor fellow 
 with another wild laugh. "Love, and con- 
 stancy, and happy fortune ! " Then he lifted 
 up both hands with a sudden gesture of 
 despair and dropped them again, and began 
 to rage to and fro along the room, cursing 
 terribly. " Money ! Let it cram her hollow 
 heart and burn it ! Load her with money, 
 and let it sink her to the devil ! Oh, the 
 liar ! Oh, the liar ! Sunday night. Bill, only 
 Sunday night. Less than two days ago, and 
 she swore she loved me. She kissed it back 
 again — she did — think of it — once for love, 
 and once for constancy, and once for happy 
 fortune." He began to laugh again more 
 wildly than before, and this timxe the laughter 
 ended in awful tears. 
 
 Cassidy stood helplessly over him, with an 
 unfelt friendly hand patting at his shoulder. 
 
 " They're all alike, J ack," he said brokenly, 
 " they're all alike. Don't take it this way, 
 me poor boy, don't ! You're breakin' my 
 heart as well as your own. Jack. But maybe 
 it's best for you to cry, after all. It'll be 
 the sooner over, me poor Jack. It's as well 
 that she's as bad as she is, for you'll be 
 going the right way the sooner for it." 
 
 Cameron recovered his self-possession in a 
 little while, and shaking hands with averted 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 77 
 
 head, left the studio without a word. The 
 ring lay on the table, and Cassidy, taking it 
 up, looked at it with moist eyes, and dropped 
 it again. 
 
 "Such a pretty little girl," he said to him- 
 self miserably. " With such a downright 
 honest, friendly look. And to be such a 
 cold-blooded little traitress after all." 
 
 At that moment Mary Bassett was singing 
 like a bird in her own room, and at every 
 note of the love-song she sang, her heart 
 went out to Jack with innocent, virginal 
 affection. At the notes the tragedian writhed, 
 and remorse already began to sear his soul. 
 
78 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 The landlady's surmise was trae, and the 
 nearest doctor being hastily summoned, con- 
 firmed it. 
 
 There has probably been some great men- 
 tal shock here," said the doctor. 
 
 There has," said Montgomery Bassett, 
 with a white face, in which every muscle 
 was twitching. " She has been most basely 
 and cruelly deceived by a young man to 
 whom she was engaged to be married. Is 
 she in any danger ? " 
 
 ^*The case is grave," the doctor answered, 
 " she will need skilful nursing, and I will, 
 with your permission, send in a professional 
 nurse at once." 
 
 "Do anything and everything that can 
 be done," cried the tragedian. The medical 
 man was accustomed enough to scenes of 
 domestic anguish, but he thought he had not 
 often beheld such signs of trouble as Mr. 
 Bassett displayed. That gentleman was 
 plunged indeed into a condition of the utmost 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 79 
 
 terror and dismay. He had counted on a 
 tear or two, on a cheek a little pallid, a gait 
 a little languid, a day or two of low spirits 
 and poor appetite, but not on this, or any- 
 thing near it or like it, and it staggered him. 
 If she died he would be a murderer as truly 
 and clearly as if he had struck her down 
 with his own hand. His thoughts on mat- 
 ters theological had never been of much 
 trouble to him, but like the great majority 
 of people he had certain vague ideas of a 
 future life in which he would have to pay 
 for earthly offences, and there was or had 
 been a tacit understanding with himself that 
 before he laid down the burden of the flesh 
 he would square himself for all that, and be 
 prepared to die in a properly reformed and 
 repentant spirit. He thought nothing in the 
 world so wicked as an atheist, and had the 
 highest possible opinion of the clergy. So 
 that he, like other people, began to consider 
 the great problem which vexed Hamlet's step- 
 father — how to be pardoned and retain the 
 offence. To go back to Cameron and confess 
 his villany was absolutely out of the question, 
 and it was just as impossible to acknowledge 
 it to his daughter, even if she should recover. 
 But whilst she lay in danger — and she lay at 
 death's door, for days — he did a little bit of 
 
80 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 sustained mental gymnastics wHcli was "worthy 
 of him. He determined that he would at 
 least make no .approach to young Weatherley, 
 and no attempt to induce his child to marry 
 that wealthy and eligible young man. Heaven, 
 beholdiDg this sign of repentance in him, 
 would perhaps overlook his sins, and allow 
 her to recover. Then (though it would have 
 been fatal to his prospects to confess as much 
 at present), when the danger was over, he 
 could do what he liked. 
 
 There is no reason to linger over the 
 sufferings the great tragedian had brought 
 upon his daughter. They entailed much 
 suffering upon himself, much discomfort, and 
 some money losses — for he was compelled to 
 sacrifice a fortnight's starring at Manchester 
 and a week in Sheffield. Theatrical papers 
 reported Miss Bassett's illness, with comments, 
 pitying and laudatory, on Mr. Bassett. When 
 Mary began to get a little strong again, he 
 left her in the care of a maiden sister and 
 the hilled nurse, and went upon his tour again, 
 travelling lonely for a month or so. En- 
 couraging letters reached him often, and now 
 and then a line from the girl herself, short 
 and feebly written, but full of a trust and 
 affection which wounded him whilst it soothed. 
 For he knew what a scoundrel he had been, 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 81 
 
 and what a scoundrel he meant to be, and 
 it was at once painful and pleasant to know 
 that her trust in him was undisturbed. That 
 pale magenta nose of his began to assume a 
 deeper tint, for in these days he drank a good 
 deal to keep his courage up, and to flood his 
 conscience, and so to render it inaccessible to 
 Reproach, who generally, it would seem, pre- 
 fers to go dry-shod. But Mary gradually 
 grew better, youth and a good constitution 
 being on her side, and against her will she 
 began to see that she must go on living. 
 Living, since Jack was false, promised to be 
 but a dull business, yet she bent herself to 
 the task like a woman. She had her father 
 to live for, and that was something. She 
 saw growing signs of age in him, and al- 
 though he had always been kind to her in 
 speech and manner, he had never been so 
 kind as now. Her care for his advancing 
 years, and the tenderness to which, for a 
 time at least, his accusing conscience stung 
 him, formed a double bond. 
 
 Things went on in this way until at the 
 approach of early winter Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett secured an engagement at the Lane. 
 He was wont to play nothing but Shake- 
 speare, and to declare that nothing but 
 Shakespeare was worth playing, but the new 
 
62 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 big spectacular and historical play was likely 
 to run for some months, and Mary wanted 
 rest. 
 
 Young Weatherley, though out of our sight all 
 this time had not been idle. He had friends 
 in plenty, as any young fellow with his 
 income was likely to have, and some of them 
 who wanted to be faithful and to keep their 
 own share of the loaves and fishes, told him 
 candidly what a silly thing it would be for 
 him to marry an actor's daughter. But he 
 went on growing in his own way more and 
 more attached to the girl, and more and 
 more determined to win her. He was bitterly 
 incensed at Jack Cameron's desertion of her, 
 even though it paved the way for his own 
 advance, and he used to go about breathing 
 threats and slaughter against that unhappy 
 young artist, who knew nothing of his 
 enmity. 
 
 Now that this settlement in London was 
 decided upon, young Weatherley took advan- 
 tage of it by hiring chambers in the Albany, 
 where he lived in great splendour. Mr. 
 Montgomery Bassett was there often, and the 
 gilded youth and the tragedian were to be 
 seen together on any fine day in the Strand, 
 lounging in the humble portico of the Can- 
 nibals, or walking arm-in-arm, each behind a 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 83 
 
 Partagas of young Weatherley's providing. 
 The young man was pretty often to be seen 
 in Bloomsbury Square, and he became a 
 familiar figure to Mary. It need scarcely be 
 said that on his daughter's recovery Mr. 
 Bassett's scruples of conscience had vanished. 
 It need scarcely be said either that in a man 
 of Mr. Bassett's temperament, the lies he 
 had told about Jack Cameron soon began to 
 look true by virtue of repetition, or that the 
 actor began to hate the man he had so 
 deceived and injured. 
 
 As in the great world, so in the lesser 
 worlds of which the great is made. That 
 which by the silliest of modern conventions 
 calls itself Society, is quite a small affair 
 when contrasted with Society at large, and 
 in the theatrical and artistic professions there 
 are eclectic sets which occupy relatively the 
 same position. Mr. Montgomery Bassett, when 
 he chose, could move in the innermost 
 theatrical circle, and he began now to visit 
 it in company with his daughter and young 
 Weatherley. They were a good deal seen 
 together, and it was generally taken for 
 granted that Miss Bassett and Mr. Weatherley 
 were " engaged." 
 
 Now that was a condition of things for 
 which young Weatherley ardently sighed, and 
 
84 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 the great tragedian laboured. He chanted 
 Weatherley's praises all day long. A good 
 lad — a frank, unaffected, honest nature — a 
 young fellow of the most honourable impulses, 
 not very clever, perhaps, but a good fellow, 
 a good fellow. 
 
 " I wish, papa," said the girl one afternoon, 
 "that you would find some other topic. I 
 am a little tired of Mr. Weatherley." Grief 
 and illness had not spoiled a naturally sweet 
 temper, but they had left a sense of irrita- 
 bility behind them. Mr. Bassett was one of 
 those men who imperatively demand to be 
 brow-beaten, and he was sometimes a little 
 afraid of his daughter. But in this case his 
 interests pricked him forward. 
 
 " My dear,'* he said tenderly, " I hope not." 
 
 ''And why do you hope not?" asked the 
 girl, drawing her little figure to its full 
 height. 
 
 ''Because, my dear," he answered, seeing 
 clearly that just then he dare give no further 
 reason, " I am more attached to Mr. Weather- 
 ley than to any other young man I know, 
 and I should be sorry to see you on ill 
 terms with your father's friend." 
 
 " The young man is endurable enough," 
 she said, "but I am a little tired of hearing 
 him spoken of." 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 85 
 
 "Very well, my dear," said her father 
 submissively. " We will talk of what you 
 please." 
 
 The girl ran impulsively to him and 
 kissed him, with a swift self-accusation in her 
 heart. "Oh, papa," she cried, clinging to him, 
 "I am not the girl I used to be. I am 
 ill-tempered and disagreeable, and I like to 
 make you unhappy. And you are always 
 so good and kind, and you never say an 
 angry word to me ; and I know how wicked 
 I am all the while, and yet I seem somehow 
 as if I couldn't help it." 
 
 "My dear," said her father, stooping to kiss 
 her, "you are the best daughter in the 
 world." His conscience assailed him much 
 less severely now than it had done, but it 
 still pricked him a little, and helped to keep 
 him tender in his manner to her. For after 
 all, he loved her in a way, and he was not 
 altogether an imnatural monster. He had 
 stabbed her to the heart already, but that 
 had been done out of anxiety for her welfare 
 — it was singular how well he managed on 
 the whole to keep his own considerations 
 out of sight — and if she married a man for 
 whom she did not care, why, scores of women 
 did it every day, and looked anything but 
 broken-hearted afterwards. 
 
86 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "I am a very naughty, wayward girl," 
 she answered. ^'But I will try to be good 
 to you papa. I will indeed.'* 
 
 "I could wish you no better than you are," 
 he said, kissing her again. His pulse took a 
 disorderly beat, and the palms of his hands 
 grew moist. But could he find a more 
 favourable time than this ? " Have you ever 
 guessed a reason for my speaking to you of 
 Mr. Weatherley?" 
 
 "If there is a reason, say nothing about it, 
 papa," she answered. There was nothing in 
 her manner to make him afraid of his enter- 
 prise, and he ventured to press his question. 
 
 " Have you ever guessed a reason for it ? " 
 
 " No," she said wearily, " I have not troubled 
 to think about it. Oh, papa," she cried, lay- 
 ing her cheek against his breast, "I am get- 
 ting to be downright false and disingenuous. 
 Say nothing about the reason, dear. If my 
 guess is not a very vain and silly one, I want 
 to hear no more about it.'* 
 
 Still there was nothing to scare him from 
 his purpose. 
 
 "He will wait as long as you like, my 
 darling. And it is the one desire of your 
 poor old father's heart." 
 
 "I am very sorry, dear," said the girl, 
 drawing herself away from him and looking 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 87 
 
 down at her own languidly intertwining fingers. 
 "I am very sorry." 
 
 " Think, my darling," he urged her, warming 
 to the theme, 'Hhink of the burden of anxiety 
 the contemplation of your future lays upon 
 me. I have so little to leave you, and I cannot 
 bear to think of you upon the stage. I know 
 the coarseness of the life and its dangers, the 
 scandals that attend it. A good heart is laid 
 at your feet, my dear, an honest, honourable 
 heart, and a great fortune. I will not urge you 
 for my own sake, but it may have some weight 
 with you if you think that I am getting old, 
 that my time is short, that my faculties are 
 naturally decaying. My popularity may go at 
 any time, and I may live to hear it said — ' su- 
 perfluous lags the veteran on the stage.' If I 
 seem to speak selfishly, I speak for your own 
 sake after all. Your future is my sole anxiety." 
 
 In an affair absolute and simple Mr. Mont- 
 gomery Bassett could have achieved to the lie 
 absolute and simple with no great difiiculty, as 
 he had proved already. But here it was not 
 easy to be altogether false, and he did care 
 enough for his own child to wish her well, even 
 apart from his own interests. Her welfare and 
 his own being both wrapped up together in this 
 matter, he was moved with a genuine emotion. 
 The girl's tired heart took it all for gospel. 
 
88 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 What had she to desire in the world, except to 
 please her father? Whom else had she to 
 think of? Yet a marriage without love looked 
 like a blasphemy of that religion of the heart 
 which she had learnt less out of books than her 
 own nature. Thinking of it, there were tears 
 in her eyes for very pity of herself if she 
 should yield. Life would be cold and lonely 
 enough in any case, but bearable without that. 
 
 " Don't be anxious about me, dear," she said, 
 laying her cheek against his breast again. 
 " And don't be anxious for yourself. You were 
 never so popular, and you never played so well 
 as you do now. Everybody says so. All the 
 papers say so, dear. Let us live together, papa, 
 and you shall live to be very, very old, a grey 
 old gentleman," she went on with tremulous 
 gaiety, '^with just a little touch of gout — not 
 enough to hurt much, but just enough to look 
 nice, and aristocratic, and old-fashioned. And 
 we will have a little cottage in some country 
 place, papa, and live there together, and'' — the 
 voice grew more and more tremulous, and was 
 suddenly broken by a rush of tears — "and die 
 together." She ended with both arms about his 
 neck, and he stood stroking her hair whilst he 
 wondered if it were safe to go a little further. 
 
 He would try, at any rate, and he nerved 
 himself. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 89 
 
 " You tliink so now," he said, still stroking 
 her hair softly and putting one caressing arm 
 about her neck. *'You think so now, but when 
 you come to — to — to think a little," he was very 
 nervous, " you will find that you have too much 
 proper pride, my darling, to have it thought 
 that you will always wear the willow for a 
 scoundrel." 
 
 He had wished a thousand times to find 
 com*age enough to launch that shaft. It had 
 left his hand now. The boomerang would have 
 furnished a better simile. The argument was 
 as likely as not to turn and knock his scheme 
 on the head. 
 
 He felt her tremble a little in his embrace, 
 and he knew that her tears had ceased. By- 
 and-bye she pushed him away gently, and for a 
 second hid her face in both hands. Then moving 
 her hands sideways and backwards with a firm 
 pressure on her forehead, and twining her fin- 
 gers in her hair, she looked at him with a 
 glance he remembered to have seen before when 
 his wicked plot first bore fruit. 
 
 "Nobody," she answered, with a quiet voice, 
 ''shall say that of me." 
 
 She left him standing there without another 
 word. Her father lit a cigar and sat down 
 beside the fire. 
 
 " I was wise to try it," he said to himself* 
 
 a 
 
90 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 "The case is anything but hopeless, but we 
 must be content to go slowly." 
 
 Whilst he sat thinking the servant brought 
 in two letters bearing a crest he knew. He 
 did not need to open the one addressed to 
 himself to know its contents, but he cut open 
 the envelope, and after glancing at the card it 
 held, stuck it between the pier-glass and its 
 frame. Mr. Dexter requested the pleasure of 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett's company on Friday 
 evening next. Mr. Dexter was at the very 
 heart of artistic and theatrical society in 
 London. Perhaps somebody knew why, or 
 could have given a guess as to how he came 
 there. It was enough for most people that 
 he was there, and it was the correct thing 
 to go to Dexter's, and everybody who was 
 anybody in the stage world, or the critical 
 world, or the painting or the musical worlds, 
 might be met there at odd times. Young 
 Weatherley, who worshipped all the lions who 
 roared there and revered an actor as Groethe 
 revered a sage, was the proudest man in 
 London when Mr. Bassett had first taken 
 him to Dexter's. 
 
 The actor, after looking at the card awhile, 
 turned to the table and wrote a note to his 
 dear Dexter, requesting that he would be good 
 enough to send an invitation to Mr» 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 91 
 
 Weatherley, his dear friend, whom Dexter 
 knew abeady. He promised his own presence 
 and was Dexter's very truly. Then having 
 brushed his speekless, glossy broadcloth and 
 his shining hat, and having drawn on with 
 great care his brand-new gloves, he left the 
 house, and, posting his letter by the way, 
 walked down to the Cannibals. In the Strand 
 he ran full against Jack Cameron, who looked 
 him in the face and cut him dead. That 
 was natural enough, but Mr. Bassett felt 
 that it displayed a certain littleness of nature, 
 a want of magnanimity, which he said he 
 was sorry to observe. For his part he hated 
 Jack like poison, as was also natural, but he 
 was prepared to conduct himself towards him 
 after the fashion recognized by gentlemen. 
 The wolf was not the first nor the last 
 logician of hatred to make the stream run 
 backward as an excuse for his own rage, and 
 Montgomery Bassett was conscious of a deep- 
 seated distrust of Cameron as a man of 
 honour. Cameron was a thorough-paced 
 scoundrel by this time. A real liar is the 
 most amazing creature in the world. He lies 
 and knows that he lies, and he believes him- 
 self. At this stage had the great tragedian 
 arrived, but he was willing to show his own 
 noble nature and to hide all outward sign of 
 
 G 2 
 
92 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 his feelings towards the man who had injured 
 him. Curious, isn't it? 
 
 Jack's name was off the Cannibals' books 
 long since, and that fact was not without com- 
 fort for Bassett, who, in spite of his readiness 
 to forgive, had no passionate longing to meet 
 his enemy. But if the name of Cameron was 
 gone the name of Weatherley replaced it, and 
 in the book devoted to the proposition of new 
 members Bassett's ponderous signature (which 
 was v/ritten with a broad quill and took half-an- 
 hour to dry) followed it, as that of nominator. 
 
 Mr. Weatherley, attired in great splendour, 
 sat at one of the tables turning over the papers 
 and magazines with a discontented air when 
 Bassett entered. His face cleared as he arose 
 to shake hands, but clouded again a little as he 
 resumed his seat. 
 
 ''I say, Bassett," he began, leaning his head 
 close to that of the great tragedian, "don't you 
 think I've dangled about long enough? You 
 keep on talking about patience, but there are 
 circumstances under which patience isn't easy ; 
 now, aren't there, Bassett ? " 
 
 "Dear boy," said Bassett, in a rumbling 
 murmur intended for a whisper, "I have made 
 a most marked and distinct advance in your 
 favour to-day. The cause is moving, dear boy 
 •^the cause is moving." 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 93 
 
 " I hope it is," said Weatherley, doubtfully 
 feeling for a bit of whisker and finding none. 
 "Pm getting a bit down-hearted about it; but 
 that's no use, is it, Bassett?" 
 
 " Not a bit, dear boy," said the other, " not 
 a bit. By the way, I got a card for one of 
 Dexter's Fridays this afternoon. Mary received 
 one also, and I have just dropped a line to 
 Dexter asking him to send one to a friend of 
 mine — Mr. Greorge Weatherley, at the Albany. 
 Now I think it is very probable that you 
 may find your opportunity that evening. It 
 may prove to be a favourable time. Don't call 
 in the meantime. I shall be a little late, of 
 course, but Mary will be pretty early. Grod 
 bless you, dear boy. One word. Don't say 
 anything decisive until you see me. Good-bye, 
 dear boy, and Grod bless you." 
 
 Five minutes later Mr. "Weatherley was in 
 the Strand, walking with a pensive countenance. 
 As he walked his lips moved, and though the 
 murmurs which escaped him were inaudible to 
 the passers-by, it may be guessed that he was 
 practising a form of declaration. 
 
 The hours between then and the fateful Fri- 
 day fled with leaden wing, but the night came 
 at last, and Mr. Weatherley was amongst the 
 first to arrive at Dexter's halls. He wandered 
 disconsolate out of one room into the other, 
 
94 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 nervously pulling his gloves ofif and on and 
 furtively surveying himself in mirrors, un-at- 
 home amidst the crowd of artists and journal- 
 ists who elbowed him. There were ladies there 
 upon whose trains his inadvertent feet seemed 
 doomed to tread, and he had just apologised to 
 one of them for the third time when the host 
 came by with open hands to greet a newly-ar- 
 rived party of four 
 
 ^'Miss Leverett, delighted. Leverett, my boy, 
 delighted. Cassidy, how are you ? Cameron, 
 where have you been hiding yourself?" 
 
 Mr. Weatherley turned and beheld within 
 six feet of him the man he had last seen 
 at Oakenham in the act of kissing Mary 
 Bassett. Now, Jack did not know Mr. 
 "Weatherley from Adam, and received his 
 indignant and withering stare with some 
 astonishment, Mr. Weatherley, having put 
 up an eye-glass with intent to make his 
 glance more deadly, measured Jack slowly 
 from head to foot, and turning round upon 
 his heel trod a fourth time upon the fated 
 lady's train, and buried dignity and loath- 
 ing in the dust of abject apology. 
 
 In spite of her father's promise Mary 
 came late — so late, indeed, that she arrived 
 but some ten minutes before the great 
 tragedian himself, when Mr. Weatherley was 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 95 
 
 almost driven to desperation by the agony 
 of waiting and the knowledge of the 
 presence of his whilom rival. 
 
 "There's one young person here," said 
 Jack to Cassidy, as they stood aside, " who 
 seems to be a little cracked. He favoured 
 me with a look from head to heel just now, 
 and turned away with a grunt of ineffable 
 disdain. That's the fellow, with the eye-glass, 
 the fellow next to Leverett, on the right." 
 
 " Bedad," said Cassidy, ^tis young Wea- 
 therley, of Oakenham." 
 
 Jack's face darkened, and he surveyed the 
 young fellow moodily. It was likely enough 
 that the youngster knew him and had heard 
 of his old suit. Was it possible that Bassett 
 and his daughter were expected ? That would 
 account for the young man's presence, and 
 his scowl of defiance. Cameron's heart began 
 to beat quickly, and the old wound began to ache. 
 It ached always, but now there was a sudden 
 leap of pain. Cassidy was talking, but he 
 heard nothing until within six feet of him a 
 voice said clearly and softly: — 
 
 " Good evening, Mr. Weatherley." 
 
 The rooms were well filled by this time, and 
 there was a subdued roar of talk going on, 
 but just at that instant almost everybody had 
 gone silent. The silence lasted scarcely more 
 
96 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 than a second, and the clear, soft voice just 
 fitted into it. Jack turned, and there stood 
 Mary with her face sideways to him, looking 
 radiant. A little more spiritual than she had 
 used to be, less saucy and mirthful, but bright 
 and something more than cheerful. She was 
 beautifully dressed, and the discarded lover, 
 looking at her, thought she had never looked 
 so charming. There were none of the traces 
 of the many tears she had shed to be seen 
 upon her face, there was no sign of the heart- 
 break she had endured — nothing to speak from 
 her to him, and to tell him how vilely he had 
 been abused. He was haggard and gloomy, 
 and unlike himself of little more than half-a- 
 year ago, and he knew it. Grood-natured 
 friends reminded him of it more than often 
 enough. Well, if he had thought of seeing her 
 again he had not expected to find her changed. 
 Why should she be? A heart so shallow and 
 hollow — what could it feel ? She had vowed 
 she loved him, she had let him take her in his 
 arms and look into her eyes — they looked as 
 clear as day, and as honest as the sun — and 
 with his kisses on her lips she had thrown him 
 over. And he?— he had learned his lesson, 
 and knew of what stuff women's hearts were 
 made. 
 
 All this took little time to think and feel, 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 97 
 
 and it was all thought and felt whilst Mr. 
 "Weatherley bashfully, and with an embarrassed 
 gesture, shook hands with Mary Bassett. But 
 that young gentleman, being conscious of Cam- 
 eron's presence and his fixed regard, could not 
 keep his eyes from straying in his direction, 
 and his glance took Mary's with it. 
 
 The two estranged lovers, who had loved so 
 dearly and had suffered so for each other, 
 stood face to face. There was a bitter smile 
 on Jack's lips, and such a disdain in his 
 eyes as a woman who had been false to 
 him would have found it hard to bear. The 
 blood forsook the girl's cheeks and she trembled, 
 but she drew her slight figure to its full 
 height, and replied to his cynical glance by 
 one as contemptuous and as cold. They 
 stood thus only for a second or two, but it 
 seemed a long time afterwards when each came 
 to think of it. Then a change came over 
 Jack's face, which puzzled and haunted the girl 
 for many and many a day. The new look 
 meant pity and reproach — pity as profound as 
 a mother's over a sick child; reproach as keen 
 as loyalty's looking on dishonour. She read 
 these as plainly as she might have done in a 
 printed page, and she saw the swift glint of 
 tears in his eyes as he turned away. What 
 right had he — he — to look at her like that? 
 
98 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 But for that strange momentary encounter, 
 Mr. "Weatherley would have got rid of his de- 
 claration that evening, and the girl would have 
 said yes — not for his sake, but to please her 
 father. That broad hint of his about the wear- 
 ing of the willow had stung her too. But the 
 wooer felt disconcerted and missed his chance. 
 Indeed, the chance had gone in spite of him, 
 for the girl's mind and heart were full of the 
 memory of her old lover's look, and she traced 
 over and over again in it, contempt, reproach, 
 pity. Had they wronged him after all? Wrong- 
 ed him ? From the night when he had won her 
 promise to be his wife he had deserted her, and 
 she had heard no word of him, except the story 
 her father brought her. And his own silence 
 proved that true. She knew him for the con- 
 temptible thing he was, she told herself a thou- 
 sand times. Yet every time, as if in silent de- 
 nial of all accusations, his face rose up before her 
 with its changing glance. Contempt, reproach, 
 and pity. 
 
 She cried herself to sleep that night, and in 
 her dreams he kissed her, and she heard him 
 say, so clearly that the voice awoke her to the 
 comfortless winter dawn : " Dear eyes ! they 
 shall never shed another tear if I can help it." 
 
 And the truth of day was back again, and he 
 was false. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI- 
 
 "Dear boy," said Mr. Bassett, sitting in 
 young Weatherley's chambers at the Albany, 
 "yon missed a chance last night/' 
 
 Young Weatherley was gloomy and inclined 
 to be silent, and he answered only by a dis- 
 mal shake of the head. 
 
 "I had carefully prepared her for a disclo- 
 sure of your feelings," resumed the tragedian, 
 " and, had you spoken, you would have received 
 an affirmative answer. I trust you do not intend 
 me to understand that you have fallen off in 
 your pursuit." 
 
 " Now, Bassett, it isn't fair to say that of 
 me," cried young Weatherley. " It isn't really, 
 Bassett. If you'd have seen the way they look- 
 ed at each other . We'd only just shaken 
 
 hands that minute when she saw him. I only 
 wish it was possible to call a fellow out — don't 
 you, Bassett? Hang him, the scoundrel; 
 you'd have thought, to see the way he looked 
 at her, that she'd been the one to behave bad- 
 ly. He's a bigger fellow than I am, but if it 
 
100 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 hadn't been for the fear of making a dis- 
 turbance in public, I'd have kicked him, if 
 he'd been as big as St. Paul's. By gad, I 
 would, Bassett ! " 
 
 Mr. Weatherley looked and felt exceedingly 
 warlike. 
 
 "Was Mary very much disturbed, dear boy?" 
 asked the tragedian. 
 
 "Disturbed!" cried young Weatherley. "She 
 went as white as a ghost, and I could see her 
 tremble, but she looked at him like a queen, 
 by gad, as much as to say ' you dam rascal ! ' 
 and she held her eyes on him till he turned 
 away, by gad, like a dog. And that's what he 
 is, by gad, a cur, a mean cur, isn't he, Bas- 
 sett ? " The tragedian took his young friend by 
 the hand, averting his face, and then strode to 
 the window, where he drummed with agitated 
 fingers on the board, to show how moved he 
 was. The youngster began to fidget about the 
 room, taking up books and laying them down 
 again, standing to inspect with unobservant eye 
 the drawings on the wall, walking rapidly 
 into corners without object, and giving 
 other evidences of a disturbed mind. The 
 actor held his tongue, and in a little time 
 Mr. Weatherley's excitement of spirit boiled 
 over into speech. "Look here, Bassett," said 
 the lad, advancing to him with a pale and dis- 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 101 
 
 ordered countenance, "I can't stand it any 
 longer. It's wearing me to a shadow, by 
 George it is. I can't eat and I can't sleep, 
 and if I go to a theatre, I feel, by gad, like a 
 mute at a funeral, upon my word I do. You 
 don't mind waiting here, do you, Bassett ! You 
 can make yourself comfortable for a couple 
 of hours, can't you? And I'll take a cab, 
 and I'll drive up to Bloomsbury Square, and 
 I'll have it over." 
 
 Dear boy," said Mr. Bassett, shaking hands 
 anew. "I do petition all the gods for thy 
 prosperity." 
 
 After that interview with his daughter, Mr. 
 Bassett felt tolerably sure of her acceptance of 
 young Weatherley's hand. There is nothing in 
 the world so open to conviction as a man's own 
 conscience, and the first remorses were over and 
 done with. Jack Cameron had behaved very ill, 
 and he — Montgomery Bassett — had been, some- 
 how or other, deeply wronged, and the resent- 
 ment natural to the circumstances kept him 
 warm. Mary was not ill any longer, and her 
 sufferings though sharp, had been brief (or at 
 least he was willing to think so), and now she 
 would be a great deal better off than she could 
 ever have hoped to be but for the benevolent 
 practices of her father. So that altogether he 
 experienced a glow of self-approval, and felt 
 
102 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 himself a watchful and tender guardian of his 
 child's best interests. 
 
 He sat alone in young Weatherley's luxurious 
 sitting-room, and devoted himself moderately, 
 since he had his evening's work before him, 
 to young Weatherley's whiskey, which was old 
 and ripe and mellow, and smoked his cigars, 
 which, like everything else the young fellow 
 had, were of the best. He had put the case 
 plainly and forcibly to his daughter, and she 
 would say " Yes " to the wealthy wooer's prof- 
 fer, and her poor old father's worldly troubles 
 would all be over. The poor old father, with 
 his glass in his hand and a cigar between his 
 lips, looked roimd the room with a glance of 
 approval. He fancied it his own, and surveyed 
 it already with the pleased eye of a proprieter. 
 Greorge would not want batchelor chambers 
 when he was married, and this would make a 
 snug little place enough for his father-in-law. 
 Mr. Bassett would arrange that. A man in 
 Weatherley's position could not afford to have 
 a poor father-in-law ; and five hundred a year, 
 which would be ample provision for Mr. Bas- 
 sett's retirement, would be but a flea-bite from 
 the young fellow's fortune. Mr. Bassett would 
 arrange that also. 
 
 Once or twice he mended and stirred the fire, 
 and the afternoon was already growing dark 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 103 
 
 before tlie owner of the rooms returned. The 
 tragedian heard the latch-key at the door, and 
 a second or two later Weatherley entered. 
 
 " Well, dear boy," said Mr. Bassett, in his 
 richest and most ponderous tones, ''Am I to 
 congratulate you?" 
 
 Young Weatherley returned no answer, but 
 sat down with his hat on. An awful doubt 
 began to rise in the tragedian's heart. 
 
 "What is this, dear boy? "he asked. 
 
 Was Mary away from home for the after- 
 noon? Had the courtier's courage failed him? 
 Anything rather than the real question. 
 
 "She's thrown me over," said young Wea- 
 therley, with something very like a sob. 
 
 " Eefused you ? " cried Bassett. 
 
 "She was very kind and nice and all that," 
 said the youngster tremulously, "but she says 
 she'll never marry. She heard everything I 
 had to say, and then she said 'No.' They say 
 Eussia's going to war directly, and by George 
 I'll go out and fight for the Turks, and get 
 shot, by gad ! " 
 
 His voice quivered pitiably, and there were 
 tears in his eyes. Bassett could see them sparkle 
 darkly by the firelight. His own heart was 
 dead within him. 
 
 "T — I can't understand it at all, dear boy/' 
 ho i^Uimiixerud. 
 
104 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 " It's plain enougli," said young Weatherley, 
 witli a catch in his voice, "She can't forget 
 that fellow, though she hates him, and she'll 
 never care to look at another fellow. That's 
 what she said, ^ I shall never marry.' " 
 
 The tragedian's distress was as profound as 
 that of the rejected lover. All his visions 
 crumbled, and he stood amidst their ruins in 
 dismay. 
 
 " Grirls are not to be had for one asking, 
 dear boy," he said after an agitated pause, 
 duiing which he had striven to get the bet- 
 ter of these fears. "You were too soon dis- 
 mayed." 
 
 " No," said young Weatherley hopelessly, " I 
 know better than that, Bassett. She doesn't 
 care about me, and the money hasn't any 
 weight with her, and by gad, I honour her 
 for that; upon my word I do." 
 
 " I can't help believing," said Mr. Bassett, 
 "that your cause is not yet lost, dear boy. 
 Pluck up heart of grace, and I will speak 
 to her this evening. "When last I spoke to 
 her^ — it was the first and last and only time 
 — she left me under the impression that the 
 thing was settled, in your favour." 
 
 Mr Weatherley took off his hat and un- 
 affectedly wiped his eyes, making no response 
 to his companion. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 105 
 
 "You don't resign the chase, dear boy?" 
 said Bassett, trying to speak in a tone of 
 badinage. 
 
 " She said ' No/ and she meant it," 
 answered Weatherley. That's enough for 
 me." 
 
 " Don't despair, dear boy," cried the actor, 
 recovering a little hope and courage. " Grirls 
 do not always know their minds. I have 
 never pretended to disguise my feelings in 
 respect to the honour you proposed to do 
 my daughter and myself. I think, as I 
 have always thought, that the match would 
 be a most fortunate and advantageous one for 
 her, and I am now more assured than ever 
 of your regard, and more convinced than 
 ever that if you could secure her consent you 
 would make her happy. At present she is 
 not happy, and as sweet Will says, dear boy, 
 ' She is all the daughters of her father's 
 house, and all the brothers too,' and I am 
 anxious for her welfare. I will speak to her, 
 dear boy. She will listen to her father." 
 
 " I don't think it's of any use, Bassett, " 
 said the rejected lover, wiping his eyes again; 
 "and if she's unhappy already, I don't want 
 to have her bothered about me." 
 
 " God forbid," said Mr. Bassett piously, 
 "that I should press my child upon a luke- 
 
 H 
 
106 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 warm lover! But this I know — she was not 
 so resolved when last we spake together." 
 
 Even at this pass a rounded, well-mouthed 
 quotation was like meat and drink to him, 
 and he rolled the words out royally. 
 
 "No," said young Weatherley, with mourn- 
 ful protestation, " you can't say I've been 
 lukewarm, now can you, Bassett?" 
 
 "You seem a little so now, dear boy," 
 returned the tragedian. "Shall I speak for 
 you?" 
 
 ''Do you think it's any good?" asked the 
 rejected lover. 
 
 "Dear boy," said Mr. Bassett, warming as 
 he spoke, and beginning to feel half confident 
 of success. "The gyurl is coy. She has ex- 
 perienced a severe shock. She has had her 
 first lesson in the untrustworthiness of the 
 world, and she is not willing for a time to 
 believe in anything. But, thank Heaven, she 
 has not yet lost faith in her poor old 
 father." 
 
 Even young Weatherley began to think there 
 might be something in it, and to feel the 
 warmth of hope again. 
 
 "It isn't as if we were asking her to do 
 anything to make herself unhappy, is it, 
 Bassett?" the lad demanded. "I am sure I'll 
 try to make her happy. There's nothing a 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 107 
 
 woman's heart can wish for that she sha'n't 
 have. She's only got to ask for it and she 
 shall have it." 
 
 " We are signally united," said Mr. Bassett, 
 seeing his way to something to his own ad- 
 Tantage here. "We are signally united, my 
 little gynrl and I. The greatest difficulty I 
 shall experience, dear boy, will be in persuad- 
 ing her to part from her unworthy father. 
 It is chiefly for my sake, as I am well per- 
 suaded, that she has refused your offer. She 
 fears to leave the old man lonely." 
 
 "You could come down and see us, you 
 know, Bassett, couldn't you?" said young 
 Weatherley, rather miserably, as if he cared 
 little for the prospect. 
 
 "Yes, yes, dear boy," replied the tra- 
 gedian. "But would that content her?'* 
 
 "Well, by gad, Bassett," cried the other, 
 with an evident reluctance pulling at the 
 skirts of eagerness, " so far as that goes, you 
 know, if she wont have me without it, you 
 might come and stay with us, mightn't you 
 now? Just to begin with, you know." 
 
 "Exactly, dear boy," said Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett. "Just to begin with. Exactly." 
 But in fancy's eyes he saw himself settled 
 for life in that handsome mansion of warm 
 brown stone in which he had once tasted of 
 
 H 2 
 
108 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Mr. Weatlierley's hospitality. The old oak, 
 the liquidly-lustrous mahogany, the soft re- 
 ceptive carpets, the rich hangings — he walked 
 or lolled among these splendours as if they 
 were all his own. Perhaps the earlier vision 
 of that afternoon might come true, later on, 
 and the admirably-appointed room he stood in 
 might one day be his own. He began to 
 feel, under the influence of these hopes, that 
 his wandering life had left him a little bat- 
 tered; that he was not so young as he had 
 been; that it was time to retire from the 
 stage in full blaze of fame, and to make 
 room for a younger man. And all these ad- 
 vantages, to his energetic imagination, became 
 so real that he actually appropriated them, 
 and felt that they belonged to him already. 
 Mary would never refuse a prospect which 
 looked so rose-coloured. It was lovely and en- 
 viable to him, and the natural conclusion 
 was that it would be lovely and enviable to 
 her also. The case he had to lay before her 
 looked irresistible, and he was almost easy 
 and happy in his mind again. 
 
 It was too late at this hour to find time 
 to plead with his daughter before his duties 
 began at the theatre, and perhaps it might be 
 as well to allow her a little rest. 
 
 "You shall hear from me, dear boy, to- 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 109 
 
 morrow," tie said, as lie shook hands after some 
 further talk. Mr. Weatherley was a little 
 cheered, but being left alone became once more 
 despondent, and held but a poor view of his 
 chances. 
 
 "I ain't worthy of her," said the young 
 gentleman despondently. ^^I know I ain't; 
 and even if she marries me, she'll do it because 
 her father persuades her, and not because she 
 cares for me." He was not the wisest of 
 mankind, and there may have been men in 
 the world who knew more loftily how to love a 
 woman, but that reflection was unpleasantly 
 bitter, none the less, though he would have 
 taken her, if she would have accepted him, on 
 any grounds whatever. 
 
 But while young Weatherley endured the 
 pains natural to his circumstances, Mr. Bassett 
 took his evening chop and his glass of Burgundy 
 in mental comfort. Mary had not weighed the 
 matter, or something in the lad's wooing had 
 jarred upon her, or she was out of sorts, perhaps. 
 There were a thousand reasons to be had in 
 explanation of her conduct, for the mere trouble 
 of stretching out a hand for them. As for the 
 nonsensical supposition that she had thrown 
 away five-and-twenty thousand pounds a year — 
 he had repeated those figures so often that he 
 knew them to be true — Bassett refused to enter- 
 
110 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 tain it. The very wine lie drank repudiated that 
 absurdity, and protested in his veins against it. 
 
 He dined that night at an old-fashioned 
 Fleet Street tavern where he knew the wine, and 
 where the waiter knew him, and gave him of the 
 best. That generous Burgundy was kept for 
 the old stagers, and no new arrival at the house 
 would ever taste it. He finished his bottle, lit 
 his cigar, drank his one glass of hot whiskey 
 and water, and demanded his bill. 
 
 "What of the night, John?" 
 
 "Snowing pretty heavy, sir," said ancient 
 John, "but no chance of the snow lying, sir. 
 Streets'U be full of slush, sir, that's all. Thank 
 you, sir. Good-night, sir." 
 
 Mr. Bassett slowly and luxuriously built up 
 his portly form in a big overcoat, and drew on 
 his furred gloves. He was almost due, but yet 
 in easy time, and with the wine and his own 
 contentment warm within him, he marched 
 comfortably through the night and the snow, 
 and being arrived at his room, dressed and 
 awaited his call, above a second glass of hot 
 whiskey and water. The piece was drawing 
 crowds, and the house was fairly filled in spite 
 of the wretched weather. The eminent tragedian 
 scorned the play, and had none of that striding 
 and muttering to do between the scenes or in the 
 pauses of his own part which would have been 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 en regie in legitimate Shakespearian business, 
 and he had therefore the more time to sit beside 
 his dressing-room stove and sip hot whiskey and 
 water. People talked of that growing habit of 
 his already, and though it had never yet betrayed 
 him in his business, he trenched narrowly at 
 times upon a dangerous excess. To-night, what 
 with the cold airs on the great draughty stage, and 
 the length of time his duties left him free, and 
 the cheerful visions he indulged and saw brighter 
 through the spirituous fumes, he drank so freely 
 that his head was whirling a little when the 
 curtain fell, and his rich and ponderous voice 
 was less under control than common. 
 
 The snow was falling faster and faster when he 
 looked out from the stage door, and for some ten 
 minutes he awaited in vain the return of the 
 messenger he had despatched for a cab. He fell 
 into a little lordly rage at this, and demanding that 
 the vehicle when found should be sent after him, 
 he betook himself to the Albany, near at hand, 
 and meeting there a half -score of his professional 
 brethren, joined them in a social glass. 
 
 Notwithstanding the non-arrival of the cab, 
 he was by this time in the very best and j oiliest 
 of humours, and the future seen through vinous 
 and spirituous mists looked so sure and solid that 
 he took his daughter's acceptance of young 
 Weatherley as a fact accomplished, and asked one 
 
112 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 or two of his older friends to be present at the 
 wedding. It had been the common talk for 
 months past that young Weatherley and Miss 
 Bassett were engaged, but all things con- 
 sidered, the marriage had seemed curiously long 
 in coming, and now that it was announced as 
 imminent, the great tragedian was congratulated 
 with such heartiness as you may fancy. He had 
 always been popular and successful, and like men 
 in other professions, actors like to know the 
 popular and successful. 
 
 " Mont., dear boy," and " Bass., dear boy," said 
 the unctuous bass voices round him, as their 
 owners touched glasses with him, and the 
 eminent comedian from the corner said, 
 " Monty, ye deserve to be congratulated," in a 
 voice so natural and like his own that two men 
 from Magdalen were convulsed at his resemblance 
 to himself, and felt proud to stand within a yard 
 of so much greatness. All this kindness and 
 geniality on the part of Mr. Bassett's old 
 friends led naturally to more drinking, and 
 when at length, after a search of half-an-hour, 
 the messenger returned with a cab, the great 
 man was in a glow of mingled prosperity and 
 fatherly sentiment the like of which he had never 
 felt before. 
 
 The snow lay so thickly on the streets that the 
 cab bore him homewards in a curious, ghostly quiet. 
 
A MODEL PATIIER. 
 
 113 
 
 The flakes fell so close together that the driver 
 could scarcely see the way before him, and once 
 or twice missed his turning. But Mr. Bassett, 
 sitting snugly within the vehicle, was wrapped in 
 his own bright dreams, and was in a condition to 
 think the night Venetian. Arrived at his own 
 door he feed the cabman munificently, and 
 entered. He was so old a toper that even now 
 he gave but little sign of the evening's deep 
 drinking, and an unsuspicious eye might have 
 passed over that little easily. His daughter 
 awaiting him beside a cheerful fire in the sitting- 
 room, rose at his entrance, and kissed him with 
 something more than her usual tenderness, and 
 with no suspicion. She went to bed before his 
 arrival, or sat up to await him, as she chose, 
 and there was nothing remarkable in her being 
 there. 
 
 She, like himself, had been occupied with 
 thoughts of the afternoon's refusal. He had 
 always been a kind father, easy and indulgent, 
 and she was too ignorant and unworldly to guess 
 the importance he was likely to attach to young 
 Weatherley's proposal. He would be dis- 
 appointed. So much she knew. Yet she had 
 but to tell him how distasteful the thought of 
 marriage was, to have him on her side at once. 
 His beaming smile, and the joyous air with which 
 he clapped his hands and rubbed them at the 
 
114 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 fire, persuaded her that he knew nothing of the 
 day's proceedings. 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Bassett, speaking rather 
 thickly, " I am glad to find you out of bed, for 
 I have something of great importance to say to 
 you." 
 
 " Yes ? " she answered drawing an ottoman 
 near to his side and laying her cheek lightly 
 against his breast. She was young to have 
 found life so hard and love so false, but she had 
 her refuge there. Her cheek caressed him as it 
 lay above his heart. Her refuge there — her 
 refuge there. 
 
 " Some little gyurlish coyness, dear," he said, 
 caressing her soft hair, and speaking with a 
 foolish thickness in his voice, "persuaded you to 
 say 'No' to young Weatherley this afternoon. 
 You must say ' Yes,' my child. You must say 
 'Yes.'" 
 
 " No, no, papa," said the girl nestling a little 
 closer yet, and possessing herself of one of his 
 hands. " Let me be happy as I am." 
 
 " My child," he said, with a spirituous tear in 
 either eye, "you are not happy as you are." His 
 own sensibility naturally pleased him, and he 
 was satisfied to know how good a heart he had, 
 and how kind a father he had always been and 
 would be. "Confess it my darling. You are 
 not happy as you are." 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 115 
 
 " I am not very happy," she answered, " and 
 I do not think the world is a very happy place, 
 papa." She tried to say this lightly, as if there 
 were half a jest in it. " But I am nearer being 
 happy here than I can ever be anywhere else, and 
 you must let me stay with you." 
 
 " My darling," he responded, still stroking her 
 head as it nestled at his breast, "there is no 
 question of division between us. Young 
 Weatherley has most generously asked me to 
 share his home. Think, my dear. Is there 
 nothing admirable and generous in the heart 
 which offers an asylum for your father's age ?" 
 
 " I am sorry, dear," she answered, " I am very 
 sorry, dear, if you are disappointed." 
 
 His hand ceased to stroke her hair, and he 
 looked down at her in a momentary half-drunken 
 anger. But remembering even then that that 
 was scarcely the way to win her to his purposes, 
 he controlled himself, and sent his hand to its old 
 task again. 
 
 " You will not disappoint me, dear," he said. 
 " If I tell you once more how much I desire this 
 union, if I let you see clearly how much it means 
 to me, you will not disappoint me." 
 
 " I tried to think of it," she answered, " and 
 I found I could not. You must not be too 
 disappointed, for really I shall be happy, very, 
 very happy here with you." 
 
116 
 
 A MODEL PATHER. 
 
 They were at cross purposes without either 
 knowing it. She thought he pleaded for her 
 sake, and so did he. 
 
 ^'My darling," he said with affected solemnityj 
 " you must reconsider your determination." 
 
 " No, papa," she answered, " I am quite 
 content with you. I shall never marry." 
 
 His visions began to waver and crmnhle, and 
 he felt how intolerable it was that his own 
 daughter should destroy such splendid prospects 
 as lay before him. 
 
 " My — my dear," he said in a voice somewhat 
 raised, but not much, this peevish nonsense is 
 unworthy of my daughter." 
 
 The girl drew herself away and looked at him, 
 and saw for the first time that he had been 
 drinking. This discovery brought her no alarm and 
 no disgust, for custom blunts the finest senses, and 
 she had seen the signs before. As a rule, when 
 Montgomery Bassett had exceeded the reasonable, 
 he made for bed, and was not sullen, or humorous, 
 or affectionate, or maudlin, or quick in quarrel, 
 but simply and purely sleepy. 
 
 " I am tired, papa," said Mary, rising, " and 
 I must say good-night." 
 
 •^My child," her father answered, also rising, 
 "you must not say good-night until we have 
 settled this matter. I must have your promise." 
 His tone was not yet angry, but it expressed 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 117 
 
 more than tlie girl cared to answer to in such a 
 case. 
 
 " Papa," she responded quietly, " Mr. Weather- 
 ley has my answer." 
 
 " You are not refusing Mr. Weatherley now," 
 cried Mr. Bassett. ^'Your father pleads before 
 you for an asylum for his own grey hairs." 
 
 In vino Veritas. For the first time in her life 
 she began to understand him. But having loved 
 and honoured him her whole life long, she took 
 this revelation of himself as an aberration from 
 himself. Then (since it was unnatural in her to 
 think ill of any one, and doubly hard to think it 
 of her father) her ideas underwent a change. He 
 put it in that way to have weight with her, 
 believing that she might be happier if she 
 yielded. 
 
 We will speak of these things in the morning, 
 papa," she answered, if they must be spoken of. 
 Grood-night, dear." 
 
 As she advanced to kiss him, he laid a hand 
 upon each of her shoulders, and rocked her gently 
 to and fro. Her slight form answered to the 
 motion of his hands as a willow wand might have 
 done, and a sense of his own strength and of her 
 weakness gave him, not tenderness, but power, 
 and spurred the anger rising in his heart. It 
 was so safe to be courageous here. 
 
 " Mary." The magnificent bass voice throbbed 
 
118 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 a little in its sound, like notes of a viol, and lie 
 had ears for it. And, what with the thousand 
 and one suggestions of dramatic passion that lay- 
 in it for his own flayed nerves and whiskeyfied 
 fancy, it helped as much as anything to spur him 
 on. " I demand your answer now." 
 
 This was new in her experience, and it startled 
 her a little. 
 
 " Say good-night, dear," she asked, a shade too 
 cool and disdainful in her tone. 
 
 " I will not say good-night," he answered. "I 
 will have your answer now. The power and 
 corrigible authority of this lies in my will." 
 
 " Let me go," she said, almost scornful by this 
 time ; " you hurt my shoulders. Let me go." 
 
 "Stand still," he answered, with his hands 
 heavier upon her. "Listen to me. I have 
 besought you long enough." 
 
 Her disdain all melted into pity and distress. 
 
 "Pray — pray, papa, go to bed, and let us 
 speak of this in the morning. You are not like 
 yourself to-night. You are not quite — master 
 of yourself, dear." 
 
 " I demand your answer now," was all he said. 
 
 "You have my answer," she answered, in a 
 new disdain. 
 
 " I will not take it for an answer," he growled 
 back at her, in a suppressed tone of professional 
 tragedy. " I am desperate of my fortunes if 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 119 
 
 they check me here. I command you, revise 
 your answer," She began to think him danger- 
 ous, but her own anger rose. 
 
 *'Had I too much trust in the world already 
 that you need teach me such a lesson of yourself, 
 papa ? Let me go." 
 
 *^Tou will not accept young Weatherley?" he 
 asked, with his mobile eyebrows wandering fearfully 
 about his forehead. He controlled his own facial 
 expression with perfect consciousness, and yet it 
 egged him on. 
 
 " I will not, papa," she answered. 
 
 " You shall," he cried, letting the magnificent 
 voice free, for the first time. You shall ; or, 
 if that your jesses were my dear heartstrings, I'd 
 whistle you off, and let you down the wind, to 
 prey at fortune." 
 
 " Eeserve Othello's speeches for the stage, 
 dear," said his daughter. She had loved and 
 honoured him always until now, and the contempt 
 of her own words and her own voice broke her 
 down, so that she began to cry. Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett began to think this the way to take with 
 her. 
 
 " Give me your answer," 
 
 "You have my answer," she flashed back at 
 him, through her tears. "How dare you — oh, 
 papa, how dare you teach me to despise you so ?" 
 
 The crumbled hopes, now, beyond rebuild- 
 
120 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 ing, gone to pieces; the seductions of a 
 magnificent voice, the charm of unrehearsed 
 tragedy, the glow of whiskey, and that stale, 
 flogged demon of the boards, were all at work at 
 once within him. And he had so rarely had the 
 chance to be courageous, with any degree of 
 safety, off the stage, that even that element was 
 worth counting here. 
 
 " To despise me ! " cried the great tragedian. 
 "'Twas this flesh begot this pelican daughter. 
 Hysterica passio — down, thou climbing sorrow! 
 Thy element's below." He was away now, and 
 had flogged himself beyond his own control. " Obey 
 me, or leave the house." 
 
 He had released her, in order to be free 
 to gesticulate, but he turned upon her now 
 so wildly that the girl cowered for a moment 
 under his flaming eyes, and threatening hands, 
 and terrible, stormy voice. Her fear was that 
 he was mad. And his hope in the midst of 
 his self-galled madness was, that she might 
 yield, and save him from a violence from 
 which he could only retreat to look ridiculous. 
 For a man who thought as well of himself as 
 Montgomery Bassett did, it was impossible to 
 look ridiculous, voluntarily. 
 
 " Obey me, or leave the house," he thun- 
 dered, standing over her. 
 
 "Papa," she cried, imploring him, "speak of 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 121 
 
 these things to-morrow. You are not yourself 
 to-night. No, no, no, no, dear, no. Papa, 
 papa ! " 
 
 She was yielding now, thought Montgomery 
 Bassett. 
 
 ''Your answer. Your answer. For the last 
 time, your answer." 
 
 ''Let us speak of it to-morrow," she besought 
 him, "when you are master of yourself again." 
 
 " Yes or no ? " roared the leonine voice. Mr, 
 Bassett found this unrestricted play of emotion 
 curiously enjoyable. The girl would yield, and 
 he would have justified authority. He saw 
 signs of yielding in her, and Hope's swift 
 hands built up a new palace from the dust 
 and rubbish of the old. "Yes or no?" 
 
 " No," cried the girl, facing him with a 
 passion more genuine than his own. Hope's 
 new built palace fell to dust again. 
 
 " Ingrate ! " cried Mr. Bassett wrathfuUy. 
 
 It was easy enough to cry " Ingrate,'^ with- 
 out attaching any particular meaning to the 
 word, and easy enough to go striding up and 
 down the room with dramatic gesture : but it 
 was hard to carry out the alternative to which 
 he had pledged himself. Perhaps Mary had 
 relied on that, he thought, and had no belief 
 in the earnestness of his threat. He knew that 
 he had never meant to carry it into execution, 
 
 I 
 
122 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 and had never meant tliat it should become 
 necessary. And if he threatened it a little further 
 she might believe in it, and yield. 
 
 " Leave the house," he said, pale and gasping. 
 He had not invoked the tide for nothing, and it 
 swept him away. He had been a scoundrel 
 without profiting by it, and had broken her 
 heart for nought. He would have his way and 
 justify his crime. "Promise, or leave the 
 house." 
 
 " Leave the house ? " she repeated, in white- 
 hot scorn by this time. "I will not leave the 
 house. How dare you speak of such a thing to 
 me?" 
 
 Anything was fit to be a justification for his 
 passion now. He flung the door open and 
 thimdered to her — 
 
 " Leave the house ! " 
 
 She stood erect, with pale face and heaving 
 bosom, and he seized her by the arm, and haled 
 her towards the door. Even then a word might 
 save him, but she looked at him like a defiant 
 queen, and her words had no submission. 
 
 "I will save you that," she said, and he 
 releasing her, she walked, with a false composure, 
 down the stairs. Even yet, if he played out his 
 part, it might save them both ; and, passing her, 
 he laid a hand upon the door. 
 
 " Promise," he gasped, or leave the house I 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 123 
 
 She waved him on one side, and he threw the 
 door open. The drifting snow flutttered half-way 
 up the hall, and the street was white, but no 
 whiter than his face or hers. 
 
 " Is this a chamber for yoiir only child ? " she 
 asked him, stretching out her hand towards the 
 gusty street, and the black waste of the open 
 square. 
 
 "Was she yielding, Mr. Montgomery Bassett 
 asked himself. He could not yield. He could 
 only gasp at her once more, for all the terror 
 of his own wickedness — 
 
 " Promise, or leave the house ! " 
 
 She walked straight into the blinding snow 
 without a look or a word. He whispered 
 " Come back," but only whispered it ; and when 
 he turned distractedly, he faced the man and 
 woman of the house, who looked on, white 
 with wonder and dismay. 
 
 " "What have you done ? " cried the woman. 
 "Mr. Bassett, for the love of Grod, what have 
 you?" 
 
 " Done ! " he cried, his face working horribly. 
 " Done ! an awful duty ! I have cleared my 
 house of shame ! " 
 
 " Eun," cried the woman to her husband, 
 and the man shuffled past the tragedian into 
 the street. " I wouldn't have served a dog 
 like that on such a night," cried the landlady* 
 
 I 2 
 
124 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "If she's done wrong, and I wont believe it of 
 her, it makes no difference to your villainy." 
 
 All the miserable emotion on which he had 
 relied failed him now that his tragic farce had 
 reached to the last act. 
 
 "I have gone too far," he said, with a pro- 
 fessional tragedy sob or two ; for he was acting 
 still, and conld not help it. "I meant the 
 warning for her good, but I have gone too 
 far. Bring her in again: but let me see her 
 no more to-night." 
 
 Perturbed as he was, he went upstairs with 
 the professional tragedy stagger of the father 
 whose heart is pierced by a daughter's shame 
 and folly; and even when he was alone he 
 lashed his remorse as he had lashed his anger. 
 It was half-an-hour later when the landlord re- 
 turned, with the snow thick upon his garments. 
 
 "I haven't seen a sign of her, Mr. Bassett,*' 
 he said, standing at the tragedian's doorway. 
 "I've warned the police to look out for her 
 and take care of her, but if she makes a hole in 
 the water you've got yourself to blame this 
 night." 
 
 " Man," cried Mr. Bassett, staggering at 
 him, " leave me to my misery ! " 
 
 The landlord had admired his tenant's Othello 
 on the stage, but to have Othello in the house, 
 with that throbbing organ voice and those wild 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 125 
 
 eyes, was too much for him, and he fled. He 
 and his wife sat the night out by the kitchen fire, 
 but the police brought no news, and the 
 tragedian's heavy tread paced about the house, 
 now upstairs and now downstairs, until the 
 morning dawned. 
 
126 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 The date on whicli Mr. William Cassidy liad 
 fixed for the termination of his bachelor life had 
 arrived and gone by, and he was still a bachelor. 
 It was not that the course of true love ran any- 
 thing but smooth with him, for Miss Leverett, to 
 whom he was affianced, was like Poor Tom 
 Bowling's sweetheart, " kind and fair." It was 
 not that William's fancy ranged as it had been 
 wont to do. For a wonder, William having won 
 the prize seemed content to wear it, and he dined 
 at Maida Vale on Sundays with an unbroken 
 regularity. The fact was, that when everything 
 was ready, the intended bridegroom was compelled 
 to confess his poverty, and the match was 
 postponed. The revelation came about rather 
 quaintly. William, with full intent to confess 
 his financial position, had taken a cab from the 
 Cannibals to Maida Vale, and at the moment of 
 starting was in possession of the sum of five 
 snillings and no more. As he tendered one half- 
 crown to the cabman he dropped the other. The 
 night was rainy, the street was dark, and search 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 127 
 
 was hopeless. He stood at the door of his 
 sweetheart's house a penniless man. 
 
 The cabman drove off, and Mr. Cassidy, having 
 ineffectually searched a square yard of mud with 
 the point of his cane, gave it up. Suddenly he 
 became conscious of an inspiration. 
 
 " 'Twas a godsend to lose it," he cried joyously, 
 and advancing to the house he rang the bell and 
 was admitted. " Mary, me darlinV' he said to 
 the maid who opened the door, " I want to see 
 Mr. Leverett alone. If he's in, tell him a 
 gentleman wants to see him on urgent private 
 business." 
 
 " Do ha' done, Mr. Cassidy," said Mary, " or 
 else I'll tell Miss Matilda." 
 
 " It's not in your charmin' heart to be so erool," 
 said William, " and I know it. Now that's the 
 last of 'em, and you can go." 
 
 The maid departed, adjusting her cap as she 
 went, and the visitor waited in the hall. By-and- 
 bye the master of the house came downstairs, a 
 hearty man of five-and-forty. 
 
 "HiUo!" he cried. "This you. Bill? The 
 girl said a gentleman wanted to see me." 
 
 " Thank you," said the visitor drily. 
 
 " Not at all," cried the host. " Come in here." 
 Cassidy followed him into a side room, and closed 
 the door stealthily. 
 
 " Horace, my boy," said he, looking confused 
 
128 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 and flurried, "I'm here on a most impleasant 
 errand. I've bad news for you." 
 
 " Out with it," said Mr. Leverett, squaring his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " There's heen a fall in silver," said William, 
 " and I've lost the last halfpenny I had in the 
 world." 
 
 "Now look here. Bill Cassidy," said Miss 
 Leverett's father, " I know you of old, and I'm 
 going to deal plainly with you. I told you long 
 ago. Bill, in a perfectly friendly spirit, that if you 
 wanted to play the fool with a young woman you 
 mustn't do it with my daughter. I wont have 
 it. Now, what do you want ? " 
 
 " I want to stay execution — if that's the legal 
 term," said William. " It's a solemn truth, upon 
 my word of honour, that I told you just now. 
 There's heen a fall in silver. It's no trope, 
 Horace, it's no flight o' fancy. It's a fact, a 
 literal fact ; and I have not one penny piece in 
 the world." 
 
 " Bill," said Mr. Leverett, solemnly, " I wont 
 stand it. I told you at the beginning, 'Don't 
 start this unless you mean to go through with it, 
 because I wont have the little girl's feelings 
 tampered with.' Now, didn't I ? " 
 
 " Ye did," said William, mournfully assenting. 
 
 " Well, I'm going to keep you to it." 
 
 " Horace," said William, who was much moved 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 129 
 
 by tMs statement, " ye're a true friend. If all 
 their fathers had have behaved like this I'd have 
 been a polyglot long ago. But you don't want 
 us to spend the wedding night in a casual 
 ward. I'll tell ye now. 'Twas me own foolish 
 hurry that did it. I might have known I 
 wouldn't be ready in time." 
 
 "And have prophesied the fall in silver?" 
 asked Mr. Leverett. 
 
 William grinned mournfully. 
 
 "Horace," he said, " with a resolute father like 
 yourself to back me, I'm as true as the needle to 
 the pole. I am really in earnest. I am sincerely 
 and devotedly attached to the little girl. I mean 
 business. I wouldn't leave her to marry a 
 duchess. But I've been unlucky, and all me 
 pictures are hangin' about in the shops, and none 
 of them sellin'. There's no taste for art now- 
 a-days." 
 
 " Well, what delay do you want ? I'm not 
 going to agree to a postponement ^ine die. A 
 month?" 
 
 " I can't be ready in that time," answered 
 William. 
 
 " Two months?" 
 
 " Nor in that either. I'm afraid I'll want six 
 at least." 
 
 " Split the difference and make it four," said 
 Mr. Leverett. 
 
130 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Done," returned William, with subdued 
 exultation. 
 
 " Wait a bit," said Miss Leverett's father, with 
 a calculating air. " What does it cost you per 
 week to live ? " 
 
 " I don't know, upon^me word." 
 
 " Can you get along on three pounds a week?" 
 
 " Can I ? " demanded Mr. Cassidy. " Like a 
 flea with a fat baby for a freehold." 
 
 "What did you get for the girls and the 
 poodle?" 
 
 William caught something of his future father- 
 in-law's business aspect. 
 
 " Five-and-twenty pounds. But the frame cost 
 five-and-thirty shillings." 
 
 " And how long did it take you ? " 
 
 "About ten days, off and on," answered 
 William. 
 
 "More off than on, I expect," said Mr. 
 Leverett, severely. " Now I have a proposal to 
 make to you. I shall become your banker." 
 Mr. Cassidy made an instant movement to shake 
 hands, but the stern parent repelled him. "I 
 shall allow you three pounds a week, and pay it 
 to you every Saturday. In return you will 
 make over to me every picture you have now in 
 your possession and all you may paint in future 
 so long as this arrangement remains in force. I 
 shall hold the said pictures in trust for you, and 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 131 
 
 shall sell them to the best advantage. Then I 
 shall bank the money in Matilda's name, and 
 when you have two hundred pounds in hand 
 you'll have to get married ; because I'm 
 not going to have the little girl trifled with. 
 Now then, Bill, what do you say ? Yes or 
 No?'^ 
 
 "Bedad, then," said Mr. Cassidy, "I'll say 
 'yes, and thank ye kindly.' It'll be the first 
 chance I ever had of seeing a regular income, 
 and be Moses, Horace, ye'U make a man of me, 
 after all. But make it two pounds in place of 
 three. They say if you give the horses in Asia 
 Minor corn it kills them, and I'm a bit like 
 that meself." 
 
 " The principle is the main thing," said Mr. 
 Leverett, "and that seems to be agreed upon. 
 We can discuss the details of the measure later 
 on. I'll call on you to-morrow, and in the mean- 
 time we'll go upstairs and see Mrs. Leverett and 
 Matilda." 
 
 Miss Leverett was a pretty young woman of 
 about twenty, and Mrs. Leverett, who ought 
 perhaps to have been mentioned first, a pretty, 
 middle-aged woman of about forty. 
 
 " Upon me word, Mrs. Leverett," said the new- 
 comer with his charming Irish impudence, "you 
 have no right to be looking like that. If it 
 weren't for Horace and Matilda, and maybe an 
 
132 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 objection on your own part, I'd run away with 
 
 you." 
 
 " For shiame, William,'* said Matilda. Mrs. 
 Leverett laughed at liim, but the master of the 
 house, squaring his shoulders against the mantel- 
 piece, opened his lips in rebuke. 
 
 " No levity to-night, Bill. This is a serious 
 occasion. My dears, I have something to say to 
 you. You, Mrs. Leverett, admitted this serpent," 
 indicating William, to our paradise. You, Miss 
 Leverett, fell a ready prey to his wiles and blan- 
 dishments. You were both fully acquainted 
 with his character and antecedents, and you acted 
 with your eyes open. Now, Bill, explain your- 
 self." 
 
 Mr. Cassidy, thus unexpectedly brought to 
 book, assumed an aspect of dejected humble- 
 ness. 
 
 "Mrs. Leverett," he began, "you have a heart 
 that can feel for the unfortunate. Matilda, you 
 Lave inherited your mother's virtues, and I can 
 cast meself at your feet without a fear. I am, as 
 you know, an exile and an orphan." 
 
 "No levity, Bill," said the master of the 
 house. 
 
 " Levity ? " answ^ed William, with a voice of 
 appeal. " In brief, Mrs. Leverett — in one word, 
 Matilda — I am poor. The home I had hoped to 
 rear for your daughter, madam, has crumbled 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 133 
 
 into ashes ; and I am here to ask you to grant me 
 a little time to build it up again." Miss Leverett, 
 with a scared face, moved nearer to William, who 
 directed one appealing glance at her. 
 
 " If you are poor, William," said Miss Leverett, 
 *'it will make no change in me." 
 
 " Nor in anybody else," said the master of the 
 house, " for the very simple reason that it makes 
 no change in him. He always was poor and he 
 always will be ; not because he has not consider- 
 able talent, not because he wants industry of a 
 fitful and casual sort, not because he is vicious or 
 addicted to expensive habits, but because he is 
 Bill Cassidy. But I have taken him in hand." 
 He began to explain his scheme, and his daughter 
 kissed him for it. That kiss marked Mr. Cassidy 's 
 position in the household. It was plain that he 
 was something to be looked after, and that he 
 was not supposed to be altogether a responsible 
 agent. He himself began to regard the future 
 with complacency, and that careless, roving Irish 
 eye saw the gleam of gold. William had no 
 rooted dislike to work, and he had no vices. Now 
 that somebody had undertaken to manage him he 
 felt safe to get along. 
 
 " There'll be no cares on me mind," he said ; 
 
 nothing to interrupt the floight of imagination. 
 What is art without oydayas ? and what man has 
 oydayas when there's a process-server from the 
 
134 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 tailor in ttie hall, and the landlord's threatening 
 eviction in the studio ? " 
 
 This was a fancy picture, for Jack Cameron 
 had always taken good care of the landlord, but 
 the terrors of the situation made a lively impres- 
 sion upon the ladies* 
 
 " But now," pursued Mr. Cassidy, " I've 
 notions already. What d'ye think of an alle- 
 gorical canvas, Horace, me boy ? ' Grenius 
 delivered from Cupidity by Benevolence.' Meself 
 for Grenius, in a blue mantle, with me hair a bit 
 woild an' me legs bare. Ould Isaacs for Cupidity, 
 with a knoife in one hand and a pair o' skeels in 
 the other — a reminiscence o' Shakespeare, ye 
 observe — and yourself between us with a full- 
 blown halo on ! ' ' 
 
 " Pretty little girl and poodle,** said Mr. 
 Leverett. That's your form. But now, Bill 
 Cassidy, we have your faithful promise that you 
 will work and be a good lad, and will do your 
 best to justify our faith and our forgiveness." 
 Mr. Leverett took the sting out of this by an 
 assumption of the melodramatic manner, but 
 William accepted it seriously. 
 
 " I would be a hound if I didn't. I'll never 
 forget your kindness, Horace, or forgive meself if 
 I prove unworthy of ut;" 
 
 Mrs. Leverett and her daughter each wiped 
 away a furtive tear, and the father and the lovei 
 
A MODEL FA THE 7^. 
 
 135 
 
 shook hands pathetically. When the lover went 
 away, the scene at the hall-door between Miss 
 Matilda and himself might have melted the most 
 obdurate heart. 
 
 Next day Mr. Leverett appeared in the How- 
 land Street studio, where he found the chums at 
 work. He clapped Cameron on the shoulder. 
 
 " What have you been doing all this time. 
 Jack ? We never see you now. You've taken 
 your name off at the Cannibals. What's the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Jack quietly. " There are 
 one or two people at the Cannibals whom I can't 
 meet, that's all." 
 
 Cassidy shook his head at the guest as Jack 
 turned round once more to his easel, and Leverett 
 raised his eyebrows inquiringly. 
 
 " Come upstairs," said William, " and we can 
 talk things over." Leverett, with a farewell 
 word to Cameron, left the studio in William's rear 
 and mounted to the sitting-room. 
 
 " I am athirst," he said. " Give the wanderer 
 to drink." 
 
 " I will," said Cassidy. He rang the bell, and 
 then threw open a locker in which some six or 
 eight dozen soda-water bottles were arranged in 
 order. Pour of these he withdrew from the 
 locker and laid upon the table. When the maid 
 appeared, he waved his hand towards the table 
 
136 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 with the single word Bitter." The girl took up 
 the bottles and disappeared, and the visitor looking 
 at William, saw that he smiled with a singular 
 look of self-gratification. 
 
 "What's the move?" inquired Leverett. Mr. 
 Cassidy replied with an alacrity which made it 
 evident he waited and expected to be asked. 
 
 " This," he replied re-opening the locker, " is — 
 The Bank. I am — though ye mayn't think it — 
 of a philosophical turn of mind, and sometimes I 
 put two an' two together. Sometimes I am flush 
 o' money for a day or so, and the question 
 naturally arises — What's to be done with it? 
 Now, nobody believes it of me, but I am really of 
 a forecasting, provident nature. And my plan is 
 to lay in something that'll be productive in a 
 time of need. So, when I've a cheque for a 
 picture, I lay in a gross of soda-water from me 
 friend at the Lion, round the corner. On 
 each bottle when returned I receive the sum of 
 twopence. I've had to drink a dozen in the 
 course of a winter's day at times (when J ack's 
 been out of town and the exchequer's run dhry) 
 to raise enough for dinner. That's a bit of a 
 drawback, but on the whole the Bank works 
 chormanly, an' I'm proud of the invention." 
 
 Mr. Leverett took the invention so to heart 
 that he was speechless until the arrival of the 
 beer, when, having refreshed himself, he 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 137 
 
 endeavoured to demonstrate, with the aid of 
 pencil and paper, the fatal economic tendencies of 
 the Bank. William listened respectfully, but 
 remained unshaken. 
 
 " You've a good head for figures, Horace,'' 
 he said, surveying the pencilled rows admiringly, 
 " and the Lord knows, ye may be right after all, 
 but the invention's been a true friend to me this 
 many's the day, and I find it act very nicely, 
 and, if ye don't mind, I'll hould on to it." 
 
 Mr. Leverett thereupon put his foot down, 
 
 "Now are you, or are you not, a hopeless 
 bankrupt." 
 
 " Bedad, I am,'' replied Cassidy. 
 
 "And am I, or are you, master of the 
 present situation ? " 
 
 "It's not me, any way," said the hopeless 
 bankrupt. 
 
 "Then, Billy Cassidy," said Mr. Leverett 
 sternly, " the Bank is doomed." 
 
 "I'm sorry for it," returned William mourn- 
 fully. " It's like cuttin' the ground from undher 
 a child that's learnin to walk." 
 
 "I will not debase myself by further argu- 
 ment," said Leverett. "The Bank is doomed." 
 William, after a lingering look at the stacked 
 bottles, closed the door of the locker with a sigh. 
 
 " Nobody ever had a good word for it, except 
 meself," he said sadly. " Jack always laughed at 
 
133 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 it, but he's a Scotcliman by descint, and a Scotch 
 head was always impervious to an oydaya. 'Twas 
 the only way of saving money I'll ever hit upon.'^ 
 
 "When you are married," said Mr. Leverett, 
 "you will be a good husband. You are just 
 the man to be very fond of your wife, and to 
 allow her to rule you so long as she does it 
 gently. Matilda is a woman of business, and I 
 can trust her to keep you straight. But finance 
 is not your strong point, and you must have a 
 controller. Now, are you in debt ?" 
 
 " I believe I'm owing a trifle here an' there." 
 
 " Have you got the bills ? You haven't ? Do 
 you know what you owe? You don't? Does 
 anybody owe you money? How much? You 
 don't know that either ? " 
 
 It became abimdantly evident that William 
 knew nothing of his own affairs, and his future 
 father-in-law was reduced to desperation when it 
 came out that he was even ignorant of the 
 number and the subjects of the pictures which 
 lay in the hands of " Ould Isaacs.'* The position 
 made a journey to old Isaacs necessary, and Mr. 
 Leverett was maddened to discover that a sum of 
 at least fifty pounds was due from the dealer to 
 the artist. 
 
 "Why, isn't it better than knowing it?" 
 asked Cassidy in genuine wonder at the other's 
 wrath, " It's like picking it up in the street. If 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 139 
 
 I'd have known of it I'd have spent it, or paid it 
 away, or lent it, and now I've got it, and still ye 
 are riled. And ye call yourself a financier ! " 
 
 " Well,'' said Leverett, *^ you wont spend it or 
 lend it now, for I'll take care of it." William's 
 countenance fell a little. " I've got you in handj 
 my lad, and I'll go through with you. When we 
 get to your rooms again I'll give you a receipt 
 for it, and I shall expect you to take care of 
 all my receipts as I shall take care of yours." 
 
 " What's the need of receipts between you 
 and me ? " asked William. 
 
 "Business is business," said Mr. Leverett 
 severely. "In a matter of business I would 
 compel my own brother to give me black 
 and white for everything." 
 
 "Ye re as bad as poor Jack Cameron," 
 said Cassidy. " He hasn't a word o' trust for 
 anybody, nowadays." 
 
 " What's the matter with Cameron ? " asked 
 Leverett. "He's a changed man altogether. 
 What is it?" 
 
 "Bassett's girl threw him over to marry 
 that young popinjay ye see at the Cannibals 
 — young Weatherley. It seems she accepted 
 Jack on a Sunday night, and it was to be 
 quite a love match, for they'd neither of 
 them a ten pound note in the world. But 
 then, the same night, young Weatherley pro- 
 
 K 2 
 
140 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 poses, and he's worth I don't know how 
 much a year. So she throws Jack over and 
 takes the money. 'Tis the wee with 'em at 
 toimes, as ye know, Horace. " 
 
 " I shouldn't have thought it of Bassett s girl," 
 said Leverett. "And the poor lad's soured 
 no doubt. Ah, well, it'll wear away." 
 
 "That's what I'm afraid it wont do," said 
 Cassidy miserably. He was feather-headed 
 enough, but he was faithful in friendship, and 
 had a good heart when you got at it. " I never 
 spoke a word to a soul about poor J ack, and I 
 wouldn't now, only I know ye re as close as wax, 
 and can be trusted. But she took his ring on 
 Sunday night, and sent it back on Tuesday 
 morning; and 'twas only Saturday last I was 
 talkin' to him, an' tellin' him he was gettin' too 
 hard an' worldly, and he takes out the ring from 
 his waistcoat pocket with a laugh, and says he, 
 ^There's my talisman. Bill. If ever I feel 
 tempted to be such a fool as to trust a man or a 
 woman again, I've only to look at that, and it'll 
 cure me.' And there used not to be a sweeter- 
 hearted lad in London, Horace. Its a trans- 
 formation loike one o' Circe's. The lad's clean 
 spoiled, and I am the only man in the world that 
 he doesn't take for a scoundrel, and maybe that's 
 only because he's known me long enough to foind 
 out what a fool I am ! " 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 Mr. Cassidy's affairs being placed in tlie 
 hands of Ms future father-in-law, and the 
 pressure of immediate pecuniary liability being 
 thus removed from his shoulders, he resumed 
 something like his ancient gaiety of spirit. 
 But his friend's ill-fortune in love still weigh- 
 ed upon him, and at times chilled, if it 
 could not altogether freeze the genial current 
 of his soul. If Jack Cameron had been con- 
 tented to forget, and to act as if nothing had 
 happened, Mr. Cassidy would have been con- 
 tented also ; but Jack was changed, and nothing 
 of the genial lad of old days was left in him. 
 He worked much harder and more successfully 
 than ever, and people of note began to call 
 upon him at odd times, and to take an interest 
 in his doings. Whenever this gave him a 
 chance to put in a good word for Cassidy he 
 did it, but otherwise he seemed to care nothing 
 for his own prosperity. Work was his only 
 relaxation, and he took it in excess. 
 
 There came, amongst other visitors to the 
 
142 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Howland Street studio at this time, an American 
 journalist, who was also a Colonel, as a good 
 many American journalists are nowadays. 
 Colonel Savage D. Sprague did not seem to have 
 any particular business in the studio, and was 
 so sad a man as to make it seem unlikely that 
 he found pleasure there or elsewhere. For a 
 hero — and he was a hero — he was wondrous 
 mild, and for a man who ^^had travelled almost 
 everyivhere — as he had — he was curiously quiet 
 and reticent. When speech was unavoidable he 
 spoke, but otherwise he held his tongue. He 
 was so silent as a rule that Cassidy having 
 extracted a "yes, sir," and a "no, sir," from 
 him in an hour, spoke of him as having been 
 loquacious that afternoon, and professed to look 
 back on it as the Colonel's champion conversa- 
 tional effort. 
 
 It came out in the course of time that Colonel 
 Sprague could speak, and to the purpose. He 
 called in at the studio one afternoon, and having 
 shaken hands in mournful silence, took a seat, 
 and chewed slowly at the end of an imlighted 
 cigar for the space of an hour. The day was 
 dull, and it looked as if snow were in the air. 
 Jack wheeled his easel to the wall, lit his lamp, 
 and sat down to an etching. Cassidy smoked, 
 and lounged, and chattered, and the grave 
 Colonel sat impassive. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 143 
 
 " Mr. Cameron," he said at last, and the two 
 artists turned to look at him. One of the 
 merits of his ordinary silence was that when he 
 did speak people listened to him. I should like 
 a word with you." The Colonel had a lingering 
 accent, to which phonetics can do no justice. His 
 voice was mild and a little higher-pitched than 
 men's voices commonly are, and he spoke with 
 the air of one who is deadly tired. 
 
 If it's a private word — " said Cassidy. The 
 Colonel, sitting in the shadow outside the little 
 circle of keen light thrown by the shaded lamp, 
 was dimly seen to nod. "I'll get,'' said Wil- 
 liam. The Colonel nodded again, and Cassidy 
 disappeared. 
 
 "Mr. Cameron," said the Colonel in his own 
 mild, sad manner, when they were alone, " you 
 are in want of stirring up, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Jack, with a half-laugh. 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned the Colonel. " I should 
 like to see you stirred, and I propose to do it." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Jack. " And how ? " 
 
 " Your friend, Mr. Cassidy, sir," said the 
 Colonel with slow deliberation, " has been show- 
 ing me some of your literary work. I like the 
 style. Of the poetry I am no judge, but the 
 prose is straight and to the point, and from the 
 shoulder. I am no great judge of art, but when 
 a man can draw the human and the equine 
 
144 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 figger, and does it — I can tell. You are the man 
 I want, and now is the time I want you." 
 
 "May I ask why?" asked Jack, pushing his 
 tools aside. 
 
 "You may," returned the Colonel gravely. 
 " There is going to be a rumpus in the East, and 
 I want a first-rate man who can write and sketch, 
 and I want him upon the spot before the out- 
 break of hostilities. I do not want a reckless 
 man, but I do want a live man who is not too 
 conservative of his skin, and if I am not mistaken, 
 I have found him. The highest terms I am autho- 
 rised to offer are one hundred and twenty sterling 
 pounds per month. Added to that his outfit and 
 his travelling expenses, liberallj' calculated, out 
 and home." 
 
 " When do you want me to start ? " asked 
 Jack. He spoke quietly, but his blood was alive 
 again for the first time for many a day. 
 
 " I know you speak German," said the Colonel, 
 " because I have heard you. You can buy what 
 you want in Vienna. The Danube isn't closed 
 yet, Mr. Cameron, but it will be shortly, and 
 you had best go that way to Nicopolis. If it 
 will suit you to start to-morrow morning by the 
 tidal train at seven, I shall be happy." 
 
 " I shall want money," said the painter. 
 
 "You shall have it," returned the Colonel. 
 "If you will come with me to the Viaduct 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 145 
 
 Hotel, we can sign, seal, and deliver straight- 
 way." 
 
 " I may tell Cassidy ? " asked J ack. 
 
 "It's no secret, Mr. Cameron," returned the 
 Colonel. "The Telville Daily Graphic is an 
 advertising concern, and likes its business known." 
 
 The young artist rushed upstairs three steps 
 at a time, and charged into the sitting-room 
 with a flushed face and eyes alight. Cassidy 
 had drawn down the blinds against the dismal 
 day and had lit the gas. He stared up from 
 his book at Jack's sparkling face, and pitching 
 the volume to one end of the room, grasped his 
 chum's hand. 
 
 " Jack, me boy," he cried, shaking the hand 
 vigorously, "how are ye? I haven't seen ye 
 for half-a-year. There's been a dull villain 
 masquerading in your place since then, and I'm 
 glad to see the real fellow back again." 
 
 " The real fellow's off again at once," said 
 Cameron. He told his story, and hurried on his 
 overcoat and gloves as he spoke. Cassidy ran 
 downstairs with him. 
 
 " You'll be back to dinner, Jack," he said, as 
 they entered the studio together. "We must 
 have doch and dhorras before ye go, companion 
 of me infancy." 
 
 " Our business, sir," said the Colonel, " will be 
 over in an hour. If you will oblige me with your 
 
146 
 
 A MODEL FA THER. 
 
 society we will all dine together. Viaduct Hotel, 
 six sharp." 
 
 That was arranged on the instant, and in 
 another minute Cassidy was alone, saving time 
 for Cameron by collecting and packing pencils, 
 sketch-books, blocks, water-colours, and what 
 not. 
 
 Why wasn't it me that had the luck ? " asked 
 William sorrowfully, but he brightened again at 
 the thought of the new brightness in the face of 
 his friend. 
 
 " Grot a passport ? " inquired the Colonel, as 
 he and Cameron emerged on the street together. 
 
 "No," said Jack pausing. 
 
 "Come along," said the Colonel. "British 
 Consulate, Vienna. Day after to-morrow. Boat 
 belonging to Donau Dampschipf Company sails 
 next day. Day-and-a-half in Vienna, clear. 
 Time enough for anything. 
 
 The Colonel moved languidly and spoke 
 languidly. His deliberation tantalised the 
 artist, and the warrior- journalist noted this. 
 
 "It's a valuable thing, Mr. Cameron," he 
 said, " always to be in time and never to be in 
 a hurry. Conserves the vital tissues. I never 
 missed an engagement in my life, sir,- and I 
 never hurried. Except once," he added, half-a- 
 minute later. 
 
 " And why then ? " asked Cameron. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 147 
 
 "Polar bear," replied the Colonel. "Best 
 excuse for being in a hurry, Mr. Cameron, that 
 I've encountered yet.'' 
 
 " Colonel Sprague," said the artist, suddenly. 
 
 " Adsum,'' responded the Colonel. 
 
 "I hope to do justice to your judgment 
 of me, but I may fail in spite of the best 
 intentions." 
 
 " Why, certainly," said the Colonel, " but I'm 
 no prophet if you do. But now, Mr. Cameron, 
 I like you, and I'll tell you something. You are 
 engaged by the Telville Daily Graphic, and 
 you go out to the seat of probable war at the 
 expense of that journal. While out there you 
 belong to that journal. You will no more ex- 
 pose yourself to unnecessary danger — being a 
 man of honour — than you would expose any other 
 property of your employers." 
 
 " Why do you think it worth while to say this 
 to me ? " asked the artist. 
 
 " Never you mind why, Mr. Cameron," replied 
 the Colonel. "Perhaps I have noted you for a 
 year past, and have observed a change in you. 
 Perhaps I have so good a reason for being a 
 single man at five-and-forty that I can make a 
 guess at a young man's complaint — at times, 
 when the symptoms coincide with mine. I wont 
 ask you to forgive me, Mr. Cameron, for saying 
 this, and I will tell you why, sir. The real and 
 
148 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 honest sympatliy of a man for a man is not a 
 thing to apologize for." 
 
 " It's intrusion may be," said Jack, who had 
 paused a half-minute earlier in the street, and 
 now faced the Colonel with a look which boded 
 ill for the conclusion of their common bargain. 
 
 "At a time like this — no, sir," returned the 
 Colonel, with long-drawn gravity. "You may 
 have observed, Mr. Cameron, that I am not a 
 talkative man. I have observed that men who 
 only speak upon necessity are very seldom liars. 
 I ask you to believe me, sir, therefore, when I 
 say that I have not alluded to my own case for 
 twenty years, and that I could only have alluded 
 to it now in the hearing of a man for whom I 
 have learned to entertain a regard." 
 
 The middle-aged man of the world, whose sores 
 were old, might say as much as this with no 
 great difficulty, but the ardent youngster, whose 
 wounds were not yet cicatrised, found it hard to 
 listen. 
 
 " I am much obliged for your regard. Colonel 
 Sprague," said the painter, "but I don't care 
 to continue this conversation." 
 
 " You are right, Mr. Cameron," said the 
 Colonel, with a solemnity which was unusual even 
 for him. " We will turn our minds to business. 
 I am an old campaigner, and I can give you a 
 tip or two, sir." 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 149 
 
 He was full of sound advice drawn from ex- 
 perience, and his newly-engaged subordinate 
 began to take an interest in him. The Colonel's 
 notion of business was simplicity itself, and in 
 less than the hour he had specified he and 
 Cameron were ready for Cassidy. His notions of 
 a dinner were elaborate, and admirably removed 
 from his ideas of business. 
 
 At the appointed hour Cassidy joined them, 
 and found Jack in wonderful spirits. The 
 reticent Colonel blossomed into a table historian, 
 and told yarns of the great war, and it was ten 
 o'clock when Cameron arose and withdrew, on 
 the plea of letters to write. Cassidy and the 
 Colonel stayed awhile over the last bottle. 
 
 " What a night ! " said the Irishman, straying 
 to the window and drawing aside the blind. 
 "It's snowing heavens hard. I thought of 
 following Cameron at once, but I think I'll make 
 myself snug at the fireside a little longer." 
 
 The Colonel was like many other habitually 
 silent men, and having taken out his conversa- 
 tional stopper, was tolerably free to fiow for the 
 rest of the evening. So the two sat and smoked 
 and talked, and in effect it was after one o'clock 
 when Cassidy buttoned himself up, lit his com- 
 panionable old briar-root pipe, and prepared to 
 face the storm. 
 
 The snow was blown twenty ways at once, and 
 
150 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 fell with almost bKnding thickness. Cassidy 
 rammed his ungloved hands deep into the pockets 
 of his seedy ulster, and with his pipe making a 
 comfortable little halo in the darkness and the 
 snow-flakes in front of him, tramped along warm 
 and contented. The storm had cleared the streets 
 alike of the dangerous, the poor, and the miserable, 
 and London was as silent as a desert. When the 
 snow had made a wreath three inches deep about 
 Cassidy's hat-brim, and had laid a thick white 
 epaulette on each shoulder, it ceased, and the 
 homeward-bound artist, glad of the change, paused 
 for a stamp on a wind-cleared bit of pavement, 
 and shook the gathered weight from his hat and 
 overcoat. The railings of the British Museum 
 courtyard stood against the dark in crooked and 
 broken lines of white, and the massive building 
 gloomed beyond, as Cassidy, after that momentary 
 pause, started at an ambling trot along Museum 
 Street. As he reached the corner a girl fluttered 
 past him, her feet silent on the snow, and in the 
 light of the gas-lamps he knew her for Mary 
 Bassett. She pressed steadily and swiftly west- 
 ward, and Cassidy pursued his own way in the 
 same direction. Suddenly as she had passed him, 
 he had seen a strange and terrible look in her 
 face, and under any circumstances he would have 
 been amazed to find her abroad companionless at 
 such an hour. She was bare-headed, the coils of 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 151 
 
 her hair were thick with snow, and she wore 
 nothing on this inclement night above the 
 ordinary indoor dress. Cassidy's first conclusion 
 was, that Bassett had met with some disaster, or 
 had fallen suddenly ill, and that his daughter had 
 run out in this ill-furnished haste to find a 
 doctor. The red lamp of the surgeon gleamed on 
 the street thirty yards ahead, and the girl crossed 
 the road towards it, but passed the door and 
 went on as fleetly as ever. This alarmed the 
 one observer, and he quickened his pace in 
 pursuit. 
 
 The impudent gaiety of his ordinary manner 
 with woman was of no avail in this case, and 
 though he had known the girl almost from her 
 infancy, he could not summons as yet the 
 presence of mind to accost her in these extra- 
 ordinary circumstances. A hundred conjectures, 
 hitting anything and everything but the truth, 
 passed through his mind as he followed the 
 the flying figure. Whilst he held on with 
 quickened footsteps he saw that once or twice 
 she threw her hands abroad and dropped them 
 laxly at her side again, with the ultimate gesture 
 of renunciation and despair, and this so moved 
 him that he cast aside everything but his pity 
 and concern, and he ran until he came abreast of 
 her. 
 
 "Miss Bassett. Pardon me. What is the 
 
152 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 matter ? Tou are in distress. How can I help 
 
 She looked at him, but never paused in her 
 swift walk. He could not tell from her glance 
 whether or not she recognized him. 
 
 ^' Miss Bassett," he began again, " this is mere 
 midwinter madness. Ye can't be allowed to be 
 out in this dress at such an hour on a night like 
 this. What can I do for you P" 
 
 " Nothing,'* she answered in a breathless voice, 
 and hurried on with Cassidy beseeching at her 
 side. 
 
 -'Now, Miss Bassett," said the Irishman at 
 last, " I'm an ould friend o' your father's, and 
 I've known you since ye were a child, and I'll 
 not have it. Ye must listen to reason, and be a 
 good girl. Now, now, now." 
 
 He passed his arm through hers, and gently 
 brought her to a more moderate pace. She made 
 a movement to resist him, but he held her firmly 
 though softly. 
 
 " By what right do you stop me ?" she panted, 
 turning her white face upon him. 
 
 "I saw your mother nursing you many's the 
 time," said Cassidy. " I knew ye when ye were 
 barely able to walk and talk. Is this the sort of 
 night for a maid to be out in ? Or the sort of a 
 dress for the weather ? Or a time of night for you 
 to be alone ? Come, come, let me take you back 
 to Bloomsbury Square." 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 153 
 
 " No," she cried, striving to free herself from 
 his hold ; " nobody shall force me there." He 
 held her firmly and gently still. 
 
 " Me poor dear child, I wont force ye anywhere 
 if I can help it. But it's out of reason that ye should 
 go about loike this. Now what'U I do for you ?" 
 She shook her head from side to side with 
 such a piteous gesture that his heart ached at 
 it. " It can't be the old story here," he said to 
 himself. " I wont believe it yet awhile any way. 
 Will I take you home. Miss Bassett?" he asked 
 aloud. 
 
 "No, no," she cried helplessly. "Let me go." 
 
 " Where ?" he asked soothingly. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered distractedly. 
 "Anywhere." 
 
 " Now, now," said Cassidy, with kind decision, 
 " I wont have this. Miss Bassett. Where will I 
 take ye to ? For until I know I wont budge a 
 foot, nor let you either. And now ye know. 
 Where will I take ye to?" She only shook her 
 head from side to side, and raised and dropped 
 the one free hand again. "Have you any 
 money?" Her gesture was sufficient answer. 
 "Nor I neither, Grod be good to me. Bedad, 
 I know what I'll do after all. If ye won't go 
 home. Miss Bassett, will ye go to Maida Vale, 
 to Mrs. Leverett's ? Horace is a good Samaritan," 
 he went on inwardly^ " and the wife's a woman 
 
154 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 of Samaria. And they're old friends, too, and 
 maybe she'll open heart to the women, though 
 she wont to me, poor thing!" He waited for 
 her answer, but none came. "Ye'U die if ye 
 stay in the streets," he went on. Or else 
 the police'U lay hands on ye. Ye wouldn't 
 loike that. Miss Bassett. Will ye come?" 
 
 She yielded to him, and he set out with her, 
 first pausing to divest himself of the shabby 
 ulster, and to compel her to assume it* The 
 snow had long since melted on her hair, and 
 he drew the hood of the coat over her head, 
 and stepped sturdily through the slush and snow, 
 supporting her firmly as he went. Half-way 
 down Oxford Street he descried a four-wheeler 
 crawling along the road, and hailed the driver. 
 After some chaffering, the man consented to 
 take them, but when they were once inside the 
 vehicle and rumbling slowly over the mufiled 
 stones, a little discomfiture touched the Irish- 
 man's heart. It ioa% counting somewhat rashly 
 on the best friend's forbearance and kindliness, 
 to propose to rouse him at such an hour in order 
 to leave a houseless girl upon his hospitality, and 
 " 'twill be adding insult to injury,*' said Oassidy 
 to himself, "to make him pay the cab-fare." 
 
 It was something of a shock to him when at 
 last the four-wheeler, after a dreary journey, 
 paused before the house of Mr. Leverett in 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 155 
 
 Maida Vale, to find the lower windows illumin- 
 ated, and to hear the sounds of music and voices 
 floating from the drawing-room. He had his 
 task to go through, however, and, on reflection, 
 this seemed to make it a little easier. Leaving 
 Mary in the cab, he advanced to the door and 
 knocked boldly. Leverett himself appeared in 
 answer. 
 
 " Why, Bill, what are you doing here at this 
 time of night?" he cried. 
 
 "Sh!" said Cassidy. "Give me a helping 
 hand here, Horace, if ye never did in your loif e 
 before. Here's Bassett s daughter, that I found 
 wandering in the streets half-wild with grief, 
 poor thing. I tried to bring her home, but 
 there she wont go. So I said to meself, there's 
 Horace, the only man I know that'll do it, 
 that has women folks about him, and I'll bring 
 her to him. Maybe Mrs. Leverett and Matilda 
 will find out what's the matter. She wont 
 breathe a word to me." 
 
 "Wait a bit," said Leverett, "I'U fetch the 
 wife." 
 
 He ran indoors and returned with Mrs. 
 Leverett, to whom in a few whispered words 
 he conveyed the situation. 
 
 "Dear me, Horace," said the good woman, 
 "where is she? What can be the matter?" 
 She ran out to the cab, and came back with 
 
 L 2 
 
156 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 a motlierly arm about the muffled figure. The 
 girl was crying as if her heart would break. 
 
 "Horace," said Cassidy shamefacedly, "I 
 hadn't a penny for the cab. Will ye stop it 
 out of to-morrow's allowance ?" 
 
 Leverett paid the fare and dismissed the 
 wondering jarvey. 
 
 " Go down into the kitchen," he said to 
 Cassidy. " There's a fire there, and 111 bring 
 you a glass of grog after your ride. I've some 
 people here, and I can't say anything about 
 this matter. They're going directly." 
 
 Cassidy slipped downstairs and waited by the 
 fire, and in half-an-hour the host came down 
 with the promised grog, the which the guest 
 gratefully disposed of. "Whilst they were dis- 
 cussing the night's adventure Mrs. Leverett 
 descended. 
 
 "Horace," she began, "never speak a word 
 to Montgomery Bassett any more." 
 
 "What has he done?" asked her husband. 
 
 "Turned that poor child into the streets 
 without so much as a hat or shawl, on this 
 night of all others in the year. The brute 1" 
 
 "What for?" cried Leverett. "I alwaj^s 
 thought him a model father." 
 
 "The poor girl refused to marry that young 
 — What's-his-name— the millionaire, or what- 
 ever he is — ^young " 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 157 
 
 WeatliGrley ?" said Cassidy. 
 
 " Weatherley," cried the motherly woman, as 
 if the name were an offensive epithet. ^^And 
 it's my belief, William, that the poor thing is 
 breaking her heart about young Cameron. She 
 says she never jilted him, but that he jilted her, 
 and that she never was engaged to the other 
 man, though her father has always pressed her." 
 
 " That's a quare story, Horace," said Cassidy. 
 *^And I know this, any way — that Jack Came- 
 ron's heart's broke with her, and I was with him, 
 more be token, poor boy, when Bassett forbad 
 him the house in his daughter's neem, bedad, 
 and swore that she had thrown him over for 
 young "Weatherley. And he confessed that the 
 girl had accepted Weatherley within an hour 
 of the time she said * Yes ' to poor Jack. And 
 if I'd thought of it all as I think of it now, 
 she might have stopped in the streets for me." 
 
 " There's more in this than we know of," 
 said Leverett oracularly. 
 
 " There's not much more in it than I know," 
 returned Cassidy. "Didn't she send his ring 
 back with a mocking message, and didn't I 
 see the letter with me own oyes? I'll tell ye 
 now," cried William, in a mighty heat, "be- 
 fore he gave her the ring he kissed it three 
 times, and he said to her — * There's one for 
 love, and one for constancy, and one for happy 
 
158 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 fortune.' And he got the ring back the next 
 day but one with them words with it, that 
 was known only to their two selves. And his 
 heart's just broke with her, that's what it 
 is. . . . I'll take me coat back, Horace, 
 and I'll be goin' home. Cameron's starting 
 for Nicopolis in the morning, and I'll find 
 him up already." 
 
 Neither of his hearers quite caught the 
 name of the place to which Cameron was 
 bound, but Mrs. Leverett said seriously — 
 
 "He ought to know the truth at once, 
 William." 
 
 Cassidy shook his head stubbornly. 
 
 "I'll be as glad as anybody to find out 
 that she's what I used to think her, but he's 
 suffered enough already, and I wont plague 
 him." 
 
 And so it did actually come about that 
 Jack Cameron left England's shores behind 
 and his true-love in distress, without knowing 
 of her truth, near as the knowledge seemed 
 to come to him. And the seed Montgomery 
 Bassett had sown bore poison none the less for 
 others because it bore poison for the planter 
 also. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 " HoGAN ! " cried a voice, with an unmistakaHe 
 Irish accent. "Hogan, ye blackguard." 
 
 "What's the matther?" another voice de- 
 manded sleepily. 
 
 " We re falling back on Schumla, and the foe 
 is abroad in abundance." 
 
 " Ah ! go away ! " returned the sleepy voice. 
 "There's not an hour in the twenty-four when 
 we're not falling back somewhere or other, an' 
 here we are. I'm fallin' back on slumber, an' be 
 hanged to you." 
 
 " A-ah ! " cried the disturber, with a wild yell. 
 "Who's threadin' on me?" 
 
 " That you, Leary ? " said a third voice. The 
 darkness was Egyptian. 
 
 " Here's Cameron will tell you, Hogan," said 
 the disturber. "Aren't we fallin' back on 
 Schumla, Cameron?" 
 
 "Were falling back for somewhere," an- 
 swered Cameron, striking a lucifer match, and 
 setting it to a candle. "Turn out, Hogan. 
 I ve just left Asif Bey, and he allows five 
 
160 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 minutes to get the tent down. He wont 
 keep the araba one second later." 
 
 " It's raining lions an' tigers," said the awak- 
 ened dolefully. "Te can hear it on the tent." 
 
 "Where's the horses, Cameron?" asked the 
 other. 
 
 "All three saddled and waiting." 
 
 " Did ye cover the saddles from the rain ? " 
 demanded Doctor Hogan. "There's nothing 
 nastier than ridin' in a wet saddle." 
 
 " Yes. Move around there. Grot everything ? 
 Come along. These fellows know what to 
 do. They'll have the tent down in a jiffy. 
 Chabook, Mustafa!" 
 
 "I don't know what we'd do without you, 
 Cameron," said Leary. "You're a father to 
 us, begorra y'are ! " 
 
 " They're shelling us, the dirty ruffians ! " 
 cried Hogan, disgustedly, "No comfort. No 
 peace o' mind. No quiet. I don't mind it in 
 the dee-toime. Fightin' comes natural then; 
 but I can get all I want without gettin' up 
 in the middle o' the noight for it." 
 
 They found their horses near at hand, and 
 mounted. The road was a mere slough, for the 
 retreating army had churned the soft earth into 
 mud a foot deep. 
 
 " Leary," cried Hogan suddenly, " where's the 
 boy?" 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 161 
 
 "What boy?" 
 
 " The little dandy that came in this morning, 
 on the bay mare. It's not long she'll last, poor 
 thing. Fancy a man bringin' an English 
 thoroughbred to do this sort o' work. Hould 
 up, ye baste ! Where is he ? " 
 
 " Sorra one o' me knows," said Leary. " He 
 rode out of camp with his servant this after- 
 noon — if it wasn't yesterday. Is it to-morrow 
 morning or to-day, boys ? Who's a watch ? " 
 
 "It wants an hour to dee-breek," said Hogan. 
 "I can tell it by the blackness. I hope the 
 little fellow's safe. What's he want, at all ? " 
 
 " Says he's here to join the Polish Legion. 
 Grot his commission from Said Pasha in Constan- 
 tinople, and never smelt smoke in his life, or 
 saw the inside of a barracks. It's a foine body, 
 that Polish Legion. They're all officers. Two 
 hundred and fifty of them, and not a private 
 in the lot." 
 
 "Nor a Pole, noyther," said Hogan. 
 
 " There's Lacy knows of him at home," said 
 Leary, " and says he's a howling swell, with a 
 princely income. If I wor a howling swell, 
 with a princely income, d'ye think ye'd find 
 me here, chippin' an' mendin' Bazouks and 
 Zeibecks ? " 
 
 "Why, ye know ye loike it," said the other. 
 ^ Why wouldn't I ? " demanded Leary. 
 
162 
 
 A MODEL FATHER 
 
 "There's neither debts nor duns can reach me 
 here, and the practice in gunshot wounds is 
 entertaining. But there's finer diversion to be 
 found by them that knows where to look for 
 it, and has money. Grive me young Weather- 
 ley's income, and see me volunteer into the 
 Polish Legion." 
 
 This conversation was necessarily conducted 
 in loud tones, and was mostly carried on across 
 Jack Cameron's person. He started at this 
 unexpected name. 
 
 " Where does he come from ? " he asked. 
 
 "He gave me his card this afternoon," said 
 Leary, "or yesterday, or whenever it was, as 
 poloite as ye please ; but I forget where he's 
 living. It's an Abbey, or a Grrange, or some- 
 thing like that." 
 
 "At Oakenham?" asked Cameron. 
 
 "That's the place. D'ye know him?'* 
 
 " I saw him once, and the name struck me — 
 that's all." What could have brought young 
 Weatherley out here? It is not usual for ac- 
 cepted lovers, who have plenty of money, to go 
 campaigning as a preliminary to marriage. Jack 
 had been long enough in the country to know 
 how devoted to destruction that melancholy 
 imposture called the Polish Legion was already, 
 and had been from the first. Only the most 
 ignorant and reckless, or those who were des- 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 163 
 
 perate of fortune, cliose that form of suicide. 
 His reflections on this topic kept him busy and 
 silent until long after daybreak. He had learned 
 to despise his old sweetheart, and had learned 
 his lesson well; but she interested him yet, 
 and he could not keep his bitter thoughts from 
 her. A month of dreary waiting on the banks 
 of the Danube, and a month of rough-and- 
 tumble campaigning when the fight had once 
 begun, had left him in that respect where he 
 was on leaving England. 
 
 At the morning halt, he sat in a filthy Bul- 
 garian hut, and sopped his biscuit in the in- 
 expressible wine of the country; and whilst the 
 two Irish doctors chattered like a pair of 
 cheery magpies, and he looked out absently at 
 the muddy village street and the steady down- 
 pour, young Weatherley rode by, waterproofed 
 from head to foot. Messrs Hogan and Leary 
 yelled at him with invitations and welcome, 
 and he alighted, finding his sword and his 
 military cloak as yet a little in his way. 
 
 " Grad," said the youngster, as he entered, 
 and stripped off the gleaming waterproof, ^'I'm 
 glad to find you — upon my word I am. My 
 fellow's a fool, by Greorge he is, and I haven't 
 got so much as a crust of bread or a pipe of 
 tobacco, by Jove I haven't. Hallo ! " He 
 stared at Cameron with a face of amazement and 
 
164 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 gathering indignation. " Excuse me, gentlemen. 
 Is this — er — this — person a friend of yours ? " 
 
 Nobody responded to this query, and the 
 young man, with as much of a military air 
 as he could command, resumed his waterproof 
 cloak, and bowed to the two doctors. 
 
 "Excuse me, gentlemen. I don't associate 
 with Mr. Cameron." 
 
 Jack followed him into the rain, leaving the 
 two doctors staring at each other. 
 
 " A word with you, sir, if you please," he 
 said, with his hand on Weatherley's shoulder. 
 Now Weatherley's courage was of a somewhat 
 hysteric type, and he had to bluster a bit to 
 keep it going at all. 
 
 "By gad, sir," he answered, "I don't desire 
 to know you, sir, and I will thank you not to 
 know me, sir." He was very red in the face, 
 and he wagged his head with a fine expression 
 of scorn and defiance. And, having got his 
 hand in thus far, he could not refrain from 
 going a little farther. "I think you a very 
 low fellow, by Greorge, sir, and I will say to 
 your face what I've said behind your back. 
 You're a dam scoundrel, sir. And I'll tell 
 you what it is, by gad : we're in a country where 
 a man can claim the satisfaction of a gentleman, 
 and you can have it when you like. I ain't 
 afraid of you, if Bassett was." 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 1G5 
 
 "I don't want to shoot you," said Jack, 
 "and you shan't shoot me if I can help it. 
 You will hardly deny that I have a right to 
 ask the reason of your conduct. Will you 
 kindly tell me why you call me a scoundrel ?" 
 
 "Because you are one," cried Weatherley. 
 The two doctors, each with a tin pannikin in one 
 hand, and a lump of black bread in the other, 
 were staring out of the hut doorway at this 
 remarkable scene. 
 
 "Come, come, sir," said Cameron sternly. 
 " Explain yourself, if you please." 
 
 "Oh! don't you bully me, sir," replied 
 the Polish Legionary. "I ain't afraid of you. 
 No, by Greorge." 
 
 "Your courage outruns your discretion, Mr. 
 Weatherley," said Jack, looking somewhat 
 grimly at him. "Explain yourself, if you 
 please." 
 
 "Very well, sir," said Weatherley, who 
 began to feel uncomfortable under the other's 
 coolness of demeanour. "If you will have it, 
 you shall, by Jingo. You behaved to Miss 
 Bassett like a hound, sir, and by gad, sir, I'd 
 tell you the truth about yourself if you were 
 as big as Nelson's columUj by Greorge I 
 would." 
 
 "On whose authority do you make that 
 statement, Mr. Weatherley?" 
 
166 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "On the authority of the lady's father, sir/^ 
 cried Weatherley, ruffling with indignation, 
 and the sense that it was necessary to look as 
 brave as possible. 
 
 " Not on the authority of the lady ?" 
 
 "No, sir," answered the lad, forgetting 
 himself for the moment, and speaking with 
 more dignity than he had ever worn in his 
 life before. "And I think it rather bad taste 
 on your part, and rather like you altogether, 
 sir, to bring in the lady's name at all." 
 
 "Oblige me, Mr. Weatherley," said Cameron 
 slowly, "by giving the lie, in my name, to 
 Mr. Bassett's statement to Mr. Bassett personally, 
 when you see him next." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that you didn't 
 throw Miss Bassett over the day after your 
 engagement with her?" asked Weatherley. 
 
 "Is that Bassett's story?" Cameron asked in 
 turn. 
 
 It is a recognized rule of civilised men to 
 deal gently with the names of women in affairs 
 of this kind, and Mary Bassett's whilom lover 
 was a staunch supporter of that law. But there 
 are times when a man must become a law imto 
 himself, and the artist, in the bitter rage that 
 stung him at the contemplation of this new 
 injury, felt himself justified in speaking the 
 whole truth. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 167 
 
 "I received my dismissal at the hands of 
 Miss Bassett, Mr. Weatherley, and was informed 
 that I was rejected in your favour, I cannot 
 deal with Mr. Bassett myself, but I shall request 
 a withdrawal of the injurious words you have 
 used concerning me, and I shall leave you to 
 deal with your informant as your own sense 
 dictates. He owes you something for having 
 placed you in a position so humiliating." 
 
 Jack Cameron's manner rather staggered 
 the youngster, but then he held too much evidence 
 against him. Mary Bassett s illness of which 
 he knew the cause, made the artist's story 
 unbelievable. 
 
 "That wont do for me," said Weatherley. 
 "Thrown over in my favour? Why, what the 
 dooce do you think brings me here, by gad? 
 You might have found a cleverer lie than that, 
 by G-eorge you might." 
 
 This so filled Cameron with astonishment, 
 that he had not even mental standing-room for 
 anger. 
 
 " Miss Bassett did not accept you ?" 
 
 "No, she didn't," cried young Weatherley, 
 almost with tears in his eyes. "D'ye think 
 I'd be here, Polish Legioning, if she had, by 
 gad? No, sir, she broke her heart over a 
 scoundrel, that's what she did, poor thing. I 
 want no more to do with you, sir, if you'll 
 
168 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 excuse me. But if you want to find me out, you 
 can do it very easily." With this he turned 
 to go. 
 
 " Stay," cried Jack, " I must have this out." 
 His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer, 
 and a thousand feelings were running riot in it. 
 Was it likely that both he and Weatherley had 
 been abused ? That Mary, too, had been misled ? 
 That he had falsely mistrusted her ? 
 
 "You can have it out when you like," said 
 the other, misapprehending him. *'Send your 
 friend, sir, and I shall be glad to see him.'' 
 
 " This must be settled here, and now, if you 
 please," answered Cameron, intercepting him. 
 "You know Bassett's handwriting? Come with 
 me." 
 
 Weatherley followed, and Cameron, entering 
 the hut in which his horse was stabled, drew 
 a little tin case from one of the holsters, and 
 extracted from it Bassett's letters. 
 
 " Observe the date of these letters, Mr. 
 Weatherley," he said, "and read them both.' 
 Weatherley obeyed, and looked from him, to 
 them with a face of vacuous consternation. 
 
 "I say, look here, by gad," he stammered, 
 at last, "I'll tell you what it is, by Greorge. 
 Bassett's been fishing for my money, curse 
 him! and hes been lying to both of us, and 
 the poor girl as well*" The young fellow 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 169 
 
 broke out with a great oath, and went rag- 
 ing up and down the uneven mud floor of 
 the hut. " I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Cam- 
 eron," he cried, "I can't go back from this 
 war without fighting, as a man of honour — 
 can I now? And I never meant to go back 
 alive at all, by gad, though I've got lots of 
 money and all that, and everything to make 
 a fellow comfortable. But if I do get back 
 alive, I'll shoot that villain, if I get hanged 
 for it. I will, by Greorge, I will. And if 
 you've been served out like this, Mr. Cam- 
 eron, I'm very sorry for you, and I'm con- 
 founded ashamed of myself, and I beg your 
 pardon, sir. She wouldn't have me if every 
 hair of my head was hung with Kohinoors, 
 and if you can make her happy, I hope 
 you'll do it." 
 
 Therewith young Weatherley took to wiping 
 his eyes with the sleeve of his waterproof, to 
 the great detriment of his personal appear- 
 ance. 
 
 "I hope, Mr. Cameron," he broke out by- 
 and-bye, in a voice shaken by his emotion, 
 " that you'll think that I behaved like a man 
 of honour in this matter, sir. "When I thought 
 you were a scoundrel I told you so, and I 
 would have done if you had been as big as 
 a house, by gad, and when I saw that I'd 
 
170 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 been wrong I apologised, didn't I, Mr. Cam- 
 eron? And I hope that under the circum- 
 stances you'll excuse me stopping any longer." 
 
 Pray stay for a moment," cried Cameron. 
 "Let me understand. Did you make a pro- 
 posal for Miss Bassett's hand at all ? Forgive 
 me if I distress you. You see how we have 
 both been played with." 
 
 "I'll tell you all about it," said Weather- 
 ley, mastering his emotion. The story was 
 soon told, so far as he was concerned, and 
 by a swift comparison of experience they 
 began to appreciate Mr. Bassett's fatherly 
 manoeuvre. " I've got one thing I ought to 
 do," said the youngster, when this was over, 
 "and I'll do it, if you'll have the goodness 
 to come back to the other hut.'* Cameron in 
 turn followed Weatherley, as Weatherley had 
 followed him, and in the presence of the two 
 doctors, who could make neither head nor tail 
 of the whole proceeding, the Legionary with- 
 drew his libel. "I spoke under a mistake, 
 gentleman," he said, "and I have apologised 
 to Mr. Cameron." 
 
 "And I," said Jack, "think that Mr. Wea- 
 therley's language was very natural, and that 
 he had good ground for his evil opinion of 
 me." 
 
 " ' Tis a bit of a pity too," said Hogan, 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 171 
 
 with a cheerful grin. "'Twould have been 
 good practice for Leary and meself had ye 
 pinked each other, and we'd have seconded 
 you like brothers. Wouldn't we, Phil?" 
 
 "Faith, we would, then," responded Phil, 
 pegging solidly at the black bread and the 
 unspeakable wine. 
 
 The two surgeons had all the talk to them- 
 selves, and most of the breakfast, though the 
 others sat down with them and did their best to 
 share it. The rain came pouring down 
 ceaselessly, and they all marched through it 
 until twilight fell. Cameron had plenty to 
 think of on that memorable ride, and his thoughts 
 were a torment to him. "Would Mary ever 
 forgive him for his want of faith in her? If 
 he had only believed in her as he ought to have 
 done, if he had been the downright loyal lover 
 he had thought himself, neither she nor he 
 would have suffered. And it is to be regretted, 
 but not the less set down in a faithful chronicle, 
 that under the pressure of this reflection he felt 
 so forlorn and hopeless that within himself he 
 decided never to go back again. She had 
 suffered so much through his want of faith — for 
 he knew the story of her illness now, and could 
 guess the rest — and had so deservedly rooted 
 him from her affections that he could never face 
 her any more. She need never hear of him 
 
 M 2 
 
172 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 again . never be vexed with him ; need have no 
 knowledge of his late repentance. There are 
 ways enough out of life in a campaign, and if he 
 carried his life all through it after all, why, that 
 was a misfortune to be borne. Perhaps these 
 wicked thoughts may be forgiven to a lad so 
 heartsore. They are set down here in candour 
 for the best construction of the charitable. 
 
 That fooHsh Polish Legion never had a 
 chance, as all the world knows. Sobieski, who 
 should have headed it, was eating his heart in 
 the capital, and all the cut-throats of various 
 nationalities, and all the fiery sympathisers with 
 the Turk, and all the heart-broken young 
 lovers, and all the defaulting cashiers from 
 Cornhill to Cairo who made up that curious 
 contingent, were scattered and divided. Some 
 joined various regiments of Circassians, and 
 others the native Suwarree ranks, and others 
 went home, and many, like young Weatherley, 
 simply doffed the uniform and stayed to see 
 the fun. One or two blossomed into Special 
 Correspondents, and being actually on the 
 ground, had no difiiculty in finding work. 
 
 Jack and Weatherley stuck together and made 
 friends, and the summer found them both in 
 Shipka Keui, whilst the long-drawn battle of 
 the Pass went on in the hills above them. 
 The artist was popular, quiet as he was, but he 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 173 
 
 had no concern with the roaring fun which 
 went on at times among the non-combatants, 
 who lightened labour and danger by many 
 genial devices. He kept lonely for the most 
 part, sketching, or writing, or hammering at his 
 Turkish grammar; and it came to pass one 
 morning, as he sat at work, that he bethought 
 himself of Bassett's return of the ring, and an 
 idea suddenly occurring to him in respect of it, 
 he drew it at once from his purse and looked at 
 it carefully for the first time. Before he had 
 given the sacred symbol to Mary he had 
 scratched his own initials within it. The lines, 
 as he remembered well enough, had been deli- 
 cately traced with an etching needle. It had 
 never seemed worth while to look for them 
 until now. And now he could find no sign of 
 them, and for the first time the full extent of Bas- 
 sett's villainy broke in upon him. But he could 
 find no excuse for his own faith in the deceit, 
 though he saw at last the diabolical cunning of 
 it all. It was bitter and enraging to know 
 that a mere glance at this instrimient of mis- 
 chief might have saved him from misbelief, and 
 spared Mary a heartbreak also. 
 
 In telling a story like this it is best to 
 tell the whole truth as far as it can be known. 
 When Jack Cameron slipped that ring back 
 into his purse, picked up his sketch-book, lit 
 
174 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 his pipe, and set out for the fortifications in 
 the Pass, he had made up his mind not to 
 come down again alive if he could help it. 
 It mattered to nobody whether he died or 
 lived; so he told himself. And if he fell with 
 a Eussian bullet through him in the execution 
 of his duty, that was the look-out of Chance, 
 or Providence, or whatever guided the concerns 
 of this dirty world. So, nursing these des- 
 perate and mcked thoughts, the sore-hearted 
 lad walked out of the village and sauntered 
 up the winding hillside path. The sun was 
 shining gaily, and the only clouds in the sky 
 were born of gunpowder, but they floated as 
 fleecy and as whitely innocent as the children 
 of the dew on peaceful flelds. The big guns 
 were banging away, as they did for three or four 
 days in every week, and the shells shrieked 
 like demons as they swept through the air. 
 Behind their earthworks the cheerful little 
 artillerymen in their tattered trousers and faded 
 coats and tarbooshes grinned amiably at the 
 Inglesa Effendi as he went by, and gave him 
 a friendly " Oorallah." It might have been a 
 general play-time, in spite of earthworks and 
 guns and the store of shells. Nobody had 
 been hit to-day, the shells howled harmlessly, 
 and the men were used to the infernal noise 
 they made, and took no notice of it. With 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 175 
 
 everybody so cheerful and gay, and the sun 
 bright overhead, the whole scene looked more 
 like a noisy demonstration of peace than a 
 sketch out of war's great panorama. 
 
 Suddenly one of the messengers from the 
 Russian guns swished with its own wild yell 
 through an embrasure, mowed down a gunner 
 at his gun, and smashed upon the rocky wall 
 behind. Half-a-dozen poor fellows gone to their 
 account and two more writhing wounded on the 
 ground, and all sense of play knocked out of 
 fancy, and ugly fact back again! And then 
 a hurried deportation of the dead, a slower 
 and more careful carriage of the wounded, a 
 little loose earth sprinkled about the place 
 where they had fallen, and lo ! in five minutes 
 gaiety and cheerfulness again, and a semblance 
 of noisy sport about the scene. 
 
 At the northern end of the earthwork (which 
 fronted almost due west) the Eussian fire had 
 yesterday disabled a couple of guns, and blown 
 and beaten into a mere pile of earth a dozen 
 yards of fortification. Towards this spot at an 
 easy pace walked the misguided Cameron with 
 his camp-stool under his arm, and marching 
 through the breach sat himself down on the 
 open hillside beyond, and leisurely sharpening 
 a pencil surveyed the rugged earth and the dis- 
 mantled guns. His back was turned to the 
 
176 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Russian forts, and hoping with all his heart 
 that he might be hit and his troubles ended, 
 he began to sketch. When they found him 
 there afterwards, so the poor desperate fool 
 thought, it would not do to have any im- 
 perfect drawing in his hands. He was resolute 
 to do nothing that looked like haste, nothing 
 that should leave a hint behind that he had 
 any knowledge of the danger in which he sat. 
 There was no disturbance in his nerves, and 
 he worked away calmly. The swish of a bullet, 
 which flattened on the rock a score yards in 
 front of him, pleased him: they had found 
 him out already. Another sang closer, striking 
 one of the prostrate field-pieces before him, 
 and the great tube gave forth a sound like an 
 anvil struck by a light hammer, the tone lin- 
 gering in the air for half-a-minute. There 
 was no fear in his mind, but there began now 
 a quickening of the pulses, and a sense of ex- 
 ultation dawned in his heart; when suddenly, 
 round one of the jagged edges of the earthy wall 
 in front peered the face of young Weatherley. 
 
 "I say, Cameron," said the unsuspecting 
 youth, "ain't that rather a warm ^corner, 
 now?" 
 
 Cameron went on with his sketch without a 
 word, and the youngster arguing from his silence 
 and his unmoved presence there that the spot 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 177 
 
 was somehow protected, walked tranquilly over 
 the broken earth and came towards him. 
 
 " Gro back," cried the artist, rising suddenly 
 and waving his hands against him, "go back." 
 
 "By gad," cried Weatherley, shrinking but 
 not retiring, "the place is all exposed. Come 
 in, Cameron." 
 
 Cameron felt that it was mere murder to 
 leave Weatherley there exposed to the fire which 
 he himself had wantonly drawn. 
 
 "Gro back," he cried again, making a snatch 
 at his camp-stool as if to follow. But at that 
 moment he dropped, and a whole storm of bullets 
 hissed and sang about the breach. Young Wea- 
 therley with a cry dashed forward, seized him, 
 and dragged him over the mound. Cameron 
 was helpless and deadly white, and his rescuer 
 felt him hastily over, but could discover nothing. 
 
 "Man hit?" said a slow nasal voice behind. 
 " If you're not a doctor, sir, I may be of service. 
 Allow me." A tall, solemn man knelt down 
 by the wounded figure, and after a brief ex- 
 amination drew a penknife from his pocket and 
 deftly cut away the heavy riding-boot and the 
 trouser tucked within it. " Handkerchief, sir," 
 said the solemn man. "Thank you. Broken, 
 but not smashed, I think. Do you know my 
 friend, Mr. Cameron?" 
 
 " Are you a doctor ? " asked young Wea- 
 
178 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 theriey, all abroad. He had fetched his man 
 from imder fire like a lion, but he felt sick 
 after it. "Will he die?" 
 
 "Hope not," said the solemn man. "Can 
 you lend a hand?" 
 
 Young Weatherley, with a grey mist about 
 him, lent a hand, and gradually grew better. 
 The Russians were replying pretty hotly to the 
 Turkish fire just then, and all the little fellows 
 in the tattered blue coats and faded scarlet 
 tarbooshes were serious on a sudden, and work- 
 ing like horses. Nobody took much notice of 
 the two men with their burden, and they had a 
 weary way to go under the hot sun to the 
 village. 
 
 Hogan espying them from a distance, caught 
 up a case of instruments and ran after them. 
 Before Cameron was fairly borne indoors he 
 was up with them, and a minute later he 
 was examining the wound. 
 
 "Ye're all right this time, Cameron," he 
 said. "Ye'd like that for a trophy, most 
 likely," as his lance made the patient wince, 
 and he laid the bullet on the table beside 
 him. Cameron opened his eyes, looked about 
 him, and then swooned again. 
 
 " My card, sir," said the solemn stranger to 
 young Weatherley half-an-hour later. "Colonel 
 Savage D. Sprague. I am one of the pro- 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 179 
 
 prietors of the journal Mr. Cameron represented. 
 I was in this country on purpose to meet him. 
 May I ask, sir, if you were a witness to the 
 catastrophe ? " 
 
 Young Weatherley told the story as it had 
 happened, and Colonel Sprague shook hands 
 with him. "Weatherley had one card left in 
 his case, and he handed that to the Colonel. 
 
 "Do you think he'll do all right, Hogan?" 
 asked the youngster tremulously, as the gaunt 
 Colonel took the card from his fingers. "I 
 wouldn't miss him for the world; by gad, I 
 wouldn't." 
 
 "We'll save the leg and him with it, I 
 hope," said Hogan. 
 
 "I believe he wanted to get hit, by gad I 
 do ! " said Weatherley, passing his hand across 
 his eyes. "He's been dam miserable about 
 something or other." 
 
 " Hould your tongue,'^ said Hogan not un- 
 kindly. "There's not been many campaigns 
 without that sort of thing in them." 
 
 "Mr. Weatherley," said the Colonel, "you are 
 in error, sir. Mr. Cameron, as the representa- 
 tive of the Telville Daily Grraphic, would lend 
 his best energies to the service of that journal, 
 and would not by any wanton act of his per- 
 mit it to be distanced by its contemporaries." 
 
180 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Before morning dawned, Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett had contrived, cnrions as it may seem, 
 to diseoyer that he had been shamefully treated 
 by his only child. As a matter of fact he had 
 never meant to turn her out of doors. It was 
 preposterous to think of. He had meant mere- 
 ly that she should consent to marry young 
 Weatherley, and the girl had chosen to exile 
 herself rather than submit to him. Mr. Bassett 
 felt naturally enough that his position was a 
 hard one, and he began to think with terror 
 (and resentment arranged beforehand) of the 
 reception the story would meet at the public 
 hands if it should reach so far. He appealed 
 to his own past life — his fourteen years of 
 widowerhood — his constant tenderness and kind- 
 ness to his daughter — and whilst a very halo 
 began to grow about his own head, the girl's 
 face began to be obscured by a mask of black 
 ingratitude. The fact that he had been a rascal 
 told in his favour. He had crossed all his own 
 kindly instincts, and his own lofty honour had 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 181 
 
 been soiled in order that she might have a 
 chance to marry prosperously. He had become 
 a sort of moral martyr for her sake, and his 
 own crucified truth and honour cried out against 
 the ingratitude which refused to accept their 
 voluntary sacrifice. To make a bargain with 
 the devil, according to all legends known, is 
 to secure the most exact and scrupulous attention 
 to business. You sell your soul undoubtedly, 
 but you do get your price for it, and so far 
 the arrangement is satisfactory. But to make 
 a direct and specific agreement, to sell, say, one- 
 half your soul, for an object precisely specified 
 and, having paid down your price, to be choused, 
 is offensive to the understanding and enraging to 
 the heart. 
 
 All the time Mr. Bassett was unpleasantly 
 frightened at the thing he had done, and was 
 prepared to find a cruel and base construction 
 put upon it. His daughter had chosen to leave 
 his house on a wretched winter night, and to 
 walk in the stormy streets unfriended, and, 
 considering the weather, half-clad. And now it 
 would be said that he had turned her out ; as if 
 it were his fault she had chosen the wrong end 
 of the alternative ! You see at once how 
 necessary it was for him to get into a mental 
 attitude in which he could repel the assaults 
 which were certaiji to be made against him. A 
 
182 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 good general in expectation of an attack will 
 throw up earthworks, or in default of them will 
 fight behind a few mealy bags rather than have 
 no cover. A poor excuse is always better than 
 none, but never so much better as when your 
 conscience is disposed to take a bullying tone 
 with you. 
 
 The eminent tragedian having routed his 
 remorses thus, and entrenched himself behind 
 the earthworks of a sound egotism, was still 
 far from being at ease. The physical discomforts 
 which followed on a night distinguished by 
 heavy potations and an unbroken watch was in 
 themselves considerable, and there were fears 
 in his mind too awful to have open expression 
 given to them. So long as these were bearable 
 he endured them, but when the whole morning 
 had dragged itself out and the afternoon came, 
 bringing no news of Mary, his terrors gave him 
 courage to apply for information to the police. 
 He went hastily, with a disordered face and gait, to 
 the nearest station, and there made his statement. 
 
 His daughter, aged twenty, had left her home 
 last night, attired in such and such a fashion. 
 She had immediately been pursued, but had not 
 been heard of or seen. 
 
 "You are Mr. Montgomery Bassett," asked 
 the ofiicial whom he consulted, " of such and such 
 a number in Bloomsbury Square?" 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 183 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Bassett. 
 
 "Information was given last night by the 
 landlord of the house," said the official, "that 
 the young lady was turned into the street by 
 her father." 
 
 "Grreat Heaven!" cried the great tragedian 
 with a voice and face of horrified astonishment. 
 It was true, he admitted (when he had somewhat 
 recovered from the shock of this libellous 
 statement), that the misguided girl had left the 
 house in consequence of a dispute which had 
 occurred between them. But turned into the 
 street ? And by him — her father ? The distressed 
 parent hid his eyes behind a spotless hand- 
 kerchief, and groaned so movingly that even the 
 official heart experienced a pang. In his private 
 capacity the official was an admirer of Mr. 
 Montgomery Bassett's style, and the private 
 tragedy of a professed tragedian was naturally 
 interesting. 
 
 " Shall you advertise for the yoimg lady, sir P" 
 asked the officer. 
 
 " Except in an extreme contingency," said Mr. 
 Bassett, ''no." 
 
 "I suppose," said the officer with a dreamy 
 air of self-communion, "that the nearest bit of 
 water would be Eegent's Park way. Yes." 
 
 "Don't hint at that!" cried the tragedian. 
 That was too horrible; and yet, what had a 
 
184 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 million women done before under provocation no 
 more terrible? For one minute the defences 
 were down, and the foe streamed in like a tide. 
 He left tbe place feeling like a murderer. 
 
 Before lie reached home again, Hope and 
 Egotism joining their forces had ousted con- 
 science, and his wicked soul cowered behind its 
 breastwork, awaiting a new attack. It came, 
 but came in a form which Conscience — if not 
 he — could combat. 
 
 " A gentleman to see you, sir," said the maid, 
 appearing before him as he entered. The girl 
 knew the story of the previous night, and was 
 almost afraid to approach him. 
 
 "I can see nobody," returned the actor, "I 
 am not at home to anybody." 
 
 " You will see me, Bassett, if you please," said 
 a man's voice, and Mr. Horace Leverett appeared 
 in the doorway of the first-floor sitting-room. 
 
 " Leverett," said Mr. Bassett, covering his eyes 
 with his handkerchief and extending his right 
 hand, " excuse me. I can see nobody to-day." 
 
 am here," said Leverett, disregarding his 
 proffered hand, "with a message from your 
 daughter." 
 
 "My daughter!" cried the great tragedian 
 wildly. "My child!" 
 
 "Is the poor young lady safe, sir?" cried tho 
 maid. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 185 
 
 " Quite safe," said the scene-painter. 
 
 " Where is she, Leverett?" demanded Mr. 
 Bassett, rushing into the hall. "My poor 
 misguided child!" 
 
 " Now Bassett,'^ said the scenic artist, squaring 
 his broad shoulders at him, " if you take this tone 
 with me, and give me any of your stage airs after 
 last night's work, I'll punch j^our head. I haven't 
 punched a man's head," he added, with a sort of 
 relish for the phrase, " for over twenty years, but 
 I'll keep my word with you. You can go, my 
 dear," he continued, addressing the maid with 
 sudden suavity of voice and manner. " And you 
 come in here with me, Bassett, if you please, and 
 we'll have this little matter out together." 
 
 Mr. Bassett, with more meekness than might 
 have been expected of him, complied with his guest's 
 invitation. To his surprise and somewhat to 
 his consternation, the guest turned the key in the 
 lock, withdrew it, and put it in his pocket. 
 
 "Now I'll talk to you," said Mr. Leverett, 
 shaking his head at him in a stern and menacing 
 fashion. "You thundering old scoundrel!" 
 
 "How — how dare you, sir?" cried Bassett. 
 
 " Dare ? " cried Leverett, squaring his shoulders 
 and shaking his head again. " I don't dare any- 
 thing in talking to you. I'm not a woman. You 
 wont abuse me. No, sir. You know better.'^ 
 
 The broad shouldered scenic artist actually 
 
 N 
 
186 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 pranced, he squared himself to such an extent 
 at Bassett. He laughed also, not by any means 
 in a forced or unnatural way, but with a hearty 
 scorn which really did seem to find amusement in 
 its certainty of Bassett's cowardice. And to tell 
 the truth, the tragedian looked as if he were 
 prepared to justify his guest's opinion of him. 
 His pale lips moved uneasily, and his eyes were 
 shifty. But the smallest dog will growl when 
 you take his bone away, and the meanest of 
 human creatures resents the theft of his last rag 
 of dignity. 
 
 " I demand," said Mr. Bassett shakily, " that 
 you adopt a different manner with me, sir." 
 
 "If my manner doesn't suit you," responded 
 Leverett, " I'm naturally very sorry, but I can't 
 alter it. I'm here with a proposal and an 
 alternative. When you turned your daughter 
 out of house and home last night — " 
 
 "I turned my daughter out of house and 
 home?" cried Bassett. 
 
 "Upon my word,*' said Leverett, "I almost 
 believe that you believe you didn't. Silence! 
 When you turned your daughter out of house 
 and home last night, she might have perished 
 in the streets, and would have done so, probably 
 enough, if she had not been recognized by a 
 friend who brought^ her for shelter to my house 
 at Maida vale. Now, don't you say anything, 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 187 
 
 because IVe got your daughter's word before- 
 hand, and I'd believe it against a million of 
 you. Six months ago and more you told your 
 daughter a lie which broke her heart, and told 
 her sweetheart a lie which broke his heart. 
 Now, I'm not a champion of the world at large, 
 but I'm going to take this upon my shoulders. 
 Act fairly by yoin* little girl, Bassett, or I'll 
 whip you out of every society in London." 
 
 " You will ? " asked Mr. Bassett, trying to 
 look scornful, with but indiJSerent success. 
 ''And how, may I ask?" 
 
 *'You know as well as I do," said the 
 unwelcome guest, shaking a threatening finger 
 at him, "that I've only got to tell this story 
 down the Strand to make it impossible for 
 you to put your head within the doors of 
 any club in London." 
 
 "My daughter is at liberty to return here," 
 said Mr. Bassett. "She is welcome to the 
 house she left of her own free will." 
 
 Leverett laid his hand upon the bell and 
 rang a tremendous peal. The maid was en- 
 gaged somewhere, and the mistress answered. 
 At her knock, the scene-painter unlocked the door. 
 
 "Pray come in, ma'am," said he with a 
 flourish of politeness. "Can you tell me, 
 madam, anything of the manner in which 
 Miss Bassett left your house last night ? " 
 
 N 2 
 
188 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Well, sir," said the landlady, with an 
 uncertain look at the tragedian, "Mr. Bassett 
 has been in the 'ouse, sir, a many years, and 
 I've never had anything to say again him 
 until now. I believe, sir, that he were to some 
 extent in liquor. But I don't know, sir," 
 said the landlady, coming to a sudden stop, 
 "what right you've got to ask me, sir." 
 
 "Miss Bassett took refuge in my house, 
 madam," said Leverett. "Mr. Bassett de- 
 clares that she left home of her own free 
 wiU.'^ 
 
 "She did," cried Bassett. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bassett, sir, how can you ? " 
 The landlady turned formidable on a sudden. 
 "I saw the poor dear young thing cast out 
 into the street, sir," she cried to Leverett. 
 "And Love joy, my husband, sir, runs after 
 her as fast as he could go, but she'd got a 
 minute start of him, and the snow was drift- 
 ing so you couldn't scarcely see a yard, and 
 I suppose he took the wrong road, sir, and 
 she disappeared. But, leave of her own 
 free will, poor dearP You drove her from 
 the door," cried the landlady, turning on 
 Bassett with a screaming voice, "you know 
 you did. You drove her from the door." 
 
 "Thank you very much indeed, ma'am," 
 eaid Leverett suavely. "Shall I have the 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 189 
 
 pleasure of carrying your best wishes to Miss 
 Bassett? Thank you. And will you oblige 
 me, ma'am, by ordering one of your servants 
 to pack up Miss Bassett's things? The young 
 lady will stay with my wife and daughter, 
 who are old friends of hers. Thank you. 
 Grood afternoon, ma'am, though I trust to 
 have the pleasure of seeing you again before 
 I go." 
 
 During this speech of Leverett's he and 
 the landlady were moving to and fro in a 
 sort of wandering dance, she being animated 
 by a desire to get at Bassett with a view 
 to the delivery of her mind, and Leverett 
 politely bent on seeing her out of the room 
 without an unnecessary scene. 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am, extremely. Good after- 
 noon. For the present only." In some 
 mysterious way the landlady's dance, directed 
 by Leverett, had led her from the room. The 
 door was locked again, and the key was 
 once more in the visitor's pocket. "Now, you 
 low blackguard," said Leverett, turning on 
 Bassett with quite a rollicking air of de- 
 nunciation, " what have you to say ? " 
 
 "By what right," asked Bassett, with his 
 face a chalky grey, and all his features twitch- 
 ing, "by what right do you pretend to assume 
 the guardianship of my daughter?" 
 
190 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 "Now, you mustn't," said the scenic artist^ 
 shaking his head threateningly, "you really 
 mustn't take that tone with me. You crim- 
 inal dog ! " He shook a heavy-looking fist 
 with unpleasant emphasis directly under Mr. 
 Bassett's nose, and regarded his old acquaint- 
 ance with great sternness for a minute. In 
 face of this expressive pantomine Mr. Bassett 
 gradually retired until he reached a sofa, and 
 being taken by it at the back of the knees, 
 he sat down unexpectedly. "And now," said 
 Leverett, " we'll go to business, if you please. 
 You are prosperous, and you can afford to 
 make your daughter a liberal allowance. After 
 what has happened you can't expect her to 
 surrender herself to your care again." 
 
 Leverett having taken a seat at a little 
 distance from him, the tragedian felt less per- 
 turbed, and was able to make a faint show 
 of resistance. 
 
 "This is all very well, dear boy, no doubt," 
 he began. "But I do not recognize your 
 right to come here and hector me as to what 
 I shall or shall not do with my own affairs." 
 Leverett made a movement in his chair, and 
 Mr. Bassett added hastily, with a deprecatory 
 hand outstretched towards him, "I am willing 
 to make fitting provision for her. I have 
 been a good and tender father to her for 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 191 
 
 twenty years. Until this most unhappy dis- 
 pute " (his handkerchief came out again) 
 "arose between us I never crossed her will 
 in anything. And here I intervened" (he re- 
 moved the handkerchief) " only to prevent her 
 from attaching herself to a profligate with 
 whom she would have been wretched." 
 
 "Meaning Jack Cameron?" asked Leverett. 
 "Now I know them both, Bassett, and that 
 sort of talk wont do with me. Jack's worth 
 a hundred of the fellow you wanted, and you 
 wanted him simply and purely because he was 
 a man with money, and might have made 
 things nice for you." 
 
 "I acted for the best," said Mr. Bassett, 
 resorting to the handkerchief again. "And 
 if last night I somewhat overstepped the 
 bounds of parental authority, and perhaps I 
 did, it was intented for the girl's good, and 
 I never meant her to take me at my 
 word." 
 
 "I believe that," said Leverett, nodding at 
 him. "You'd bully up to the last point 
 where you dared, I know." The visitor seemed 
 to have an amazingly poor opinion of his 
 host. "But now we'll go to business. Tour 
 daughter wont come back to you again. In 
 the course of a year or two she may learn to 
 bear the sight of you if you behave yourseK, 
 
192 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 for blood's thicker tlian water, wlien all's said 
 and done. But at present she can't come 
 back again, and she wont. Now the land- 
 lady will have her things ready by-and-bye, 
 and I shall take a four-wheeler and carry 
 them home, and you'll make her a decent 
 allowance. How much ? " 
 
 Mr. Bassett could not say. He was not 
 himself. He desired to be liberal. He would 
 look to his affairs and let Leverett know 
 by an early post — ^probably to-morrow. He 
 begged an old friend's kindest construction for 
 a thoughtless speech on the part of an angry 
 father, too seriously interpreted by a wilful 
 child. He sent the kindest messages to his 
 daughter, and accompanied them by a request 
 for her forgiveness. 
 
 "Now look here, Bassett," said Leverett 
 finally. "If you break your promise by a 
 letter 111 post you in every theatrical club in 
 London. Behave yourself, and we'll try to 
 keep things quiet." 
 
 "I will do everything," said Bassett, rising 
 with a vacant look and stretching out his 
 hands as if things were not clear to him. 
 "But I have been up all night in great 
 agitation, dear boy, and I can't think now, 
 and — and — I feel a very extraordinary sense 
 of faintness. Horace, dear boy, the whiskey's 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 193 
 
 in the cupboard." He sank back upon tbo 
 sofa, breathing heavily. 
 
 "Now by the living jingo," cried Leverett, 
 "I'll cane the life out of you. You amazing 
 humbug." 
 
 But Mr. Bassett's faintness turning out to 
 be a real thing, in spite of the theatrical 
 tricks by which it was accompanied, his guest 
 helped him to a glass of whiskey and water, 
 and saw him gradually revive. The fact was 
 that the great tragedian after thirty years* 
 practice was helpless to avoid the mannerisms 
 of his profession, and it is probable that 
 when he dies he will have a half-consciousness 
 at least of doing it in a becoming attitude. 
 
 " Leverett," he said faintly, " I can't play 
 to-night, dear boy. Ring the bell. I must 
 have a doctor, and send round a certificate. 
 I will do whatever you think best, dear boy, 
 but I can't think about it now." 
 
 " Well I can see that you're seedy, Bassett," 
 said the pitiless Leverett, "and so you deserve 
 to be after what you've done. I wish I could 
 think it was your conscience at work, that's 
 all." 
 
 In the course of a half -hour or so Mr. Leve- 
 rett departed triumphant with a cab-load of 
 luggage, and in due time arrived at Maida 
 Vale with it, to the great astonishment of the 
 
194 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 household, who had been kept in ignorance of 
 his intent. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett kept his promise, 
 and a liberal share of his weekly income was 
 3et apart for his daughter's use. Leverett in 
 return kept his promise, and for awhile the 
 theatrical world heard nothing of the great 
 tragedian's misbehaviour. But Mary Bassett, 
 though as little of a gossip as ever lived, 
 had in the agitation of tbeir first meeting 
 revealed enough to make Matilda Leverett 
 wish for more. What Matilda knew Mr. 
 Cassidy knew, and "William was so instant 
 and earnest in his proclamation of Jack's 
 faith that Matilda could do no less than 
 carry his reports to Mary. In this wise the 
 full sum of Montgomery Bassett's doings 
 became known to his daughter, and nothing on 
 earth could stop Cassidy's tongue. The com- 
 mittee of the Cannibals requested Mr. Bassett 
 to remove his name from the club books, 
 and the committee of the Footlights followed 
 suit. 
 
 All this brought about, or helped to bring 
 about, mournful results for Mr. Montgomery 
 Bassett. Men who had been jealous of him 
 —and the world behind the footlights is no 
 freer of jealousy than the world of music, or 
 journalism, or painting, or authorship — ^were 
 
I;- 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 195 
 
 glad of a chance to snub him and show him 
 a cold shoulder. He dropped perforce out 
 of his old way of hobnobbing with the critics, 
 and out of sight was out of mind. In 
 these circumstances, it seemed natural to have 
 more frequent recourse than ever to Scotch whis- 
 key, and the whisper got abroad that Bassett 
 was on the downward road. Then his London 
 engagement coming to a close, his name 
 advertised week by week in the Era^ seemed 
 to attract less attention than of old, and so he 
 actually got upon the downward road, and 
 being on it, shot like a toboggan, till, while 
 the guns at Shipka bellowed at each other 
 across the ravine, and Jack Cameron lay in a 
 little cottage on the edge of the forest of 
 plum-trees, Mr. Montgomery Bassett, the 
 admired tragedian, was living a shiftless life 
 in obscure lodgings, and passing with lingering 
 step and hungry eyes the stage doors he had 
 entered six months earlier like a king. 
 
196 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 On tlie mormng of Cameron's disaster Colonel 
 Savage D. Sprague despatched two telegrams, 
 one being as long as he could possibly make 
 it, and the other as short as he could pos- 
 sibly make it. The long telegram was 
 addressed to the Telville Daily G-raphic, and 
 the short one to William Cassidy. The first 
 set out in vivid and striking narrative the 
 disaster which had befallen the valued artist- 
 correspondent of the Graphic, and the second 
 demanded Mr. William Cassidy's instant 
 acceptance or refusal of the post vacated by 
 Cameron^s disablement. Colonel Sprague, being 
 now liberated from other European engagements, 
 was himself upon the spot to superintend the 
 verbal horrors and splendours, and Cassidy 
 had been growling in his hearing for five 
 months past about not having had a chance 
 to see a campaign. The Colonel knew no 
 other man so likely to suit him, and since 
 action had to be prompt he despatched his 
 message without losing a moment. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 197 
 
 Upon receipt thereof Mr. Cassidy, who was 
 sitting disconsolate before a blank canvas, and 
 cudgelling bis brains for an oydaya, leapt 
 for sudden joy, and betook himself to the 
 performance of energetic juggling tricks with 
 the water bottle. " Wire," so ran the mes- 
 sage, "acceptance or rejection of post as artist 
 at seat of war for Telville Grraphic. If 
 acceptance, draw at London bureau and start 
 immediately. Cameron disabled." The first 
 hurried glance at the telegram had revealed 
 its main purport, and had thrown Cassidy 
 into the seventh heaven. A second look showed 
 the ominous last words, and they brought 
 him down again. Their vagueness gave them 
 terrors for the Irishman's friendly heart ; and 
 he started for Maida Vale with his original 
 exultation altogether chilled. He must see 
 Horace and Matilda before he could accept 
 the Colonel's offer. 
 
 Now Mr. Montgomery Bassett's weekly 
 allowance to his daughter had ceased more than 
 a month before this date, and by this time 
 Mr. Bassett was beginning himself to be sorely 
 in need of an allowance, and his where- 
 abouts was unknown to Mary and to Leverett. 
 But whilst it lasted his weekly payment had 
 been generous enough to allow the girl to 
 live on less than half of it> and she was 
 
198 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 still provided for, though the future began to 
 look a little blank and discouraging. She 
 lived on with the Leveretts, without adding 
 greatly to the expenses of that easy-going 
 household, and Leverett of an evening would 
 declare to Mrs. Leverett, when his moderate 
 evening glass had warmed his heart, that he 
 was not the man to want to make money out 
 of an orphan, and that so long as Mary paid 
 him what she cost him he was happy. Per- 
 haps, he would add, he might contrive to bear 
 up even a little longer, and, indeed, the good 
 fellow would never have taken a penny but 
 for the satisfaction of the girl's own honour- 
 able pride. 
 
 Mary and Matilda were seated together 
 when Cassidy broke in upon them. 
 
 "Matilda," he said lugubriously, "I've the 
 foinest chance of meekin' money y' ever heard 
 of in your loife, and I hope ye wont stand 
 in betune me and good fortune." 
 
 ""William," returned Matilda, "you know I 
 shouldn't dream of such a thing." 
 
 "Very well, then," said William "Tm off to- 
 night for the Turkish campaign*" 
 
 " No, noj no, William^" cried Miss Leverett, 
 wildly rising and embracing him. 
 
 "Now there y' are," said Cassidy, "ye wont 
 stand in betune us, and ye will stand in 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 199 
 
 betune us. Ye wouldn't dream of it in one 
 breath and ye do it in the next. Now 
 Matilda, darlin', listen to reason. Ill be coming 
 home in no time with a thousand pounds in 
 me pocket." 
 
 Enter Leverett in paint-spotted velveteen. 
 
 "What brings you here at this time of 
 day? Eh? With a light like this, you ought 
 to be at work. Bill." Cassidy explained. 
 
 That's a different matter. Of course you'll 
 go. Nonsense, Matilda. Of course he'll go. 
 Who's it for. Bill?" 
 
 "It's the Telville Daily Graphic," said 
 Cassidy. 
 
 "Do they want two men? I suppose you'll 
 be going into Asia?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Cassidy. There's the 
 telegram." 
 
 " Ah," said Leverett, taking the paper and 
 reading mumblingly : " Wire acceptance or 
 rejection — artist — seat of war — Telville Grraphic. 
 Draw — London Bureau — start immediately. 
 Cameron — " 
 
 Cassidy quietly took away the paper, and 
 the two men looked at each other for a mere 
 instant. 
 
 "May I see the telegram, Mr. Cassidy?" 
 asked Mary, rising and advancing. 
 
 "Well — ye see — Miss Bassett," he began 
 
200 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 stammeringly. She took it from his unresist- 
 ing hand and read it and returned it. Her 
 face, always too pallid in these melancholy 
 days, grew paler still, but she walked from 
 the room quietly and with self-possession. 
 
 " I hope there's nothing serious," said Leverett. 
 
 "There's no knowing,'' answered Cassidy. 
 " He may Tbe down with a bit of fever or 
 dysentery, or he may have been thrown from 
 his horse, or have done nothing worse than 
 sprain his wrist. He couldn't draw with a 
 sprained wrist. Or he may be badly hurt, 
 though we'll try to hope not." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Leverett, and at that instant 
 Mary returned. 
 
 "Mr. Cassidy," she began, "Will you 
 despatch a telegram to your friend Colonel 
 Sprague, and ask the extent of the injury?" 
 She held out her purse to him. 
 
 "No," said Cassidy, putting her hand aside. 
 "I wont want that, but I'll wire, and I'll 
 have the answer sent here because I'll be 
 starting to-night. It's good-bye, Matilda, me 
 darlin', but only for a little while." 
 
 Miss Leverett, with the cheering assurance 
 that he was going to certain death, bade him 
 farewell, and retired to her own chamber to 
 prepare for widowhood. Leverett walked out 
 with him. 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 201 
 
 "I hope there's nothing serious about Came- 
 ron, Bill, If you find him well enough to 
 listen to you when you get there, you must 
 clear his mind of all this nonsense about Miss 
 Bassett. She's a good girl, Bill, and my 
 women-folk are wild to see her reconciled to 
 Jack. It's odd that he never answered your 
 letter. 
 
 "Maybe he never got it," said Cassidy. 
 "We've written to each other pretty regularly, 
 but I've had never a word about that first 
 letter. Ye'U see easily enough that I didn't 
 care to go at him again." 
 
 "You told him the whole story?" 
 
 "I told him that Bassett had swindled both 
 him and the girl; that young Weatherley had 
 popped the question, and had 'No' for an 
 answer; that Miss Bassett was turned out 
 of doors by her dear ould father, and was 
 living with Mrs. Leverett, and the sooner he 
 wrote to her he'd be mending her heart and 
 his own. 'Twas a month after that before 
 I heard from him, and then he gave me a 
 full and particular history of all his doings, 
 but nothing about my letter. So I left him 
 alone." 
 
 This letter, as it turned out afterwards, lay 
 in one of Mr. Hogan's saddle-bags. It was 
 exhumed at the close of the campaign, and 
 
 o 
 
202 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 delivered, with apologies for delay, on the an- 
 niversary of the day on which it had received 
 the London post-mark. 
 
 Mr. Cassidy, being provided with funds, set 
 out for the scene of war, and next day a 
 telegram from Colonel Sprague reached Mary 
 Bassett. "Cameron's wound not likely to be 
 fatal," ran the message; and, as may be 
 fancied readily enough, this curt statement of the 
 case left room for many anxieties. Cassidy had 
 promised to wire immediately on his arrival ; and 
 nine days after his departure came the news — 
 " Mending slowly," A week later came another 
 missive — "Still mending," and, on the heels of 
 this, an actual arrival from the seat of war, in the 
 person of young Weatherley. 
 
 Now, this young person being by nature of a 
 soft and impressionable temperament, and being 
 moreover a little hysterical in all his doings and 
 his ways of thinking, had taken a prodigious 
 liking for Jack Cameron, and was disposed to 
 martyr himself in atonement for the wrong he 
 had once helped to do him. He confessed, with 
 many self-upbraidings, that if he had not 
 dishonourably planned to throw Cameron out 
 of the saddle, Bassett would never have been 
 tempted, his villainous deceit on Jack Cameron 
 and Mary would never have been practised, 
 Mary's peace would never have been ship- 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 203 
 
 wrecked, and her accepted lover would never 
 have cast himself voluntarily into the way of 
 Russian bullets. The whole blame of this 
 tragic business being thus brought home to 
 him by the voice of accusing conscience, he was 
 for awhile extremely miserable and dejected, 
 but quite suddenly he brightened, and having 
 wired for great store of delicacies for Cameron 
 from the capital, and awaited their arrival, he 
 betook himself at once to London by the shortest 
 route, and arrived, so to speak, breathless. 
 
 The Leveretts and their guest were gathered 
 round Cassidy's last message when Mr. Wea- 
 therley sent in his card. Now, nobody knew, 
 or had any reason to know, where the young 
 man had been this last six months, and nobody 
 particularly cared to see him. 
 
 " Tell him, ' not at home,' " said Leverett, 
 throwing down the card. 
 
 " I beg your parding, sir," returned the maid, 
 "but I've told the gentleman a'ready as you 
 was." 
 
 " Show him into the downstairs room, then," 
 said the master of the house. 
 
 "Don't let the young man come up here," 
 Mrs. Leverett besought him, at the head of the 
 stairs. 
 
 " Not I," said Horace emphatically. " Leave 
 him to me; I'll sort him." 
 
 o 2 
 
204 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Mr. Weatherley, having paused nowliere to 
 change his dress, presented rather a singular 
 appearance for London. He was habited in a 
 tourist coat with many folds at the chest and 
 a strap about the waist, and he wore cord 
 breeches, and boots to the knee. 
 
 " Mr. Leverett, I believe ? " he began breath- 
 lessly, and receiving a nod in answer, went 
 on : " I've just run over from the Shipka 
 Pass, Mr. Leverett." He looked so pantingly 
 at haste that he might have meant this state- 
 ment to be literally received. "I met Mr. 
 Cassidy, who is, I believe, a friend of yours, 
 in Constantinople. I explained my wish to 
 him, and he thought you might accede to it. 
 Poor Cameron's getting better, I'm glad to 
 say, and — " 
 
 "You have seen Cameron?" asked Leverett. 
 The young man, so far, did not seem to be 
 here with any fresh intent upon Miss Bassett's 
 affections. "Take a seat." 
 
 "I saw him shot," said Weatherley. Leverett's 
 glance was invitation enough to carry him on 
 with his story. "He got thirty or forty yards 
 in front of the Turkish lines, clean under 
 Russian fire, and there he sat sketching — by 
 gad he did, sir — as cool as you please, and a 
 bullet hit him in the leg. I thought he was 
 killed at first, and I should think there must 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 205 
 
 have been a hundred of 'em pottin' at him; 
 but when I — " 
 
 The youth paused suddenly, and blushed. 
 Leverett eyed him with a new expression, and 
 he was much discomfited. 
 
 " Did you fetch him from under fire ? '' 
 asked the scenic artist. 
 
 "Well, as a matter of fact," said young 
 Weatherley, blushing more than ever, " I 
 didn't think of it till afterwards." 
 
 "Didn't think of what till afterwards?" 
 asked Leverett. 
 
 "Well, you see, Mr. Leverett," said young 
 Weatherley, with a self-exculpatory sort of air, 
 "if you're a bit excited, don't you know, and 
 you see a fellow down, by George, and if he 
 happens to be a fellow that you've a regard 
 for, by gad, you get a bit hot, don't you 
 know, and you don't — " 
 
 "Don't what?" 
 
 "Well, you don't care at the time, you 
 know." 
 
 " Was it you who fetched Cameron from 
 under the Eussian fire ? " demanded Leverett 
 severely. 
 
 " Well," said Weatherley defensively, " I 
 didn't think about the Eussian fire — at the 
 time." 
 
 Leverett solemnly shook hands with him. 
 
206 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 " Not that I^m going to stand any nonsense, 
 now," he said, " or that I mayn't find a crow 
 to pluck with you in a minute. Go on, if you 
 please." 
 
 As a matter of fact young Weatherley was 
 more ashamed to find this achievement brought 
 home to him, than he was of having to confess 
 his own share of meanness in Bassett's shameful 
 story. 
 
 " Well, he wasn't dead after all, and we got 
 him into the village, and the doctors think 
 he'll do very nicely, and they think they'll 
 be able to save his leg. But that isn't what I 
 came to speak about, though I'm very glad 
 to bring good news. What I wanted to say 
 
 was Mr. Cassidy tells me that you know 
 
 everything about the matter, and Look here, 
 
 Mr. Leverett. I've acted very badly, and I 
 want to make up for it. I dare say you know 
 that I spoke to Bassett — though it isn't easy 
 to talk about these things to a stranger." 
 
 " Take your own time, Mr. Weatherley," said 
 Leverett. "Get it straight in your own mind 
 first. That's the best way." 
 
 " Thank you," said Weatherley. " The fact is, 
 I spoke to Bassett when I knew that Miss 
 Bassett and Cameron were engaged. Or at 
 least I didn't know it at the time, but I found 
 it out five minutes later, and I asked Bassett 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 207 
 
 to use his influence, and that was dishonour- 
 able, wasn't it, Mr. Leverett ? " 
 
 " To use his influence in your behalf ? 
 
 "Exactly," said Weatherley, with an ex- 
 ceedingly broken and fatuous air. " To use 
 his influence in my behalf. Well, he promised ; 
 but I didn't know what a scoundrel he was, 
 or I wouldn't have been a party to it — no, on 
 my word of honour, by gad, I wouldn't, Mr. 
 Leverett. Well, he told me that Cameron had 
 behaved shamefully to Miss Bassett, and had 
 engaged himself to a rich woman in South- 
 ampton, and he told Miss Bassett the same 
 thing, and he told Cameron that Miss Bassett 
 had accepted me. And now Mr. Cassidy told 
 me in Constantinople that when Miss Bassett 
 refused me, Bassett turned her out of doors, 
 and she came to live with you. And '' 
 
 " Well," said Leverett. Except that in a 
 general way young Weatherley was repentant; 
 there was no clue to his present intentions. 
 
 " Well, of course it's no business of mine — 
 at least, I mean I've got no right, don't you 
 know, but " 
 
 " Iron the creases out in your mind first, 
 Mr. Weatherley," said the artist. 
 
 Weatherley tried back. 
 
 "I'm very sorry for the trouble I've caused, 
 and I want to put an end to it, and when I 
 
208 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 made up my mind to run over from the Shipka 
 Pass I thought I'd write to Miss Bassett, but 
 since I've seen Mr. Cassidy I thought that I'd 
 better come to you. Cassidy says that Mrs. 
 Leverett is an awfully nice woman, and all 
 that sort of thing " 
 
 " Iron it out, young man," said Mr. Leverett, 
 almost severely. "Iron it out." 
 
 Weatherley tried back again. 
 
 " Cameron's just as fond of Miss Bassett as 
 ever he was," he said, with a terribly hang-dog 
 look. "And Mr. Cassidy says you're an awfully 
 good sort, and I don't mind telling you that 
 I believe — only don't let it go any further, 
 and Cassidy said I could trust you~I believe 
 Cameron got hit on purpose, by gad, I do, 
 because he was that broken-hearted, by Greorge, 
 he was, and fit to do anything. And I thought 
 I'd come and tell you straight, and if Miss 
 Bassett's in the same mind as she used to be, 
 why, the best thing she can do will be to go 
 over, by Greorge, and nurse him, and take a 
 lady to look after her and do the regular thing, 
 and — and — and all that," concluded young 
 Weatherley, somewhat lamely. 
 
 " And what do you propose, Mr. Weatherley?" 
 asked Leverett. 
 
 "Well, when I left," said the youngster, 
 with his eyes fixed on the carpet, " they thought 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 209 
 
 they might move him in a fortnight down to 
 Philippopolis, where he could get more rest 
 and more luxuries and all that. And I thought, 
 since I saw Mr. Cassidy and he told me what 
 an awfully nice woman Mrs. Leverett is, that 
 perhaps she might be persuaded to go out as 
 my guest, don't you know, Mr. Leverett, and 
 take Miss Bassett with her, and just see poor 
 Cameron round, and so on." 
 
 "That's rather a romantic proposal, isn't it, 
 Mr. Weatherley ? " said Leverett. " I'll speak 
 to the ladies about it. Eun down again this 
 evening, will you ? " Weatherley promised and 
 went his way. Leverett mounted the stairs 
 and burst in upon the women-folk like a bomb- 
 shell. " That youngster's a brick," he cried, 
 "and you two ladies," indicating his wife and 
 Mary Bassett by a glance apiece, and a wave 
 of a hand in the direction of each, " are going 
 to Turkey." 
 
 "Groing to Turkey?" gasped Mrs. Leverett 
 ieeuiy. 
 
 " The impetuous male animal," said Leverett, 
 "asks pardon. Here's the case," sinking his 
 voice to a confidential and persuasive tone. 
 "You don't want me to make any bones about 
 the matter with you two, do you? Mary, my 
 dear child, I'm going to take an old man's 
 privilege and talk to you like a father." He 
 
210 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 laid a gentle hand on hers and patted it once 
 or twice. "With you, Mrs. Leverett, I take a 
 husband's privilege and address you in accents 
 of — entreaty. Mary, you're as fond of J ack as 
 ever you were, and you know how shamefully 
 he's suffered. My dear, youre just as fond of 
 Mary as you are of your own daughter, and 
 you'll do anything to oblige me. Jack lies ill 
 of a broken leg, with a Russian bullet in him, 
 and young Weatherley (who is honestly sorry 
 for all the trouble he has caused, and wants to 
 make up for it) has travelled all the way from 
 Shipka to ask you to make a journey to Phil- 
 ippopolis and nurse Jack and make things up, 
 and get him better. And when youVe got 
 him better and brought him home — one of you 
 can marry him." 
 
 " But, Horace," said Mrs. Leverett, " the 
 expense ! " 
 
 "My dear," said Mr. Leverett, "this young 
 man's money made the mischief to begin with. 
 The young man asks you to go as his guests. 
 Let his money make up, as far as it can, for 
 the harm it did to begin with." 
 
 " I don't think we can do it, Horace," said 
 Mrs. Leverett. "We can't accept the young 
 man's offer. There's something — he means 
 well, no doubt — but there's something in it 
 that feels indelicate and — and curious, and — " 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 211 
 
 Mr. Leverett hailed an idea. 
 
 "I didn't tell you I was going, did I? 
 Well, I am. I'm going out to look at things, 
 and make sketches for a panorama on my own 
 hook. And so long as I pay for you, it s no 
 business of yours where I get the money from." 
 He turned to Mary. "If I take you, will 
 you come and make yourself happy, and the 
 man that loves you happy too, my dear ? It 
 isn't a stage piece, you know, where every- 
 body is bound to be miserable, and to have 
 misunderstandings enough to reach to the middle 
 of the third act. If I'd a Eussian bullet 
 through my leg you'd travel a mile or two to 
 look at me, wouldn't you, old woman?" He 
 turned to his wife again. 
 
 "Horace," said Mrs. Leverett, quite aifected 
 by this stroke of fancy, "you know I would." 
 
 "Then don't preach down a young girl's 
 heart with formalities," said Leverett. " Pro- 
 priety ! Confound Propriety ! Your husband's 
 with you. And, my dear," turning once more 
 to Mary, "your guardians are with you." 
 
 "Horace," cried Mrs. Leverett, "you will be 
 rimning into danger to see this wretched war. 
 You know you will." 
 
 "Old lady,*' said Mr. Leverett calmly, "I 
 know a dodge worth two of it. I want to 
 have a look at the local colour, and then if I 
 
212 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 can't work enough out of the illustrated papers 
 to make a dozen panoramas, I'm a Dutchman. 
 Besides, Jack and Cassidy will come back with 
 their sketch-books crammed. Anyway, I'm 
 going, for I haven't got a brush-stroke to do 
 at the theatre for the next two months, and I 
 may never have the chance again." 
 
 " And how about Matilda ? " asked Mrs. 
 Leverett, with signs of yielding. 
 
 "Matilda?" asked her husband. "Now, 
 don't you know, madam, as well as I do, that 
 Matilda had arranged to spend a month with 
 her aunt at Southsea ? All things work to- 
 gether for good to them that walk uprightly. 
 Come, come, my dears, no qualms. I pay the 
 shot myself, and I shall make a fortune by the 
 panorama." 
 
 When Mr. Weatherley turned up again that 
 evening Mr. Leverett had a brief private in- 
 terview with him. 
 
 "I'm going out myself," he said, "and I 
 shall pay my own expenses, because I can 
 make the journey pay. You're welcome to 
 provide for the rest, but you mustn't let the 
 women see it, or they'll be unhappy." 
 
 It took at least a week to make arrange- 
 ments, and then they started. Mary felt as 
 much need of forgiveness as she felt desire to 
 forgive. Though the skies had fallen she 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 213 
 
 should have believed in Jack. And if any 
 reader of this history should think her un- 
 maidenly in thus going to the rescue of her 
 wounded lover, he is welcome to his opinion. 
 Jack was in Philippopolis a week before his 
 friends and his sweetheart reached it, and he 
 knew that they were coming. Hogan, as yet 
 forgetful of the letter buried in his saddle-bags, 
 and innocent of his share in the prolongation 
 of these true lovers' woes, gave permission for 
 the patient to be seen. It was thought wise 
 not to excite him by keeping him waiting, and 
 he knew of Mary's forgiveness already from 
 Cassidy. So when she came pale and trem- 
 bling into the chamber, and touched him 
 tenderly with her lips, as if he had been a 
 piece of fragile china, and might break beneath 
 the daintiest handling, he put his arms about 
 her, and took her to his heart. 
 
 "Jack," cried the girl, with his arms about 
 her neck, and her tears upon his face, "how 
 could I doubt you?" 
 
 " My darling ! " Jack answered in his feeble 
 voice, " how was it that I ever doubted you ? " 
 
 Each found a ready answer for the other's 
 seK-accusation ; but Cameron was a gentleman, 
 and Mary was Montgomery Bassett's daughter, 
 and so the answer on each side remained un- 
 spoken. 
 
214 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 There are not many young gentlemen in the 
 world who can endure with equanimity to see 
 the matrimonial prize they sought adjudged to 
 another, and Mr. Weatherley at least was not 
 of that small self-sacrificing crew. But all 
 things considered, the young man bore himseK 
 well, and though the fires burned within him, 
 he consumed his own smoke in a manner fairly 
 successful. He confided to Hogan the fact that 
 he should never care for another woman. Cassidy 
 was a sympathetic listener to his woes over many 
 sentimental pipes smoked in the tent that had 
 been Cameron's at Shipka; Colonel Savage D. 
 Sprague, mindful of his own early evil fortune, 
 lent an ear to his complaint ; and it was natural 
 enough that the lad should ask for sympathy. 
 But he behaved with great manliness in Mary's 
 presence, and he nursed Jack in her absence 
 with a genuine devotion. 
 
 "When the invalid began to get a little 
 stronger Mrs. Leverett and Mary used to mount 
 guard over him, and for an hour together it 
 often happened that not a word would be spoken 
 amongst them. The glaring summer light and 
 heat that poured upon the house was softened 
 on the ranges of the distant Ehodopes, and the 
 invalid and his sweetheart would look out from 
 the bedroom window on the wind-swept cloud 
 shadows that chased each other across the hills, 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 215 
 
 and sometimes in the silence would liear the 
 faint echoes of the battle in the Pass full thirty 
 miles away. Mrs. Leverett in those drowsy 
 afternoons would fain sleep with such success 
 that after five minutes' feigning the reality 
 would set in, and Jack and Mary found the 
 music of her matronly snore welcome and en- 
 joyable. 
 
 Now it befell that Messrs. Leverett and 
 Cassidy, both of whom were at this time 
 quartered at Shipka, made a journey to Phi- 
 lippopolis to visit the invalid, and most 
 incautiously let out the secret of the manner 
 of Jack's wound in Mrs. Leverett's hearing. 
 There had been already a sufficient flavour of 
 romance in the story of the two lovers, but 
 Mrs. Leverett welcomed this addition to it with 
 a sort of shuddering relish, and must needs 
 begin to let fall dark and mysterious hints as 
 to loverlike madness and the like, until Mary 
 herself got an inkling of the truth. The truth 
 looked terribly wicked — chiefly it took that 
 complexion because it had been dangerous for 
 Jack — and she resolved on drawing from him 
 a disclaimer. 
 
 "Tou have never told me how you came to 
 get hurt, Jack," she said one day. " Don't be 
 afraid to speak about it, darling. I can bear 
 it." 
 
216 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 " Oh," said Jack, " I was sketcliiiig, and the 
 beggars saw me and potted at me." 
 
 " Didn't you know that you were in danger, 
 dear ? " she asked. 
 
 "Well, of course," returned Jack, with an 
 unsuccessful laugh, " you can't go through a 
 campaign without being in a little danger 
 sometimes." 
 
 "But didn't you know that you were in 
 particular danger then ? " The young man 
 read at least a guess at the truth in her face 
 and voice, and his guilt and his disloyalty 
 tied his tongue. "It isn't true, dear? Say 
 that it isn't true." At this he read more than 
 a guess at the truth, and hung his head in 
 shame. Mary began to cry, and for a while 
 they sat without a word. "Jack," she said at 
 last, " how could you be so cruel ? " 
 
 " My darling," said the lover, much ashamed 
 and stricken, " I hoped that you would never 
 know of it. I was a fool and a villain, but 
 I have been a fool and a villain all along." 
 
 " No, no, no," she said. " But you will never 
 doubt me any more, Jack. Will you ? " 
 
 Jack for sole answer stumbled out of his 
 invalid chair in spite of his game leg and 
 Hogan's orders, and, falling on his knees before 
 her, possessed himself of one of her hands and 
 kissed it over and over again. By-and-bye he 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 217 
 
 began to murmur in a voice made half inarti- 
 culate by his kisses, but tbe words 'truest,'* 
 best," and " dearest," and others of that 
 kindred reached his sweetheart's ears. Then in 
 a while he tried to struggle to his feet for a 
 pretty obvious purpose, but Mary became 
 frightened for him. 
 
 Oh, Jack," she cried, " take care, take 
 care." 
 
 " I'll have one kiss if I die for it," said 
 Jack. 
 
 "Let me help you up," she answered, in 
 genuine fear. 
 
 " Give me the kiss first," he whispered, look- 
 ing up at her, " and tell me you forgive me." 
 
 She stooped towards him, her face all rosy 
 and her eyes moist. He caught her by the 
 waist, and, drawing her to her knees, he 
 kissed her again and again. 
 
 "We will never doubt each other any 
 more ? " he said. 
 
 " Never," she answered. " Never." And 
 without any show of coyness she put her arms 
 about his neck and kissed him back again. 
 
 " Dear eyes ! " said Jack, regarding them. 
 "I promised a year ago that they should never 
 shed another tear if I could help it. They 
 shall shed no more for any doubts of mine.'* 
 
 He turned a little white at this juncture, 
 
 p 
 
218 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 and Mary had some difficulty in getting him 
 back into the invalid chair. When he was 
 settled he took her hand and would not let it 
 go, even when he fell asleep, as from sheer 
 weakness and prostration he did ten minutes 
 later. Hogan coming in found them still 
 handed, and there was a blush on the girl's 
 face which the Irish bachelor medico thought 
 anything but unbecoming. There was a soft 
 moisture on the invalid's forehead, and a soft 
 colour on his cheek, and his breath went and 
 came like a child's. 
 
 "Keep him quiet, whatever ye do. Miss 
 Bassett," said Hogan. " He's getting on lovely, 
 but ye mustn't allow 'm to be at all exoytud." 
 
 Perhaps the medico had at least a ghmmer 
 of inward light, but he said no more, and went 
 his way, leaving the lovers to themselves. 
 
 People say sometimes that it is worth while 
 to be ill, to enjoy getting well again. There 
 was such a rapture in these hearts, that it seemed 
 worth while to have been separated to come 
 thus once more together, with broken faith made 
 whole and sound again. As for Bassett's shame, 
 they buried it ; and they were as happy in one 
 another as it is possible for anybody to be in 
 this world, where no man's happiness — or 
 woman's either — is allowed to be long unclouded. 
 And, since there is no joy greater for loyal 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 219 
 
 natures than to find, and know, and prove, 
 that those they love are loyal in spite of terrible 
 doubt or faith downright shattered and broken, 
 we may leave awhile these two lovers to their 
 well-earned bliss, and be content about them. 
 
 And as old Spencer sayeth, nearing the close 
 of his voluminous story, so say I, nearing the 
 end of this, much slenderer : 
 
 Now furl your sails, ye jolly marineres, 
 For we be come into a quiet road I " 
 
220 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 CHAPTEE XII 
 
 In tlie year 1879, at the Mudpool Hall of 
 Thespis, Mr. Pelliam Va,ne appeared in a 
 round of Shakespearian characters, and attracted 
 some attention among the local playgoers. 
 There were Mudpoolians who had been to 
 London, and there were some of these who had 
 seen the great actors of the present and the 
 past. At the Mudpool Hotel these gentlemen 
 discussed the style of Mr. Pelham Vane, and 
 had various opinions as to the school to which 
 that tragedian belonged. He reminded one or 
 two of Macready — it was generally conceded 
 that his manner was mellower than that of Mr. 
 Phelps — and he reminded others of the late 
 great Montgomery Bassett. 
 
 Mr. Pelham Vane when seen off the boards 
 was elderly and seedy. He was attired in 
 black broadcloth, greasy at the shoulders and 
 white at the seams, and his linen was com- 
 monly dingy enough to justify its owner's desire 
 to shroud it in obscurity. His lips looked 
 bibulous and his nose was of a purplish red, 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 221 
 
 whilst Ms cheeks and chin were of a dirty 
 plum colour with many years of close shaving. 
 He had a very deep bass voice and a pompous 
 manner, and he talked a great deal about the 
 better days he had seen. It was evident that 
 he was a person of some education, and when 
 he had had a little too much to drink, he 
 would brag of the great acquaintances he had 
 owned upon a time, and the triumphs he had 
 achieved upon the London boards. There were 
 people in Mudpool, as there had been elsewhere, 
 who had faith in these legends, and there were 
 people who had not. Party feeling ran more 
 than commonly high on the Saturday night 
 which saw Mr. Pelham Vane's last performance 
 of " Macbeth " in the town of Mudpool. Things 
 had been so prosperous during the past fort- 
 night that not merely did the theatrical ghost 
 walk on that particular evening, but the man- 
 ager (who was honest according to his lights 
 and means) paid up some portion of old ar- 
 rears. 
 
 Mr. Pelham Vane walked ponderously into 
 the bar-parlour at a quarter to eleven o'clock, 
 buttoned to the chin, and wearing a hat of 
 suspicious gloss. 
 
 "Good evening, gentlemen," said Mr. Vane. 
 The company murmured a respectful answer, 
 the faces of the guests wore a vacant air, and 
 
222 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 their eyes looked anywhere rather than at Mr. 
 Vane. That gentleman's arrival had put a 
 sudden finish to an animated discussion upon 
 his artistic style, his personal bearing, and his 
 antecedents, and for a moment the Mudpool- 
 ians, who were not a rapid people, had no other 
 topic ready. 
 
 Eiper, the miller, a sober man enough as a 
 rule, had somewhat exceeded in his potations, 
 and in those circumstances was apt to play the 
 hard-headed fellow, not to be put down by 
 clamour, and determined to express his own con- 
 victions. His compeers had been content to let 
 him talk noisily to himself in a corner until now, 
 and Eiper, observing the lull, but being too far 
 gone to take cognizance of its cause, addressed 
 the conclave. 
 
 " Noio you'll listen to reason," said the miller, 
 with a corkscrew motion of the thumb. " Bashet? 
 He's no more like 'Gromery Bashet than I am — 
 no more like than chalk's like cheese." 
 
 Mr. Pelham Vane turned and surveyed the 
 speaker with a startled look, and it was plain to 
 everybody except the drunken miller that the 
 actor recognized himself as the subject of 
 discourse. 
 
 "'Gromery Bashet," pursued Mr. Eiper, re- 
 joicing in the silence, and feeling that he had at 
 last secured an audience, "was the very finest 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 223 
 
 actor ever lived. That's what he was. And as 
 for this feller, why " Mr. Story, the iron- 
 monger, drove an accidental elbow into the 
 miller's ribs, and Mr. Eiper, who was quarrelsome 
 in his cups, changed his theme, and heaped abuse 
 upon his neighbour. The onlookers breathed 
 more freely. 
 
 There was at the Mudpool Hotel, as there 
 generally is in these cases, a curious mixture of 
 contempt and reverence in the mental attitude 
 of the habitues towards Mr. Pelham Vane. There 
 was something, beyond doubt, of the vagabond 
 and the nomad about him, and the Mudpoolians 
 knew well enough why he buttoned his coat so 
 closely. And yet there was a divinity that 
 hedged him, and in a dim sort of way they looked 
 on him as an artist. He was not wholly respect- 
 able, but he could do something which they could 
 not do, and he had had experiences beyond their 
 narrow sphere, and something of the glamour of 
 the parts he played still hung about him, seedy 
 as he was. 
 
 Scotch whiskey hot, Mr. Povey, if you please,'^ 
 said the tragedian in tones that filled the room, 
 and left a mellow tinkle among the glasses on the 
 shelves. There was silence again, and the 
 magnificent, shabby man turned to the miller, 
 
 believe I heard you make a very compli- 
 mentary reference just now to my old friend, 
 
224 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Montgomery Bassett, sir," lie said. "May I 
 ask you where you saw him play?" 
 
 "I don't know what that's got to do with 
 you/' returned the miller. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said the player. 
 " I was under the impression that I addressed 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " That serves you right, Eiper," said the iron- 
 monger, and an affirming murmur went round 
 the room. 
 
 "Not as I mind answering the question," 
 said the miller, feeling himself in a marked 
 minority. " I seen him in Southampton the 
 last time he played there. And I say again 
 — meaning no offence to anybody — he was the 
 best actor as ever lived, bar none. And what 
 I say, I stick to." 
 
 Now there was in this an intentional and 
 obvious insult to the player, and one of the 
 company tried an emollient. 
 
 " Present company is always excepted." 
 
 " I don't except nobody, past nor present," 
 said the miller obstinately. " "What I say is, 
 the late 'Gromery Bashet was finest actor ever 
 was in the world." 
 
 " I am proud to hear you say so, sir," 
 cried the player in his ponderous tones. 
 " Bassett was my dearest friend.'^ The 
 miller looked at him with scornful incredu- 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 225 
 
 lity. "I am proud to hear you say so, sir," 
 
 said the player again. " Another Scotch hot, 
 if you please, Mr. Povey." 
 
 When one came to look at Mr. Pelham 
 Vane one found signs of wreckage by drink 
 upon him. When he lifted his glass to his 
 lips his hand shook terribly, and his eyes 
 gloated on the glass, before he drank it, with 
 a whiskey-and-watery gleam. 
 
 " 'Gromery Bashet," said the disagreeable 
 miller, " was a gentleman." 
 
 " He was, sir," assented the player. " One 
 of Nature's noblemen." 
 
 " He'd have scorned to have come anear a 
 place like this," said the miller. " He could 
 ha' kep' his carriages and his horses if he'd 
 ha' minded to." 
 
 "He had a soul above ostentation," said 
 Mr. Pelham Vane. 
 
 " He'd got a soul above said the 
 
 drunken miller. " You a friend o' 'G-omery 
 Bashet's ? Why, he wouldn't ha' looked at 
 you." 
 
 The player made a step forward, with his 
 right hand clawing at the breast of his tight- 
 buttoned, threadbare coat. 
 
 " This is the first occasion," he said in his 
 slow-rolling, noble tones, " on which I have 
 heard poverty and misfortune insulted in the 
 
226 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 presence of an assemblage of English gentle- 
 men." 
 
 "Eiper," said Mr. Bonner, the linendraper, 
 "if you don't know how to behave yourself, 
 there's them as does." 
 
 Grall, the saddler, stated audibly that he 
 blushed for Eiper. "And I hope, sir," said 
 Mr. Grall, addressing the player, "that you'll 
 have one with me, sir, if it's only to take the 
 taste out of your mouth." 
 
 " I thank you, sir," said the play-actor. 
 " Scotch hot, Mr. Povey, if you please. I 
 have the pleasure of taking it at this gentle- 
 man's expense." The host handed him the 
 mixture, and he bowed round, glass in hand. 
 " Grentlemen," he said, " I hope, as sweet 
 Will has it, that we shall drink down all un- 
 kindness. So far as I am concerned, I can 
 assure you that no praise of my dear old 
 friend Bassett can ofEend me. I knew him, 
 gentlemen, in his boyhood. I watched his 
 dawning genius. I stood by him in the hour 
 of his success ; and to me alone is intrusted 
 the secret of his retreat. I was, and am, so 
 poor as you see me, his bosom friend." 
 
 " Look here. I don't care," cried the 
 drunken miller, rising and struggling with the 
 friends who endeavoured to keep him down. 
 " I'm not a-going to sit all night long and 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 227 
 
 hear this feller bounce and brag and talk 
 nonsense. Him a friend of Bashet's ? I tell 
 you to your face," he cried, shaking his fist 
 at the player, "he wouldn't ha' looked at you, 
 or spoke to you, or anything like you. Don't 
 tell me." 
 
 Mr. Pelham Vane saw that the general feel- 
 ing of the assemblage was with him and 
 against the miller. He felt that it would cost 
 but little to be courageous. 
 
 "It would ill become a friend of Mont- 
 gomery Bassett's, gentlemen," he said therefore, 
 "to wrangle in his name in the parlour of a 
 public hostelry. Scotch hot, Mr. Povey, if you 
 please.'* A hand was laid upon him from 
 behind. "Thanks, dear boy. At this gen- 
 tleman's expense, Mr. Povey." 
 
 A commercial gentleman from London, a 
 young man of much experience of hfe, and 
 highly respected in Mudpool for his business 
 and his social qualities, was seen at this junc- 
 ture to draw forth a memorandum book and 
 to scrawl a line upon a blank page. This he 
 tore out, and having folded it threw it across 
 to the drunken miller. 
 
 "Can't make it out," said the miller to his 
 neighbour. "Wass he say?" 
 
 The neighbour, with raised eyebrows, gazed 
 at the brief scroll and whistled. Then he 
 
228 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 whispered behind his hand to the miller, and 
 the miller laughed scornfully. 
 
 " I say, mister," he cried, reaching out a hand 
 towards the player, "perhaps you'll say you 
 are Bashet in a minute. There's a cove in the 
 room to back you." 
 
 The actor glanced round swiftly, and for a 
 moment his watery glance rested on the young 
 man from London, but he said nothing. 
 
 " That Bashet ? " cried the miller. " Look at 
 him." 
 
 For once in his life Mr. Eiper created a 
 sensation, and every man in the room stared from 
 the actor to him, and from him to the actor. Mr. 
 Pelham Yane, adding a little cold water to his 
 grog to reduce its temperature, took it at a gulp 
 and pushed the glass towards the landlord. It 
 was noticed afterwards how pale he grew and 
 how his hand shook at this juncture. 
 
 " That's Montgomery Bassett, is it ? " cried 
 the miller jeeringly, with his head craned over 
 the table in the direction of the commercial man 
 from London. 
 
 " Yes, sir," thundered the player's voice, " I 
 am Montgomery Bassett. Myself am Naples. 
 Euined by the devices of my only child, cast 
 forth so low that wrens make prey where eagles 
 dared not perch! I thought my spirits were 
 stronger than my shames, but I am vanquished." 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 229 
 
 And the great tragedian, turning, flung his 
 arms upon the mantelpiece and dropped his head 
 upon them, scattering a pot or two, and making 
 havoc with a dozen of long churchwardens. The 
 company sat and stared at all this with a look at 
 once amazed and guilty. The saddler was the 
 first to recover, and he, rising from his seat, put 
 his hand in his pocket, and withdrawing it, 
 dropped something with a jingle in the landlord's 
 palm. Then he cast his head with a shamefaced, 
 sideway nod in the direction of the fireplace over 
 which Mr. Montgomery Bassett leaned with 
 heaving shoulders, and with another shamefaced 
 jerk directed to the company at large, he took 
 himself out of the room. The ironmonger rose 
 also, and from his pocket drew a something which 
 jingled into the landlord's palm. Then arose the 
 drunken miller and went through the same panto- 
 mime, and in a minute or two the room was clear 
 of everybody but Mr. Montgomery Bassett and 
 the landlord. Mr. Bassett's shoulders were still 
 heaving convulsively, and his head was still rest- 
 ing on the mantelpiece amid the debris of the 
 long churchwardens, when the landlord touched 
 him on the arm, and the actor, slowly gathering 
 himself into an erect posture, picked up his hat, 
 and with one hand covering his eyes, began to 
 grope his way from the room. 
 
 " Before you go, sir," said the landlord feel* 
 
230 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 ingty ; " it's an inappropriate moment, sir, but it 
 may be the only one, and the gentlemen of the 
 town, sir, who have seen your performances, sir, 
 desired to present you with a little testimonial, 
 sir. The sums are here as I received them, and 
 perhaps if you will buy for yourself, sir, some 
 little remembrance of the place — a pin, or a ring, 
 or an3d:hing of that sort that may please you — 
 you will fulfil the intentions of the subscribers, 
 Bir." 
 
 The landlord had never been so quick-witted in 
 his life before, and the little falsehood might not 
 be charged very heavily in the account against 
 him. Mr. Montgomery Bassett's outstretched 
 hand accepted the money the landlord slipped 
 into it, and a minute later he was gone. 
 Mudpool saw him no more, and if his land- 
 lord found the little bundle of soiled linen a 
 poor payment for a fortnight's rent, why, 
 everybody knew how disturbed the great tra- 
 gedian had been by his unexpected recognition, 
 and nobody thought very ill of his forgetfulness. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 231 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 " Go liglit, ye thief," said Mr. Cassidy, address- 
 ing Mr. Hogan, " or else ye'll week the beeby. 
 The campaigning ways stick to ye still, and ye 
 disturb the harmony of married loife with no 
 more compunction, be Jingo, than ye'd feel on 
 walking into a den of wild bachelors. What's 
 the news ? " 
 
 There's nothing particular," said Mr. Hogan, 
 seating himself, " barrin' that I've got the model 
 I tould ye of. I was down in the Dials yesterday 
 to see the Colonial Bishop, and the late captain 
 in the Life Gruards. What liars they are, to be 
 sure ! If a man comes down in the world, he's 
 always been a real swell before his fall. The 
 man that's coming to sit to-night is the Eev- 
 erend Stanley Vyvyan, the Lord be good to 
 us. He had a rural deanery in Yorkshire, 
 he says, and the Colonial Bishop swears he 
 knows him, and so does the late captain in 
 the Guards." 
 
 "Its a queer nest ye've loighted on, any* 
 way," said Cassidy. 
 
232 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 " Queer ? " returned Hogan, " I believe you ! 
 They're not so squalid as you'd fancy, living 
 in a den like that, and they're all men of 
 some edukeetion, me boy. The Bishop knows 
 the Greek alphabet — that was as far as I 
 could test him — but his Latin's extremely 
 shaky. The Eeverend Stanley Vyvyan doesn't 
 know what arma virumque cam means, and 
 for a Eural Dean that's singular. But he'll 
 be here at eight this evening, and if ye don't 
 foind him the identical man ye want, I'm 
 mistaken." 
 
 " We'll see," said Cassidy. " 'Twas a great 
 oydaya, ' Cassidy's evening life class ! ' I've 
 twenty pupils already, and it helps to keep 
 the pot boiling. Cameron's coming round to- 
 night to see how we're gettin' on; and his 
 wife will be up to compare the boys. When 
 are you going to be married, Hogan?" 
 
 "At the beginning of the Greek kalends," 
 said Hogan. 
 
 "With these shining examples of domestic 
 felicity before ye?" demanded Cassidy. - "Who'll 
 be that at the door?" A pause and then a 
 tap. "Come in." 
 
 "Mr* and Mrs. Cameron, sir," said the 
 maid. 
 
 "Welcome, me boy. Mrs. Cameron, ye 
 haven't forgotten Hogan. Jane, ask Mrs. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 233 
 
 Cassidy to come here. And how are yoUy 
 Jack junior? How the boy grows, Mrs. 
 Cameron! Oh, ye're here, Matilda. Just send 
 upstairs for Horace Cassidy, Esquoire, will 
 ye? Ye'll take it neetive in the pewter, 
 wont ye, Jack? Go on smokin', Hogan. 
 Both the ladies are smoke-dried." 
 
 Mrs. Cassidy having welcomed the guests, 
 ran upstairs, and returned presently with her 
 eldest son, who wore a prodigious rolled curl 
 upon his forehead, and was absurdly like his 
 father. 
 
 "Shake hands with Jack, Horace, me boy," 
 cried the proud parent. "I hope yell be as 
 good friends as your fathers were before 
 ye. But ye'll be getting too big a swell to 
 know us much longer, Cameron, though may- 
 be when you re in the Forty you'll put in 
 a word for a daub of poor ould Cassidy 's 
 now and then, and get the Committee to 
 hang me where I can be seen." 
 
 "Eely upon my influence" said Cameron, 
 with a lordly air. At that everybody laughed, 
 and the three men sat down to smoke, while 
 the ladies talked millinery. 
 
 Even when love is crowned by happy mar- 
 riage, ladies do sometimes talk millinery, and 
 husbands smoke apart the while, and the 
 world goes on very much as if nothing of 
 
 Q 
 
234 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 any first-rate importance had happened. But 
 surely it was a pleasant thing for the two 
 old friends to sit together with the two wives 
 beside, and the two little fellows playing 
 about the room. A sense, subdued yet pre- 
 sent, of sorrows ended and flown, was with 
 them both, and the present smiled the sweeter 
 for the stormy past. 
 
 " Who should we meet, on our way here this 
 afternoon," said Cameron, " but your great 
 father-in-law, renowned Leverett! I told him 
 that we were going to turn up this evening to 
 look at the life class, and he promised that he'd 
 look in." 
 
 « We're going to have a swell model to-night," 
 said Cassidy. " Hogan found him, and pro- 
 claims him the most picturesque old blackguard 
 in the world." 
 
 " He's a beard this long," said Hogan, stretch- 
 ing his arms abroad, "and a fine high, bold 
 forehead, and barring that he's a trifle red 
 about the nose, he'd be a wonderful John the 
 Baptist." 
 
 " Well," said Jack, " we'll come and look at 
 him." There was the faintest memory in the 
 world of an old limp in his gait as he arose and 
 crossed over to his wife. " Come along, little 
 woman, or we shall be late for dinner. You 
 wont forget to-morrow's dinner, Mrs. Cassidy P 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 235 
 
 That's chiefly what we called for. We know 
 where your head fails you, Bill. No memory." 
 
 " Now, that's unfair," cried Cassidy. " D'ye 
 know what that's about, Hogan ? I asked Mrs. 
 Cameron and Jack to dinner last week, and they 
 came just as I'd forgotten all about the invita- 
 tion, and got the boy and the beeby to bed, and 
 left them in care o' the maid, and had taken the 
 wife out to a quiet little dinner by ourselves, and 
 a box at the Oberon. I'll never hear the last of 
 it. Ye'll stop here and dine, Hogan. It's just a 
 cut of mutton, and no more, but there's a very 
 reasonable clar t in the cellar — ^round the corner 
 — and I'll have it up in honour of your visit.'' 
 
 Cameron and his wife went away, taking their 
 boy with them, and Mrs. Cassidy retired to 
 look after the dinner. 
 
 " They're a happy couple. Bill," said Hogan, 
 when the two men sat alone again. 
 
 " They are, then," returned Cassidy, " and 
 so they ought to be, to make up for all their 
 troubles. There's only one thing on the dear 
 girl's mind at all, and that's her blackguard 
 of a father. He's been heard of once or twice 
 since their marriage, and I believe she'd forgive 
 him now if she could foind him. But I fancy 
 he's gone under long ago, and I could bear 
 to think that without wantin' to give a very 
 large order for black clothes, oyther," 
 
 a 2 
 
236 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 " I'm not dyin' to see him," said Hogan, 
 pulling placidly at his pipe, " if only half I've 
 heard of him's true." 
 
 " ' Twas a pity ye forgot the letter I wrote 
 to Jack," said Oassidy. "If that had reached 
 him he'd have been back in time to save the 
 old beggar turning her out of doors, anyway. 
 And the world's not so virtuous that a crime 
 prevented doesn't count for something." 
 
 "Im sorry I forgot it, tew," said Hogan. 
 " I'm not a marryin' man meself , Bill, but 'twas 
 pretty to see them down at Scutari when he 
 was comin' round. The way she'd support him 
 with her shoulder, and the way she'd look at 
 'm when they walked about by them cypresses. 
 D'ye remember ? " 
 
 " Remember ? Me own wife was jealous of 
 me, I talked about her so when I came home. 
 But here's dinner going to be laid, and I'll 
 just go round and give the orders to the 
 butler." 
 
 Mr. Oassidy presiding at his own family 
 table was a pleasant spectacle, and the dinner 
 went merry as a marriage bell. A pipe and a 
 cup of coffee prepared for the evening's labours, 
 and whilst the friends sat chatting, the maid 
 brought up a singularly dirty piece of rough 
 cardboard on which was written, " Rev. Stanley 
 Vyvyan," 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 237 
 
 " Now tell me," said Hogan, " what you 
 think of me as a model-hunter." 
 
 The two went down together and encountered 
 in the hall a bent and tottering old man with 
 a great beard. 
 
 "This way," said Cassidy, and the man 
 followed, stepping slowly and with difficulty. 
 " Have y'ever been a model before ? " 
 
 "That degradation is reserved for me," said 
 the new model, in deep and husky tones. 
 
 * Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, 
 And each hour's joy wrecked with a week of teen/ 
 
 but it has never yet fallen to my lot to earn 
 my living by any menial service." 
 
 " Has he been drinking ? " asked Cassidy, 
 aside. 
 
 " No, I think not," responded Hogan. 
 " That's his regular form, me boy. He 
 never speaks except with a verse out of Scrip- 
 ture." 
 
 " Take off your hat," said Cassidy, " and 
 let's have a look at you. Now, you'll just 
 sit here, d'ye see, in this arm-chair on the 
 platform, and hould on to this halberd, like 
 that. Wait a minute. Ye'U be the better of 
 a cloak. Now there y'are. Head a Kttle 
 more to the right. Left foot out a bit. 
 
238 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 That'll do. Now ye can rest a bit and take 
 
 it easy till ye're wanted." 
 
 Cassidy moving away with his head on one 
 side surveyed the model with the look of a 
 connoisseur. 
 
 "Take it easy. You're not wanted for the 
 next five minutes, any way." 
 
 The students turned in by ones and twos, 
 and the model being finally arranged, the 
 work began, enlivened after the manner of 
 student labour by the singing of popular airs 
 and the whistling of operatic selections. 
 
 " He's picturesque enough, isn't he ? " said 
 Hogan in a whisper. 
 
 Cassidy had begun to regard the model 
 with a new interest, and he answered Hogan 
 only after drawing him away into a distant 
 corner of the room. 
 
 " I believe ye've made a find with a ven- 
 geance," said he then. "He's amazingly 
 altered, with the hair about his face, and the 
 baldness that's set in. But I ought to know 
 that nose and those eyes, and I believe it's no 
 less than Montgomery Bassett ! " 
 
 " Eubbish ! said Hogan. 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that, me boy," answered 
 Cassidy. " Give him a black wig and shave 
 him, and he might be as loike as two peas." 
 
 " That's not Bassett," said Hogan con- 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 239 
 
 temptuously. "He said he was eighty and 
 odd just now, and he looks every inch of 
 it." 
 
 " Well," said Cassidy resignedly, " he's here 
 now, whoever he is. You'll see if Cameron 
 spots 'm." 
 
 Cameron at that minute appearing, Cassidy 
 welcomed him with a manner somewhat forced 
 and unnatural. 
 
 " What d'ye think of the model. Jack ? " 
 
 " He'll do well enough," returned Cameron un- 
 concernedly, and walked round the room from 
 easel to easel glancing at the work. 
 
 "Well, now," said Hogan with a laugh, 
 " Vyvyan's Vyvyan still, isn't he ? " 
 
 " I'm glad I was wrong," answered William. 
 
 A notable silence stole over the room, and the 
 master of the life class turning round saw that 
 the model had shifted his position slightly. The 
 students were all staring at him, but not a pencil 
 was at work. Cameron was directly in front of 
 the model's throne, and the Reverend Stanley 
 Vyvyan was moving slowly towards him with 
 head and hands only. The painter looked up and 
 caught the model's eyes. He fell back with out- 
 stretched hands, and then dashed forward just in 
 time to seize the bar of the halberd as the blade 
 swept round at him, and the striker towered at 
 full height on the throne. 
 
240 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Be Moses," roared Cassidy, " it's Bassett, 
 after all!'' 
 
 There was no struggle to speak of. Cameron 
 had the halberd out of the man's hands in the 
 twinkling of an eye; and Cassidy, seizing the 
 model from behind, dragged him back to the seat, 
 and pinned him there with a grasp against which 
 it was vain for him to wrestle. 
 
 " Of all men else I have avoided thee," cried 
 the model, " but get thee back. You prosper, do 
 you ? and I am even the natural fool of fortune. 
 Unhand me, sir ! I'll join with black despair 
 against my soul, and to myself become an 
 enemy ! " 
 
 " Jack," said Cassidy, holding on behind, " he's 
 as mad as a hatter." 
 
 "Mad?" cried Montgomery Bassett. "Put 
 me to the test, and I the matter aptly will reward, 
 madness would gambol from. Tou live yet," he 
 said, his deep tones more husky and shaky than 
 of old. " But where is my daughter ? Give me 
 back my daughter." 
 
 " Eun for a doctor, one of you fellows," shouted 
 Cassidy. " Oh, I beg your pardon, Hogan ; I 
 forgot ye. Come and look at this demented ould 
 rascal, and see if he's mad or not." 
 
 Years of whiskey, and brooding, and remorses, 
 had done no service to Montgomery Bassett's 
 mind ; and, if he were not absolutely mad, one 
 
A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 241 
 
 delusion was fixed within him, permanent and 
 unshakable. Outside the influence of that delusion 
 he was as sane as ever ; and the nature of his 
 error might make it dangerous to the business 
 interests of the commonweal to set him down as a 
 madman. He had only persuaded himself thai 
 the man whom he had injured had injured him — 
 a feat performed every day in the year by the 
 stupidest as well as the ablest of men. 
 
 " We re most of us mad, more or less/' said 
 Hogan cheerfully ; but I'm inclined to think, 
 be the oye of 'm, he's only mad nor' -nor -west. 
 Ould man, if ye're noisy, it's a strait-waistcoat 
 that's weetin' for ye. Let him go, Cassidy." 
 
 Mr. Bassett was as mild as new milk. 
 
 " Ye see," said Hogan, " he's permeable to 
 reason. Hould still, I tell ye, or I'll have ye in 
 a strait- waistcoat in a jiflPy. They're in plenty on 
 the premises. Look at 'm. He's loike a choild, 
 for the moildness of his demaynour." 
 
 " Mr. Cameron," said Bassett, but for you I 
 should have lived a prosperous life, and my old 
 age would have been surrounded with honour, 
 love, obedience, troops of friends. But that 
 
 which should accompany old age Ichabod ! " 
 
 cried the model wildly, " Ichabod ! the glory is 
 departed ! " 
 
 " Take it easy, now," suggested Hogan. 
 
 " I ask nothing better," said Mr. Montgomery 
 
242 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 Bassett, " than to leave a presence distasteful to 
 every instinct of my better nature." 
 
 " Is this how you do it, Bill ? " cried a new 
 voice at the door. " Is it amateur theatricals, or 
 painting from the life, or what is it ? 
 
 " Come in, Horace," said Cassidy, with a sigh. 
 " I'd hoped ye'd see the school respectable. But, 
 begorra, here's Bassett back again ; and I believe 
 it s him instead of Beaconsfield that's demoralized 
 the British Islands." 
 
 " Oh," said Leverett, advancing, this is Bas- 
 sett, is it ? What's the matter ? 
 
 "Hogan brought him for a model," said 
 William. 
 
 "Take him upstairs," suggested Leverett 
 quietly. " There's a family quarrel in it. Bill ; 
 and dirty linen is always better washed in 
 private." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Cassidy, " I'm very sorry 
 to deproive ye of the night's instruction, but I'm 
 afraid under the circumstances — " 
 
 " Come along, boys," sang out one of the stu- 
 dents, and the crowd trooped noisily away, with 
 many backward glances. 
 
 " What'U we do with 'm ? " asked Cassidy. 
 
 " Heaven knows," said Jack in answer. " I'm 
 expecting Mary every minute, and it would be 
 terrible for her to find him here in this con- 
 dition." 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 243 
 
 Mr. Bassett had cast away the cloak, and his 
 garments, in the broad gaslight, were seen to be 
 foul and tattered. 
 
 "Bassett,'' said Cassidy, "ye've been the 
 blackest villain I ever heard of. But there's no- 
 body here want's to hit a man that's down, and I 
 think ye'd better go." 
 
 " Sir," said Bassett, " I am not wont to be 
 ordered from any man's house. I will go. He 
 took up his battered hat from the throne, and 
 marched majestically towards the door ; but just 
 as he was about to lay a hand upon it, it opened 
 of its own volition, and there stood his daugh- 
 ter. She knew him in a second. Her out* 
 stretched hands, and the look with which she 
 regarded him, told as much, too plainly to be 
 doubted. His own look, and the start he gave, 
 may have helped her. 
 
 Jack ran to his wife's side, and put an arm 
 about her. 
 
 " My child is still my child," said Mr. Bassett, 
 with mournful dignity. "I have fallen low in 
 the world's esteem since last I saw you, Mary, 
 and I have suffered much. But — I can still 
 forgive." 
 
 If Mary Bassett had ever hoped for any meet- 
 ing, the vision she had cherished had been far, 
 far different from this. In face of the reality 
 she could but cling blindly to her husband's arm. 
 
244 
 
 A MODEL FATHER, 
 
 " I should e en die with pity," said Mr. 
 Bassett, naturally disposed to find in the woes 
 of King Lear the nearest poetic semblance to 
 his own, "to see another thus. Do not laugh 
 at me, for as I am a man I think this lady to 
 be my child." 
 
 "Bassett," said Cameron, quietly but sternly, 
 " I wont endure this. Gro." 
 
 " J act," besought his wife, " don't turn him 
 out like this. Oh, papa ! " 
 
 Nobody saw how it came about, but she was 
 clinging to his neck, foul and tattered as he 
 was, and villain as he had been, and they 
 were both upon their knees together. 
 
 "Poor, poor dear," she cried, with a broken 
 voice and fast-falling tears. " To have been so 
 wicked and so cruel. And to have suffered so." 
 She could speak no further, but her clinging 
 arms and raining tears spoke more than any 
 words. She took the bald, unvenerable head to 
 her true breast and nursed it there, and rocked 
 it to and fro. 
 
 No man spoke a word or laid a hand upon 
 either of them, and on a sudden Montgomery 
 Bassett began to sob and cry terribly with an 
 emotion not of the stage or stagey, and for once 
 in his life the actor forgot to play even to himself, 
 and sacred nature had full swing within his shal- 
 low heart. 
 
A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 245 
 
 There is no revenge diviner than forgiveness, 
 and this vengeance his daughter took upon him. 
 
 The men slipped past the two kneeling figures, 
 and left the father and child together. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery Bassett, provided with a 
 yearly income of one hundred pounds (by a son- 
 in-law who is at last convinced of his own 
 unworthiness), and clad in black broadcloth, and 
 clean shaven, is not so unlike his former self that 
 old friends refuse to recognize him. He is not 
 now so popular as he once was when he had more 
 money, but he has his little circle of old admirers 
 still, and he himself is happy in having forgiven 
 Jack Cameron, who maintains him. Jack 
 prospers so that Mr. Bassett is likely enough to 
 have a grievance against him shortly on the 
 score of his allowance, which seems to him 
 curiously incommensurate with his son-in-law's 
 income. 
 
 The old man attends his daughter dutifully, 
 and takes luncheon with her daily. Jack is so 
 prodigiously busy that a sandwich and a glass of 
 claret served in the studio are all he can afford to 
 take from breakfast-time to the dinner-hour, but 
 it is noticeable that this increase in his necessary 
 labour has only come about since it pleased fate to 
 restore his father-in-law. 
 
 When last I called on Mrs. Cameron (Cassidy, 
 having learned that Bassett was there, declined to 
 
246 
 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 
 enter, and shook hands at the door), she was knit- 
 ting a vest for a curley-headed, handsome little 
 fellow who was playing about her knees. The lad 
 was at romps with the kitten, and the two young 
 wild animals together carried the sweet little lady's 
 ball of worsted all about the room, winding 
 it round the leg of every chair and sofa and 
 table. Bassett was sitting by her, and it is 
 possible that the presence of a stranger gave 
 some spur to his fatherly impulses. At any 
 rate he went down upon his knees — when the 
 nurse had removed both the boy and the kitten — 
 and having carefully unwound the worsted, he 
 rolled it up and offered it to his daughter, who 
 kissed him, being in the presence of an old 
 friend, with no embarrassment. The old fellow 
 grinned under his glossy new black wig, and 
 kissed her back again, 
 
 "There, my dear," said he with a flourish, 
 handing her the ball, "am I not a Model 
 Father?" 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZI. 
 
249 
 
 THE BISHOP AND Mr. LATAZZL 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Some thirty years ago there lived in a little 
 town near the middle of England a motherless 
 and fatherless young woman, who had a small 
 fortune of her own and was taken care of by 
 a maiden aunt. The young orphan in a kit- 
 tenish helpless way was pretty and engaging, 
 and she had very ripe plump features and a 
 very ripe plump figure. These charms coupled 
 with the ripe plump balance at her banker's 
 made her well liked by her contemporaries, 
 and she was much sought after by the young 
 men of the town and its neighbourhood. The 
 district was given over chiefly to the production 
 of ironware, and the deceased Richard Jones, 
 father of the plump and ripe yoimg woman, 
 had dealt prosperously in a wholesale way in 
 fire-shovels, rakes, hoes, garden-spades, saddlers' 
 ironmongery, and the like. The young men 
 
250 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 who courted Letitia Jones were engaged for 
 the most part in similar pursuits, and had to 
 do with iron in one form or another. The 
 girl was very much puzzled to choose between 
 them. It was, in a way, incumbent upon her 
 to get married — if for no other reason than 
 to escape their importunities and give all but 
 one of the poor things a chance to make an- 
 other choice; but for a while Letitia could not 
 decide for herself, and being unwilling to accept 
 the maiden aunt's dictum upon a question of 
 so much importance, found nobody to decide 
 for her. All the young men were nice in their 
 various ways, all tolerably well to do, all de- 
 voted, and all ready to eat each other out of 
 rivalry. 
 
 The problem solved itself as such problems 
 sometimes will, and Letitia chose none of the 
 suitors who had dangled about her for the 
 last year or two. A new-comer beat them all 
 out of the field. 
 
 Unhappily this new-comer was a rascal, not 
 of the conventional but of the melodramatic 
 type. If he had only gambled, or had only 
 drunk, or had only beaten his wife, or had 
 only been unfaithful, or even if he had merely 
 done (as he did) all these rascally things, this 
 &tory would never have to be written. But 
 the villainies of Major Reginald Barclay carried 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 251 
 
 themselves beyond these unobtrusive limits, and 
 lifted him for a week or two into a celebrity 
 almost European. 
 
 In his way he was a fine-looking fellow, 
 until his dissipated habits began to set their 
 mark on his handsome but sinister features, 
 and little Letitia went down before his black 
 eyes as though they were mitrailleurs. The 
 Major came, saw, and overcame, and long before 
 he thought it worth his while to make more 
 than the most cautious advances, the girl had 
 given him all her foolish little heart. When 
 he told her he loved her she could scarcely 
 believe that so much pride and joy could live 
 in one bosom as brightened hers, and her 
 happiness was like a pain to her many a time. 
 
 Letitia's father had been a fairly good 
 business man, and was wise enough in his 
 generation to guard his child, as well as the 
 construction of his last will and testament 
 could do it, from the assaults of adventurers. 
 The girl's sole legal guardian was a keenish 
 country lawyer, who naturally demanded an 
 inquiry into the Major's affairs when marriage 
 began to be talked of. At this period of his 
 career the black-avised Eeginald was all milk 
 and honey. He admitted the necessity for 
 such an inquiry as the lawyer demanded, and 
 was ready to lay open his affairs in the most 
 
 R 2 
 
252 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 candid manner. It happened fortunately that 
 his lawyer had come down from town just at 
 that time — so he told the guardian — to discuss 
 some proposals of importance with respect to 
 the sale of a portion of the family property. 
 Perhaps the two would confer together at once ? 
 The country lawyer agreed, and the London 
 lawyer came over to see him. It never came 
 out very clearly in what way the swindle was 
 effected — Letitia's lawyer was naturally shy of 
 talking about the matter afterwards — but it 
 was known that there were some forged docu- 
 ments in the case, and some others that 
 turned out to have been stolen. The London 
 lawyer had been struck off the EoUs three years 
 before — a clever, plausible, gentlemanlike dog — 
 and was almost as thorough-paced a scoundrel 
 as his employer, who was a prince amongst 
 adventurers in his day. It was enough that 
 the girl's guardian was satisfied at the time, 
 and that everybody concerned was very neatly 
 and completely hoodwinked. The marriage 
 took place, and the Major and his wife went 
 on the Continent for their honeymoon. 
 
 The Major had raised two or three thousand 
 pounds, "for the improvement of a portion of 
 his property "—the contemplated sales not hav* 
 ing been carried out — and whilst that sum 
 lasted he was amiable and complaisant enough, 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 253 
 
 although it was not long before his wife dis- 
 covered his fondness for drink. But when the 
 newly-married couple got to Baden-Baden the 
 green table so drew the husband that the wife 
 found herself lonely morning, noon, and night. 
 When the rascal won he would buy valuable 
 presents for her, but that was only just at 
 first; and later on, whenever he lost, he would 
 go home and abuse her, and a little later still 
 would beat her. For a time he was lucky, 
 and the poor Letitia had more watches, and 
 bracelets, and brooches than a dozen women 
 could have worn at one time. She used to sit 
 and turn them over whilst he was away at 
 the gaming-table, and would kiss them, and 
 would cry over them, and would try them on 
 in a compound of love, and vanity, and sorrow. 
 But when the Major's tide of ill-fortune fairly 
 set in, all these pretty things went with the 
 remnant of his pretty manners. When screams 
 were heard after midnight the servants in the 
 little villa the Major had taken for the season 
 knew that their master had lost and that their 
 mistress was paying for his losses. Such ugly 
 whispers reached the not over-particular society 
 of Baden-Baden that nobody would associate 
 with Major Barclay, and his wife was an 
 object of universal pity. 
 
 One morning Letitia sat (]^lone at the break- 
 
254 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 fast-table crying over a letter from the maiden 
 aunt, not noisily, but with a quiet misery 
 which must have been pitiable for anything 
 with a heart to look at, and whilst she was 
 looking at the lines which her tears made 
 unreadable in came the Major. He was not 
 often up in time for breakfast, but on this 
 occasion he was about earlier than usual, hav- 
 ing been up all night with a private card-party. 
 Of course, when it was said just now that 
 nobody would associate with him, a certain 
 black-leg, shameless margin was understood. 
 There is nobody with whom nobody will 
 associate — not even a hangman is altogether 
 isolated. 
 
 " What have you got to snivel at now ? " 
 demanded the Major. "When a man comes 
 home he naturally likes to find things cheerful." 
 
 "Eeginald," said the wife piteously, "don't 
 be angry with me." 
 
 " Angry ? " returned the aggrieved husband. 
 "You'd rile a seraph. What have you got to 
 snivel at?" Letitia wiped her eyes unob- 
 trusively. 
 
 "I have a letter from Aunt Lucretia this 
 morning," she answered. 
 
 " And what the devil's the matter with her ? " 
 inquired the Major in a tone which bespoke 
 no great interest in Aunt Lucretia's well-being. 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 255 
 
 " Nothing, darling, nothing, " said Letitia. 
 "She only says she's glad to know I am so — 
 so — ha — ha — happy." And she began to cry 
 again. 
 
 " You look it," said the Major with an oath. 
 " Stash it ! " he roared suddenly, and she shrank 
 under his raised hand, cowering. Reginald 
 used curious expressions sometimes, of which 
 she knew nothing and could guess nothing 
 except that perhaps they were in use among 
 military men. You'll have lots of time to 
 snivel by yourself. I'm going to England for 
 a day or two. I suppose I shall be away a 
 fortnight." 
 
 " May I come too ? " she asked, though she 
 stood in deadly fear of him. 
 
 " No, you can't come too," he answered, jeering 
 at her. " You let me hear that you've left 
 
 Baden whilst I'm away, and I'll " He did 
 
 not say what he would do, but he had been 
 cruel enough to inspire her with abject terror 
 of him already, and she did not know where 
 he would stop. So far he had never actually 
 beaten her whilst he had been sober, but she 
 never knew what might be coming. " I'm going 
 over on business, and I can't be bothered with 
 you. You'll write and tell your Aunt Lucretia 
 that dear Eeginald will call upon her, and you'll 
 be very prettily sorry that you are not quite 
 
256 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZl. 
 
 strong enough to make such, a hasty journey 
 there and back, and you'll say that dear Eeginald 
 has provided everything you wish for and that 
 you have charming friends, and wont be a bit 
 lonely while dear Reginald's away. I shall 
 start at two o'clock, and you'll have plenty of 
 time to write the letter. I'll read it and post 
 it before I go." 
 
 She was in such fear of him that she obeyed 
 him, though she had to write the lying letter 
 three times over, because her tears had blotted 
 the first and second editions of it. When her 
 husband came to read it he seemed to think 
 its professions of affection for dear Reginald 
 wanting in gusto, which perhaps imder the 
 circumstances was natural. 
 
 "You'll write to me while I'm away, wont 
 you, darling ? " asked the blackguard scofiingly. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Letitia, scarcely daring to 
 look at him. 
 
 " Give me what money you have," he said, 
 a moment later ; "I mayn't have enough. You 
 wont want for anything — your credit's good 
 enough for a fortnight." 
 
 She obeyed him in fear and trembling, and 
 he went his way, leaving her in tears behind 
 him. They had been married nearly five months 
 by this time, and tears had been so usual that 
 they almost seemed part of a married life to 
 her. 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LA TAZZL 257 
 
 For two or three days she was lonely and 
 miserable enough, but by-and-bye, being not yet 
 altogether crushed, her youthful heart lifted her 
 up a little bit, and she began to hope that when 
 he came back he would be kinder, and to think 
 how cheerful and long-suffering she would always 
 be, and what she would do to win him into 
 gentleness and to keep him away from drink 
 and gaming. A canary might as well have 
 tried to tame a rattlesnake as she to tame the 
 Major; but how should she know what manner 
 of man he was ? There are few women who 
 could imagine such a man, and they are not 
 of the sort we care to know or to think about. 
 There were very few vices with which the Major 
 was not familiar, and if he had any virtues he 
 hid them so well during his earthly career that 
 no man ever had a glimpse of one of them. 
 The optimist denies it, but there are such 
 men — mistaken egotists who take the wrong 
 way to coddle themselves, and are as unsus- 
 ceptible of any civilising influences which go 
 below the skin as an alligator would be. Society, 
 with more or less expenditure of emotion, hangs 
 these people, as a rule. The most finished of 
 philanthropists will kill a cobra or a whipsnake 
 if he have the chance and the courage — and 
 that, from the snake's point of view, is no doubt 
 something of a pity. If he could express himself, 
 
258 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 lie would probably claim as mucli right to live 
 at tbe expense of your life as you have to live 
 at the expense of his. But he is in a minority. 
 
 There lived at Baden-Baden at this time a 
 certain handsome and dashing-looking lady, who 
 was admitted into the best society, as the 
 Princesse de Grrandequeue surely had a right 
 to be. The Prince de Grandequeue was the 
 present chief of one of the oldest and most 
 honourable of Belgian families. People said 
 he had made a mesalliance^ and perhaps he had, 
 but he had married money, and no prince can 
 live in comfort upon two thousand francs a 
 year and the age and honour of his family. 
 The father of la Princesse had conveniently died 
 a month before the marriage — he was not the 
 sort of father-in-law for a prince to be proud 
 of — and the lady had full control of her own 
 money. Mr. Anthony P. Kain had made his 
 heap in the best days of Frisco, and was 
 supposed to be worth one million sterling when 
 he died. His daughter had pronounced ways 
 of her own, and was generally admitted to be 
 charming but eccentric. She spoke French 
 with perfect fluency, and the droll construction 
 of her sentences was pardonable in a foreigner. 
 Her experiences of life as child and young 
 woman had given her so admirable an inso- 
 lence and so fine a courage, that when she 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 259 
 
 confined herself to a foreign language she was 
 not ill-bred. When she betook herself to that 
 version of the English tongue with which she 
 was most familiar, she could be terrible, but 
 half a dozen years of travel had taught her a 
 good deal, and she was not often terrible in 
 her Baden-Baden days; never, perhaps, except 
 under the very strongest provocation. She 
 could smoke, she could drink like a man, she 
 had shot wild boar on her husband's recovered 
 lands, she could ride anything that had four 
 legs, in her own way she was a rare woman 
 of business, and for her heart she was a woman 
 in a thousand. Her tenderness and kindness 
 were not feminine but masculine in origin and 
 manifestation, and, indeed, the big, noisy, 
 cheerful creature was altogether manly. Na- 
 ture seemed to have made a mistake in the 
 physical mould. 
 
 Now, albeit that the Princesse of Grandequeue 
 was at one end of the society of the place, and 
 poor little Mrs. Barclay was almost at the other, 
 there was something just a little more than a 
 bowing acquaintance between them. When 
 Letitia had first reached Baden, she had been 
 full of the delight of marriage, and her scoun- 
 drel of a husband had not yet been particularly 
 cruel, so that she used to drive about with him 
 at times in such a state of beaming complacency 
 
260 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 that her happiness was noticeable to anybody 
 who had eyes to see. The Princess used to 
 see her at these times, and admired her almost 
 as a man would have done. Letitia's plump 
 prettiness and kittenish helplessness were so far 
 away from the Princess's own style of beauty 
 and of nature that they invited her as they 
 had in their time invited masculine admirers. 
 Then, when it became known that her husband 
 ill-used her, the Princess was very much disposed 
 to cowhide him, and was only held back from 
 that good deed by the reflection that the after- 
 state of the little woman would be worse than 
 the first. A muscular and manly-minded Princess 
 could not always be found to check the Major's 
 little irregularities, and a solitary discipline 
 would have been worse than useless. 
 
 The Princess of Grrandequeue had so often 
 expressed her interest in Mrs. Barclay that all 
 her little crowd of courtiers knew of it, and 
 she used to get the news about her. On such 
 and such a morning, two hours after midnight, 
 the servants had heard her screams and the 
 Major's oaths and curses, and the swish of the 
 Major's riding-whip. On such and such a day 
 Monsieur Godin had been called in to attend 
 the poor lady after a fall downstairs, which 
 she herself proclaimed accidental, though the 
 servants swore that her husband had kicked 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 261 
 
 her the length of the landing, and had promised 
 to add murder to the list of his accomplish- 
 ments. (One of the two women spoke English, 
 and had been engaged on that account.) The 
 horribly shameful list of the Major's cruelties 
 went on growing from day to day, but nobody 
 interfered because nobody had a right to in- 
 terfere. When at length he went away it was 
 currently reported that he had deserted his wife, 
 and the tradesmen learning this rumour, as 
 tradesmen in a town with a floating population 
 of gamblers are likely enough to do almost as 
 soon as anybody, Mrs. Barclay found herself 
 besieged for small sums of money, and further 
 supplies refused. She went one day without 
 dinner, and while she sat crying her eyes out, 
 as well she might, the servants gathered to- 
 gether such things as were most easily portable 
 and so paid themselves their wages — a little in 
 excess, perhaps — and left their unfortunate 
 mistress to herself* These things also came 
 to the ears of the Princess of Grrandequeue, 
 and that energetic lady set out without waiting 
 for her carriage, and marched straight to the 
 little villa. Letitia did not as yet know that 
 her women had deserted her, and when she 
 heard the loud peal of the bell she saw in 
 fancy a sheriff's ofiicer, or some such func* 
 tionary, and lay on the bed in her own room, 
 
262 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 frightened out of her tears for the moment 
 The bell after a pause pealed again, and then 
 after a briefer pause it rang madly. Where 
 could the servants be? Letitia, full of tremors, 
 ran downstairs and opened the door, and there 
 stood the Princess, who, as the proprietress of 
 a Prince and a million sterling, was awful in 
 the countrybred woman's eyes. I dare not 
 venture on a description of the Princess's cos- 
 tume, but if you are learned in millinery it 
 may be enough to know that it topped the 
 splendours of the fashion of 1862. Letitia, 
 with her terror-stricken tear-stained face, stood 
 before all this magnificence and could not find 
 a word. 
 
 " You poor little creetur ! said the mag- 
 nificent Princess. "You do look reglar heart- 
 breakin', I do declare! " She walked in uninvited, 
 and kissed Letitia soundly on both cheeks, 
 and the little woman's tears being stirred 
 afresh at this^ the Princess herself closed the 
 door, and putting an arm round her waist led 
 her into one of the first-floor rooms, and there 
 let her have her cry out thoroughly. "Now 
 you an' me's goin' to be friends for one while 
 anyhow," said the Princess when the tears were 
 over. " You cay n't be let live here an' famish, 
 anyway, an' you'd best come along with me. 
 I reckon yom folks will be in England?" 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 263 
 
 Letitia said Yes to that enquiry, and in a 
 little while was brought to acknowledge the 
 present position of her affairs. But she would 
 hear nothing against the Major, and would not 
 believe for a moment that he had deserted her. 
 It came out, in answer to the Princess's in- 
 quiries, that the Major was very wealthy, though 
 Letitia had never seen his property or his 
 friends and relatives. The wife did not know 
 whether she and the Major had been living on 
 her own money or on his, and she said nothing 
 about the loan to her husband from her own 
 estate. Her father had left her four thousand 
 down, and an annual income of seven hundred 
 and fifty pounds. If she lived to have children, 
 the limip sum from which this income was derived 
 was to be divided amongst them at her death. 
 If not, it passed on to a cousin of hers or his 
 next of kin. Before a Married Women's Pro- 
 perty Act came into being, this was about as 
 good a provision as a careful father might 
 make for his daughter. The Princess knew 
 what the wife did not know — that the Major 
 had left debts, called " of honour," unpaid 
 behind him, and she disbelieved the story of 
 his wealth. It was likely enough that he had 
 not permanently deserted his wife — if he were 
 poor, such a desertion was out of the question — 
 and he would be back again for money, though 
 
264 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZI. 
 
 possibly he might shun Baden, wher his lia- 
 bihties were heavy. 
 
 The j&rst result of the talk between the two 
 women was that Letitia and the Princess went 
 upstairs together and packed up a prodigious 
 quantity of clothing in three or four big boxes. 
 The next result was that Letitia accompanied 
 the Princess home, and the clothes being sent 
 for she assumed a place in the regular manege of 
 the Prince's stately villa. The Prince never re- 
 sented anything the Princess might do. She was 
 a model wife and he a model husband. She or- 
 dered and the Prince obeyed, or if he disobeyed 
 kept disobedience carefully out of sight and 
 hearing. This kept things smooth, and the 
 felicity of the pair presented a •wonderful con- 
 trast to the unhappiness of Letitia's experience. 
 
 There was nothing in the world more natural 
 or likely than that the Princess should find 
 her interest in Letitia's affairs growing with 
 the exercise of her protection. It is pleasant 
 to be rich and powerful, and to be able to 
 protect anybody who needs it if you have a 
 fancy that way. "When at the end of a fort- 
 night a letter from the Major reached Letitia, 
 the Princess saw it and resolved on instant 
 action. This letter, you must know, demanded 
 that Letitia should draw immediately upon her 
 guardian for the whole remainder of the money 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 2G5 
 
 then lying in his hands. This the little 
 woman supposed to be about two thousand 
 pounds, for before her marriage the annual 
 seven hundred and fifty had not half been 
 spent, and the saving would go to swell the 
 original lump. The Princess cross-questioned 
 her so that she had to confess the Major's 
 original draught. 
 
 *'Now my dear," said that decided woman, 
 you're goin' to say just what you want to, 
 an' I'm goin' to listen, and when you've done 
 I'm goin' to believe the thing that's plain on 
 the face of this here blackguard letter. It's 
 your bad luck to have got married to a 
 scoundrel, and what's worse a needy scoundrel 
 into the bargain, an' about as bad as they 
 make 'em all round, I reckon. Me and the 
 Prince have been a-talkin' about a visit to 
 London, and it cayn't do any harm if we 
 make it now." The lady had never seen 
 London, and she wanted to shine there as she 
 had shone in Baden-Baden; but the Prince 
 would fain have confined his wife to conti- 
 nental society, where her lapses in grammar 
 did not matter to anybody and did no harm. 
 He was very glad of the Princess's million 
 sterling, and before he married it he had 
 been quite prepared to be laughed at, if he 
 could get it at no cheaper rate than that, 
 
 s 
 
266 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 But being a very decent Prince at "bottom, 
 lie had got to like and admire his wife, and 
 to be a little sensitive about her social short- 
 comings on her own account, and he writhed 
 inwardly whenever a well-bred American or 
 Englishman came his way. A lady of either 
 nation he dreaded as he dreaded nothing else 
 beneath the sun. The Princess never dreamt 
 of this, being entirely satisfied with herself in 
 her own mind, and reckoning herself, indeed, 
 rather a piercing judge of manners. She had 
 a reason, which her heart justified, for wanting 
 to go to London, and she wanted very much 
 to go, apart from that reason. " I shall see 
 you safe down to your aunt," she said to 
 Letitia, " and between us we'll take measures 
 for your protection." 
 
 Letitia wanted no measures taken for her 
 protection. She would have gone back to that 
 ineffable rascal of a husband of hers and sur- 
 rendered her last penny if only he would 
 have pretended to be fond of her for a day 
 or two. Major Barclay was a shrewdish sort 
 of man in his way, and it was a little re- 
 markable that he had no more sense than to 
 beat such a wife as fate had given him. 
 
 The short of the story is that the Princess 
 persuaded the Prince, who dared not refuse to 
 be persuaded; that Letitia, who had always 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LA7AZZL 207 
 
 been used to yield to everybody, yielded here; 
 and that in three days after receipt of the 
 Major's letter the party started. The journey 
 was as unadventurous as any journey need be, 
 but the young wife's heart ached and trembled 
 all the time it lasted. The Princess had writ- 
 ten a note to Miss Lucretia. " The Princesse 
 de Grandequeue presents her compliments to 
 Miss Lucretia Jones, and will call upon you 
 in company with your niece about Wednesday." 
 The receipt of this missive threw Miss Lucretia 
 into a state of the wildest excitement, and for 
 a day or two she could scarcely eat or sleep. 
 The bare idea of a visit from a princess set 
 her nerves fluttering till she could scarcely 
 think. The note was not in the best episto- 
 lary style, but then the title was foreign, and 
 nobody could expect the best English from a 
 foreigner. The simple-minded untravelled wo- 
 man was quite crushed when the Princess, in 
 company with Letitia, drove up in a carriage 
 hired at an hotel in the neighbouring town. 
 She curtseyed and said, "Bon jour, votre Al- 
 tesse," when the Princess entered, and you 
 might have knocked her down with a feather 
 — so she was ready to declare until her dying 
 day — when that exalted lady turned upon her 
 and spoke American-English through her hand- 
 some nose. 
 
 s2 
 
268 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 "I've brought your little gell back, Miss," 
 said the Princess, " and I tell yon youVe got 
 to tbenk me for it. You let her marry th& 
 doggonedest villain I ever saw or read about. 
 He's spent every red the poor child had, and 
 he left her out there stone-broke without a crust 
 to keep her teeth from chatterin/ He's that 
 flogged her it's a pity to think about." 
 
 The maiden aunt began to cry, and mak- 
 ing a dash at Letitia, threw her arms about 
 her with a thousand incoherent expressions of 
 sorrow and affection. Letitia responded to 
 this demonstration in a manner like unto it, 
 and the Princess stood by well pleased, but 
 a little inclined to cry also. When the first 
 burst of emotion was over, the Princess, insist- 
 ing upon not being minded at all, sent 
 Letitia and her aunt upstairs, that the poor 
 girl might bathe her swollen eyes and arrange 
 her disordered hair ; and when they hado beyed 
 her, the titled lady made herself perfectly at 
 home, ringing the bell and demanding a cup 
 of tea from the servant as if she had lived 
 in the house all her life. The servant, who 
 knew that the visitor was a princess, served 
 her with an alacrity which was dashed with a 
 little fear and trembling, and the good crea- 
 ture, satisfied at the present result of her 
 journey, sat and sipped her tea in peace. 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 269 
 
 It was growing dusk, and the Princess sat 
 in a half-light with her tea-cup in her hand 
 and her back to the window. She heard the 
 bell ring and she heard the maid answer the 
 door. Then a man's voice spoke in softened 
 accents, and in a second or two the door of 
 the sitting-room was opened and in walked 
 Major Barclay. Now, this charming gentleman 
 saw well enough that it was not Miss Letitia 
 who sat at the window, whoever else it might 
 be, but the occasion was good for a display 
 of that tenderness which made so large a part 
 of him, and he pretended to mistake the figure 
 in the dusk. 
 
 " Grood evening, dear aunt," said the Major. 
 "Have you heard from my darling at Baden 
 since I called upon you last?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Princess, rising. "I reckon 
 your darling at Baden's been heard of. You 
 low hound ! " 
 
 The Major at Baden had heard of the 
 Princess often enough, and had even seen her 
 twice or thrice, but he was not able to iden- 
 tify her in his wife's aunt's parlour, for he 
 had never heard her speak before. Even when 
 a man happens to be a low hound it is not 
 agreeable to be told of it, and to find in a 
 familiar house a strange lady who opens up 
 the conversation as the Princess did, would be 
 
270 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZI 
 
 emTbarrassing to almost anybody. He was a 
 ready rascal usually, but this curious address 
 so staggered him that for a quarter of a minute 
 he stood silent, feeling stunned. In about that 
 time the Princess — being a woman — forfeited 
 the advantage her silence gave her, and ap- 
 plied to the Major the restorative of further 
 speech. 
 
 " You mean woman-starver ! " said the lady. 
 "You low, gamblin', drinkin', wife-beatin' wo- 
 man-starver ! " 
 
 "What is the name of your asylum, madam?'' 
 inquired the gentleman, when one swift glance 
 about the room had assured him that the lady 
 was alone. 
 
 "Newgate's yourn, I reckon," said the Prin- 
 cess calmly. "Don't you fool with me, young 
 man. Your game's played clean out. If you 
 want to know who I am, I'm the Princesse 
 de Grandequeue, and you may have heard of 
 me at Baden. That poor onfort'nate wife o' 
 yourn's out of your clutches now for good and 
 all, and if you're anything short of a fool 
 you'll get — " The Major carried a stoutish 
 walking-stick, and in his effusive entry he had 
 laid it with his hat and gloves upon the table. 
 The Princess advancing took it up and bran- 
 dished it with a gesture which few princesses 
 have learned to use. " Gret ! " cried the lady, 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 271 
 
 twirling the stick, and the Major backed be- 
 fore her. The hall bell rang again. Get ! " 
 The Major dodged, and the stick fell smartly 
 across his shoulders. At this he turned upon 
 the Princess with an oath, and a struggle 
 began between them about the final victory in 
 which there could not have been a doubt. 
 But for the moment her Altesse prevailed, 
 and, abandoning the weapon, she set her big 
 white hands well inside the Major's collar 
 and banged his head against the door with 
 royal vigour. The Major gurgled anathemas, 
 and the lady went back to the verbal felici- 
 ties of early days, and as a whole it may be 
 as well to leave their conversation unrecorded. 
 But whilst they both talked together as well 
 as they could, and the Major's head banged 
 more and more unfrequently against the wood- 
 work, the door was pushed open with the pair 
 still struggling against it, and a man in dark 
 clothes forced his way into the room. 
 
 "What's all this about?" asked the new 
 comer. " Thomson, show a light here." 
 
 It was altogether a singular thing to happen 
 in the parlour of an old maid of rigid pro- 
 priety like Miss Lucretia, but at this summons 
 another man in dark clothes entered, and, 
 striking a match, turned on the gas and ap- 
 plied the light. 
 
272 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 " Thank you very much, ma'am," said the first 
 stranger in a business-like way. " You may let 
 him go, ma'am." 
 
 The Princess loosed her hold and fell back 
 with her glorious bonnet on the back of her 
 head, her laces floating in loose shreds, and 
 the sleeves of her gown in rags. 
 
 " Major Barclay," said the first stranger, " alias 
 the Honourable Eoland Chapman, alias Colonel 
 Boyd, alias Captain Courteney, and cetera. 
 You'll take it easy wont you ? " 
 
 Like lightning the Major's hand went into 
 his breast-pocket, and like lightning the officer 
 was on him, and they rolled on the ground 
 together. There was a sudden flash and 
 crack, and in the midst of a little smoke the 
 first stranger rose, alone. The Major was 
 still, and a revolver was clasped in the right 
 hand that lay quiet on his breast 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 The Eeverend Clarence Launceston was a 
 young man of the mildest temper and the 
 most exemplary life. He was not a very 
 brilliant young man, but he was unaffectedly 
 pious, and the Church was his natural home. 
 His uncle was a bishop, and his father had 
 the presentation of one unusually fat living, 
 and the profession the Eeverend Clarence had 
 chosen seemed likely to be more profitable to 
 him than any other he could possibly have 
 lighted upon. But this was only a coin- 
 cidence, and had not in any way determined 
 him. He was pale and tall and lank, and 
 he used to fast more than was good for 
 him. It was whispered amongst his wor- 
 shippers that he wore a hair shirt, and it is 
 certain that he subjected himself to many 
 unnecessary inconveniences in his search after 
 a quiet conscience. The way to go to sleep 
 is to go to sleep, and the way to get a 
 quiet conscience is not to poke the inward 
 monitor every second of the waking day with 
 
274 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATaZZL 
 
 the pointed stick of spiritual interrogation. 
 Anything would become abusive in such cir- 
 cumstances, and the Eeverend Clarence's con- 
 conscience was disagreeable with him about 
 things concerning which a normal conscience 
 would not have wagged an eyelid. The 
 Reverend Clarence treated his wretched con- 
 science as the Chinese treat their wickedest 
 criminals — stuck pins in it to keep it awake. 
 It kept awake, and was about as useful a 
 guide as a teething baby would have been, 
 and just as fractious. 
 
 The lank young man had never done any- 
 thing wickeder than to steal the sugar in 
 his childhood, but he took a sort of humble 
 pride in thinking himself the chief of sinners. 
 His sins — such as they were, poor things — 
 culminated or seemed to culminate on a 
 certain Sunday, when a pretty pale little lady, 
 who was a stranger to the congregation, took 
 her seat at the beginning of the morning 
 service just under the Reverend Clarence's 
 nose. The young man thought that she was 
 very pleasing to look at, and his conscience 
 caught him at it and yelped at him as an 
 ill-conditioned terrier who flies out of his 
 kennel to frighten a passing baby. The 
 heinous thought came back again with "Venite 
 exultemus," and he intoned "Let us heartily 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 275 
 
 rejoice," in a lugubrious howl of devotion and 
 repentance. The terrible sinful fancy recurred 
 with the second collect, and he looked at the 
 pretty pale face twice during the Litany. 
 Conscience, thoroughly out of temper, with 
 every nerve on edge for want of sleep, 
 ordered him to go without his dinner as a 
 penance for this unheard-of wickedness. He 
 was very ill all the afternoon as a natural 
 consequence, and looked so ghastly at the 
 evening service that there was scarcely a 
 single young lady in the congregation who 
 would not have married him on the morrow 
 by special license. He looked at the pretty 
 pale face once more — for it was there again — 
 and as a further penance for this further 
 crime he went to bed without his supper, 
 and endured such pangs of hunger in the 
 night that he got up and made a surreptitious 
 meal so hastily that he brought on a bad 
 attack of indigestion. 
 
 The Eeverend Clarence Launceston was a 
 firm believer in the necessity of the celibacy 
 of the clergy, and had been terribly confirmed 
 in this faith by the fact that his charming 
 cousin Julia had jilted him. It is not xmusual 
 for young people of both sexes to confound 
 opinion and experience in that sort of way. 
 The owner of the pale pretty face coming with 
 
276 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 great regularity to church began to disturb the 
 young man's opinion, and he read the Fathers 
 diligently for guidance. The Fathers were di- 
 vided on this as on most other matters, and 
 whenever the searcher after truth found an 
 argument in favour of clerical cehbacy it 
 seemed to him a little feeble, whilst the clearness, 
 directness, and force of passages in an opposite 
 direction were quite refreshing to the intellect. 
 
 The Eeverend Clarence's vicar carried war 
 into the realms of darkness by the propaga- 
 tion of tea-parties, and the owner of the 
 pretty pale face came to these also, and every 
 time the Curate saw her he thought less of 
 the opinions of those amongst the Fathers 
 who stood out for the celibacy of the clergy, 
 and more of those who declared it a device 
 of Satan. It got to be noticed in the course 
 of about a twelvemonth — for nothing was done 
 precipitately — that the Curate and Miss Jones 
 seemed to have a decided leaning towards each 
 other. The pallor of the pretty face was by 
 this time much less noticeable, and the Curate, 
 if nobody else, had seen its roses in full 
 bloom. A change for the better began to 
 declare itself in the young man's personal as- 
 pect. He looked much less cadaverous than 
 of old, and excited accordingly much less 
 sympathy and spiritual reverence in the breasts 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LA TAZZL 277 
 
 of the single ladies of the church in which 
 he officiated. The legend of the hair shirt 
 was discredited, and the Curate took his meals 
 with a regularity which would have shocked 
 him in more spiritual days. Miss Jones — 
 whose Christian name, by the way, was Le- 
 titia— had a nice little competency of her own, 
 and kept house in a very pretty unostenta- 
 tious style, in companionship with a maiden 
 aunt whose name was Lucretia. There were 
 several spiritually-minded elderly virgins in the 
 congregation of the church who were sure 
 that Miss Jones was designing, and that her 
 pretence of Christian fervour was a sham ; 
 but the plain truth of the matter (though 
 nobody in that neighbourhood knew it, or had 
 reason to guess it) was that the poor child 
 had an awful tragedy behind her, and that 
 she had really run to the Church for shelter 
 from her troubles. It is not everybody who 
 can live on spiritual raptures, and Miss Jones 
 was not born to be a member of minorities. 
 She sought consolation at the hands of the 
 servant of the Chm-ch, and received it at the 
 hands of the Eeverend Clarence Launceston, 
 which was the same thing with a difference. 
 In eighteen months these two young people 
 were engaged to be married, and in another 
 six months the deed was done. 
 
278 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 Now, the reader, with that perspicacity for 
 which he is remarkable, has doubtless identi- 
 fied this Letitia Jones who married the Curate 
 with the Letitia Jones who married Major 
 Barclay. In that case Letitia had no legal 
 right to bear the name of Jones any longer, 
 and she was so far following the example of 
 her late husband that she had consented to 
 bear an alias, though a sufficiently innocent 
 one. It may be said at once that this re- 
 sumption of her maiden name was a result 
 of the strenuous advice of the Princesse do 
 Grandequeue. But we all know what a dread- 
 ful web we weave when first we practice to 
 deceive. It was natural enough for Letitia to 
 try to hide that terrible past, and to disso- 
 ciate herself from that most phenomenal of 
 modern scoundrels, her late husband. Yet from 
 the moment when the Eeverend Clarence made 
 his appearance on her new horizon she began 
 to dread the result of her own action. When 
 the young Curate first begim to make eyes 
 at her she dreaded the revelation which seemed 
 inevitable. The Curate was really a good young 
 man, and would without doubt make a good 
 husband. The girl was impressionable, but she 
 was not made of the stuff which long retains 
 an impression when the stamp has been re- 
 moved. If the Major had been but a passable 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZT. 279 
 
 villain slie would have clung to him and loved 
 him in spite of ill-usage, as so many women 
 of her type contrive to do. The Major being 
 finally cleared out of the way, and the first 
 horror of the shock forgotten, she was ready 
 to love any lovable man who might love her 
 to begin with, and would tell her as much 
 in the right way and in favourable circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Letitia and the maiden aunt used to cry to- 
 gether at times over the wickedness of the 
 deception they had practised, and they lamented 
 together the impossibility of leaving the crooked 
 path upon which they had innocently entered. 
 When Letitia had first retaken her maiden 
 name, she had never thought it possible that 
 she would marry a second time. Her heart 
 was in the coffin there with Caesar, and she 
 must wait till it came back to her. There 
 was no harm in trying to hide her unhappy 
 connection with all the Major's villany, and 
 there were suspicions shrewd enough to have 
 developed into certainty with very little trouble 
 that the Major had had at least one wife for 
 each alias, and that Letitia had no right to 
 any other than her old name. 
 
 The days, weeks, months, went by, and 
 brought some ease with them. The Eeverend 
 Clarence was a good husband as husbands go. 
 
280 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 and each day of her married life would have 
 been as happy as it was long, had it not 
 been for the one weight which dragged her 
 lower than contentment. 
 
 The fat living in the gift of the Eeverend 
 Clarence's father having fallen vacant, natu- 
 rally descended to the Eeverend Clarence, and 
 he and his wife, some three or four years 
 after their marriage, took up their abode at 
 the Vicarage and lived there in peace for 
 some half a dozen years or so, and half a 
 dozen boys and girls were born. Nobody ever 
 thought Mrs. Launceston a wise woman, but 
 most people who were brought into contact 
 with her liked her, and she had a heart of 
 singular tenderness for the poor, and an open 
 hand for the relief of their distresses. The 
 Eeverend Clarence grew portly and more High 
 Church than ever in his ritual. His uncle, 
 the Bishop, was very high indeed, and was 
 accused of leanings to Eome, of which he 
 was altogether guiltless. He was ambitious 
 for his nephew, and when his brother, the 
 church patron died, and left Clarence some 
 three or four thousand a year, he had a talk 
 with the younger man after the funeral. 
 
 " Clarence, there is a vacant bishopric — in the 
 colonies. I have reason to believe that a 
 representation from me would be eifective, and 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 281 
 
 I am quite ready to make it on your behalf. 
 It may lead to a home bishopric in course 
 of time, and you would extend your field of 
 influence. Without some such preparatory ser- 
 vice, you are not likely to rise." 
 
 The Eeverend Clarence knew that he was 
 not particularly clever, and he knew that he 
 would like to be a bishop, were it only a 
 colonial one. He had always been a hard 
 worker, and he was persuaded it was his function 
 to do good wherever he went. So he answered 
 with a clear conscience: 
 
 " To whatever sphere of duty I may be 
 called, I shall strive to be content." 
 
 " The true spirit," said the Bishop. Grrierson 
 is elderly, Clarence." Grrierson was the Eev- 
 erend Clarence's curate. ''Horace is, of course, 
 intended for the Church." Horace was the 
 Eeverend Clarence's son, and rising ten. ''If 
 you gave G-rierson the living, the boy, in all 
 human probability, would not have an undue 
 time to wait." 
 
 The Eeverend Clarence Launceston saw the 
 force of this arrangement. The Bishop spoke 
 the necessary word in the proper quarter, and 
 in some two months' time the newly-conse- 
 crated Colonial Bishop sailed with his wife for 
 the Carabrarian Islands. 
 
 T 
 
282 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 When tlie Princesse de Grandequeue went 
 back to Baden-Baden she had an addition to 
 her retinue in the shape of a baby. He 
 was not more than two or three months old, 
 and was still in long clothes, when the Princess 
 introduced Master John Kain to Baden society. 
 The Princess's father had borne that humble 
 name, and the infant was set forth as the son 
 of a poor relative of the lady's. Some people 
 laughed at her for being so simple as to 
 admit the existence of poor relations, and one 
 or two admired her candour, but the Princess 
 took her way unmoved by praise or blame in 
 this particular. She used to correspond regu- 
 larly with Letitia. The Reverend Clarence 
 saw several of the letters and their racy 
 British-American idiom shook him a little, 
 but after all a princess is a princess, and a 
 million sterling is a good round sum of money; 
 so that in spite of the lady's curious forms 
 of expression the clergyman saw no reason to 
 step in between his wife and a desirable 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 283 
 
 acquaintance. When the glory of Baden 
 dwindled, the Princess went to Nice, and took 
 John Kain with her. The said John was a 
 pretty and promising boy at this time, with 
 bold attractive ways. He was a remarkably 
 affectionate and truthful child, and the one 
 lesson the Princess strove to teach him was 
 to hate with his whole heart and soul any- 
 thing that was false or mean. The good 
 woman had no children of her own, and she 
 watched John's physical and moral develop- 
 ment with as eager an interest as if she 
 herself had borne him. 
 
 Before the newly-appointed Bishop of Cara- 
 braria started for his see, the Princess, looking 
 forward to a life-long separation from her 
 friend, made a visit to Portsmouth, and there 
 met Letitia for what both fancied would be 
 the last time. She took John with her, and 
 Letitia took such a fancy to him that she 
 gave him her portrait in a gold locket (the 
 little present being wrapped in a bank note 
 for ten pounds), and asked him to remember 
 her always. The Bishop of Carabraria was 
 not present at this interview, but he was intro- 
 duced to the Princess, who received him gra- 
 ciously, and wished him success in the arduous 
 labours which lay before him. 
 
 Calliatonga, the chief island of the group in 
 
 t2 
 
284 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 wliicli it was the lot of Letitia's husband to 
 minister, had a salubrious climate, and the 
 Bishop and his wife lived there in great con- 
 tentment for some ten years. Once or twice 
 in this space of time they visited England, 
 and once a year they made a tour of all the 
 islands. In London the Bishop was a per- 
 sonage of note, and the fact of a predecessor 
 having been cooked and eaten by his flock 
 lent a certain air of romance " to his position. 
 In fulness of time the English bishop, his 
 uncle, died, and nobody was in the least sur- 
 prised, and only one or two interested people 
 were disappointed, when the hard-working and 
 mild-mannered Colonial was appointed to the 
 vacant dignity. 
 
 They had been away so long from England 
 and society that both husband and wife found 
 a permament return to them extremely pleasant. 
 A dissipated bishop would be a terrible object, 
 and a dissipated bishop's wife would be as 
 bad; but as far as the conventionalities and 
 their own innocent hearts and straitlaced train- 
 ing would let them go, they went. The 
 natural result was that they were highly 
 popular, and since a solemn dinner was the 
 grossest, and a sacred concert the most frivolous, 
 of their relaxations, nobody found fault with 
 them. 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 285 
 
 If there could have been found anywhere 
 a lot of unbroken earthly felicity, you would 
 have fancied that the Bishop was the happy 
 man to whom it had fallen. His boys were 
 steady and gentlemanly, his girls pretty and 
 devotionally inclined; he had more money than 
 he ever felt a need for, his loftiest ambitions 
 had been realized, and he liked his life and 
 felt at home in his work. And yet the 
 Bishop's brow was clouded with a dreadful 
 care, and a fear gnawed at his heart — a fear 
 80 dreadful that he sometimes felt as if the 
 very thought of it would drive him mad. 
 
 He was in London on a May-day, and for 
 a wonder the sun was shining. The town 
 sparrows were chirping outside the window of 
 his room in the staid and solemn old west- 
 end hotel in which he rested. Beyond the 
 short street which faced his chamber lay a 
 stretch of green grass, and broad-leaved trees 
 rustled sweetly in the wind. He looked at 
 these things, and his brow was clouded as if 
 he saw nothing of them, but gazed at some 
 dreadful terror far away. A tap at the cham- 
 ber door recalled him, and he cried ''Come 
 in." 
 
 "A gentleman to see your lordship, by 
 appointment," said a solemn waiter, who looked 
 more clerical that the Bishop himself. 
 
286 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 " Show liim this way," returned the Bishop, 
 and the waiter disappearing for a minute 
 returned with a middle-aged clergyman, whose 
 face wore a somewhat worldly look, a clergy- 
 man who seemed to have missed his vocation 
 if one might judge by his expression, which 
 was hard and keen and habitually suspicious. 
 In curious mingling with these facial traits 
 was an obvious sense of his own merits — a 
 flat contradiction, if you like — but there they 
 were. He bowed to the Bishop, and then he 
 did what seemed an odd thing for a clergy- 
 man to do. He locked the door with such 
 extreme softness and caution that he made no 
 noise, and, gently withdrawing the key, he 
 dropt upon his knees and took an observation 
 of the corridor through the keyhole. Next he 
 restored the key as softly as he had withdrawn 
 it, and came noiselessly, like a cat, to the 
 Bishop's side. 
 
 "You have completed your inquiries?" asked 
 the Bishop with a face of deadly pallor, and 
 speaking in a harsh whisper. 
 
 "I have," said the new-comer in a murmur 
 which was only just audible. 
 
 " Tell me the result at once," said the 
 Bishop in the same constrained voice. His 
 skin was of a palish green hue, and both his 
 hands were laid above his heart. 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 2S7 
 
 "Your suspicions are beyond a doubt con- 
 firmed," returned the other. 
 
 The Bishop dropped into an arm-chair, and 
 groaned aloud. The middle-aged clergyman 
 stood by with remarkable calm and self-pos- 
 session. One would have said, to look at him, 
 that he lived in the midst of scenes like 
 this, he was so unmoved and so uninterested. 
 
 Beyond a doubt ? " asked the Bishop, 
 without raising his head. 
 
 " Beyond a doubt," repeated his companion, 
 taking snuff. 
 
 " I can't believe it," groaned the Bishop. 
 "I wont believe it. It can't be true." 
 
 His companion took snuff again and tapped 
 the box with decision before putting it away, 
 as if to say, ^'It k true." Beyond this he 
 gave no sign of having heard the Bishop's 
 exclamations. 
 
 "I wish to Heaven," cried the Bishop, 
 rising, 'Hhat I had never employed you — 
 never seen you — never heard of you." The 
 other was no more affected by this outbreak 
 than he had been before it. 
 
 " That is natural, my lord," he answered 
 composedly, " perfectly natural." 
 
 It is such men as you," said the miserable 
 dignitary, walking up and down the room, 
 " who tempt wives and husbands to suspicion 
 
288 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZI. 
 
 How do I know that those first anonymous 
 letters were not sent by you? What baseness 
 is there in the world to which you need to 
 
 stoop. A spy! a " 
 
 "Take it easy, my lord," said the middle- 
 aged clergyman. "That's not my form. I'm 
 a little too well-known in my own line to 
 find that dodge necessary, I'm naturally very 
 sorry for you" — he made no effort to look or 
 speak as if he were — " and if it relieves you 
 to slang me, slang away. I'm used to it, 
 Grod bless you. But I should have thought 
 a bishop would have been above that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 " Can you bring me to the proof ? " demanded 
 the Bishop. 
 
 " Yes," said the other drily. 
 When ? '^ 
 
 " Take it easy, my lord. You don't want 
 the waiters to know what's the matter, do 
 
 you?" 
 
 " When ? " in an agitated whisper. 
 " To-night, if you desire it." 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " In the Princess's garden at Knightsbridge. 
 I happen to know that they made an ap- 
 pointment for half-past ten." 
 
 " Here in London ? " asked the Bishop. 
 The middle-aged clergyman nodded. "What 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 280 
 
 duplicity ! " moaned the wretched man, walk- 
 ing up and down again. "I will go and 
 denounce her.'' 
 
 " No, you wont," said the middle-aged 
 clergyman. " Not a bit of it. You'll take it 
 perfectly quiet, my lord, or I wash my hands 
 of the affair. Promise that you wont speak 
 without my leave, or I have done with it." 
 
 " I will be satisfied of her guilt," said the 
 Bishop, "but I will obey your directions." 
 
 " Is it your pleasure that I should make 
 arrangements for this evening?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 " Very good, my lord. Please be ready at 
 9.30. Grood morning, my lord." 
 
 " Grood morning, Mr, Latazzi," returned the 
 Bishop. 
 
 " Sh ! " cried the great private detective in 
 a warning whisper. " There isn't a man in 
 London who doesn't know my name." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the Bishop 
 miserably. "At half -past nine?" 
 
 "At half-past nine. Grood morning." 
 
 When a man is miserable he is pretty cer- 
 tain to see the worst side of his own miseries, 
 and the Eight Eeverend Clarence Launceston 
 would have been puzzled to find a bearable 
 side to look at. When shame falls upon the 
 lowly, its publicity is often circumscribed; 
 
290 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 but when it comes upon a man of lofty po- 
 sition, the very pedestal he has been proud of 
 lifts him into the unsympathetic glances of 
 thousands of strange eyes. It was a blow to 
 the reputation of the Church, a scandal on 
 Christian living, that his wife should be false 
 to him. Shames public and private crowded 
 upon him and overwhelmed him, and awful 
 thoughts knocked at his heart at times. And 
 though Time's machinery seemed clean out of 
 joint in these terrible hours, so that some- 
 times an hour shot by like five minutes, and 
 sometimes crawled until he took out his watch 
 once a minute to wonder that it had not 
 passed, the moment of his engagement came 
 at length, and the middle-aged clergyman 
 with the worldly and suspicious face came 
 with it. 
 
 The driver of the carriage into which Mr. 
 Latazzi conducted the Bishop knew his business 
 beforehand, and the two being set down at 
 the corner of a street, the vehicle drove slowly 
 away. 
 
 "Follow me," said Mr. Latazzi, and the 
 Bishop followed. The street down which they 
 walked, was dimly lighted, and on one side of 
 it was nothing but the bare walls which 
 fenced in the spacious gardens at the rear of 
 a row of handsome houses. " Hush ! " said 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 291 
 
 Latazzi, pausing at a door in the wall. 
 " Step lightly. Not a word.'' 
 
 He set a key in the lock of the door, and 
 turned it stealthily, entered the garden with 
 miching tread, and beckoned the Bishop after 
 him. Moving as though he knew the place, 
 he led the way to the end of a laurel path, 
 and the miserable husband, scarcely daring to 
 breathe, followed him. 
 
 " There ? " said the detective, laying a hand 
 upon his shoulder and pointing through the 
 darkness, towards the dim light which issued 
 from the house windows, and was cloaked by 
 the shrubberies of the garden. A woman's 
 figure stood half-way up the laurel path, and 
 almost as the Bishop saw at what his com- 
 panion pointed the figure of a man came out 
 of the shrubbery, and the two shadows silently 
 embraced. Then with each an arm about the 
 other, they walked slowly towards the watchers' 
 hiding-place. 
 
 " I have told the Princess ever3H:hing," the 
 man's voice was saying, " and she confirms 
 all you have told me. She knows that you 
 are here, and when she has given me a little 
 time to plead with you she will join us. 
 The secret has so long been buried that it 
 is better it should be buried still." He spoke 
 eagerly, and as one anxious to convince, 
 
292 THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 
 
 though in low and guarded tones, and in his 
 eagerness he paused within six or seven yards 
 of the watchers, and they heard him clearly. 
 
 Your husband has no suspicion of my ex- 
 istence. Why should you ruffle a peaceful 
 life by proclaiming it at this late hour?'^ 
 
 "You don't think, my darling, you don't 
 think of all that I have suffered and all I 
 suffer still," the woman answered, and the 
 Bishop knew his wife's voice. "The remorse 
 — the fear of detection — the misery of being 
 held away from you ! " 
 
 What was this? the listener asked himself. 
 Did she long to proclaim her infamy? The 
 next word struck him with a swift amazement. 
 
 " Mother ! You must be ruled in this. The 
 fear of detection is over long ago, and you 
 and I can meet in safety as often as you 
 wish." The speaker's arm still encircled his 
 companion's waist, and they began to move 
 away together as he spoke. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked the Bishop, 
 turning to his guide. 
 
 " Hush ! " the detective breathed into his 
 ear, and gripped him hard. 
 
 "What's that?" cried the voice of the 
 man in the laurel walk. " Who's there ? " 
 Neither the Bishop nor Mr. Latazzi answering, 
 he walked swiftly towards them, peering to 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 293 
 
 this side and to that. Suddenly through the 
 gloom he sighted the figure of the Bishop, 
 8Jid, without a seconds hesitation, sprang at 
 him and seized him. The detective's hurried 
 step betrayed him as he moved away. *'Help, 
 here ! " cried the unknown, holding on to the 
 Bishop. 
 
 Mr. Latazzi," cried the Bishop, " stop here. 
 I will continue this investigation in a manner 
 more befitting my own dignity. Conduct me 
 to the house, young man." 
 
 " With pleasure," said the young man with 
 a spice of satire in his tone. " You're a 
 tolerably cool hand, any way. Let me have 
 a look at you." 
 
 "Follow us, Mr. Latazzi," said the Bishop. 
 
 " No, thank you," said the young man 
 quietly. " I think I know a dodge worth 
 two of that. If you make a part of this 
 procession at all, sir, you will lead the way. 
 I've got one of you, anyhow." 
 
 He had one of them, and the Bishop thought 
 that the young man held on with unnecessary 
 fervour. 
 
 "Lead the way, Mr. Latazzi," said the 
 Bishop. Mr. Latazzi led the way. 
 
 " John," cried the Bishop's wife, who had so 
 far stood rooted to the ground by fear> "it is 
 my husband." 
 
294 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 The young man dropped the hand which 
 had been twisted in the Bishop's neckcloth, and 
 gave the injured dignitary a chance to breathe. 
 
 "Letitia," said the Bishop, turning to his 
 wife, "I know now the shame which lies 
 upon you, and though you have hidden it 
 long " 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," said the young man. 
 " You are not in possession of the facts. 
 I am. There is no shame in the matter, 
 except for my father — who is long since gone 
 where no shame can reach him. Tour dis- 
 covery has only fulfilled my mother's resolve. 
 But who is this gentleman, and why is he 
 here?" 
 
 "My name is Latazzi," said the gentleman 
 alluded to, " and I am a private detective." 
 
 "Did you set a spy on my mother, sir?" 
 the young man asked quietly. The Bishop 
 had never felt proud of his employment of 
 Mr. Latazzi. It had seemed to him a dread- 
 ful necessity, but he knew that there were 
 some men whom no necessity, however dread- 
 ful, could drive so far, and he felt just then 
 as if he did not care to have his own course 
 made public. 
 
 "I am not here to be arraigned," he 
 answered. 
 
 " I would have had the knowledge of the 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 295 
 
 story hidden from you if I could," said the 
 son of Major Barclay, ''but it must all be 
 laid before you now. Perhaps it is not neces- 
 sary that this gentleman should be a party 
 to our interview." 
 
 *' Not unless you wish it," said Mr. Latazzi 
 suavely. "Shall I wait upon you to-morrow, 
 my Lord? Good evening." 
 
 Mr. Latazzi disappeared. The key that had 
 let him in let him out again, and the wait- 
 ing vehicle took him home alone. 
 
 "Clarence," sobbed Letitia, "I have been 
 a wicked, wicked woman." 
 
 "Mother," said the young man, "you have 
 been nothing of the sort." 
 
 "Why, what's this?" asked the voice of 
 the Princesse de Grrandequeue. 
 
 " Clarence, Clarence," cried Letitia, clinging 
 to him, "say you forgive me." 
 
 " Is that the Bishop ? " demanded the Prin- 
 cesse. "Wal, that k too cruel strange? How 
 on earth did he get here?" 
 
 " Don't ask that now, dear aunt," said the 
 young man. "Pray ask his lordship into the 
 house, and tell the story." 
 
 The Princess asked the Bishop into the 
 house at once, and she told the story. It is 
 not often that a bishop has a chance to 
 hear such a history so told. 
 
296 THE BISHOP AND MR. LATAZZL 
 
 "If there's any blame, I take it," said her 
 Highness at the close. "I'm the only person 
 left, I guess, who has a right to claim a 
 share in it. Her aunt was in the swim, 
 but she's gone over to the majority, and 
 the poor Prince was in it, off his legs, 
 poor man, and no more able to fight than he 
 was to scull against Niagara rapids. He's 
 gone the same way, and he's answered for 
 his share long since. As for this poor child," 
 continued her Highness, pointing to Letitia, 
 "the responsibility was taken off her hands. 
 I thought it wise when I did it, and I ain't 
 a bit sorry for it now. You'd prob'ly have 
 left her if you'd known, and I'm sure she's 
 been a good wife. As for the boy, here he 
 is — my trainin'. There ain't an atom of his 
 father in him except his courage, and I don't 
 ask anybody to take the responsibility of his 
 career. That's my affair. . . . Now look 
 here, Bishop. Here's the tried true wife of 
 nigh on twenty years. Air you going to make 
 a rumpus, and drag all her old sufferin's into 
 light again, and have 'em in the daily journals, 
 and be p'inted at and talked about, or air 
 you goin' to hold your tongue like a sensibl 
 Christian, and let bygones be bygones?" 
 
 " Come away, dear," whispered the young 
 fellow in her ear. She looked at the Bishop, 
 
THE BISHOP AND MR, LATAZZL 297 
 
 who stood on the hearthrug with bent head 
 and lax hands, and she looked at Letitia, who 
 was sobbing on sofa. 
 
 " Bishop/' said the Princesse of Grrandequeue, 
 "you air a high-placed Christian minister. 
 Act like it." 
 
 " Madam, I will," returned the Bishop. 
 
 And if, in all the circumstances, it was the 
 part of a Christian and a bishop to sit down 
 by the side of a weeping wife and to kiss 
 her in solemn condonation of her weakness 
 and husbandly pity for her grief, the Bishop 
 kept his promiso. 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE 
 ARDENNES. 
 
 V 2 
 
30) 
 
 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE 
 ARDENNES. 
 
 I WILL not tell you my actual whereabouts in 
 this delightful country, for an obvious selfish 
 reason. Honestly, and with no exaggeration, 
 I believe it to be the most charming primitive 
 place in Europe, and I do not choose that my 
 advertisement of its beauties should add by one 
 to the little crowd of admiring tourists which 
 dribbles through it in the summer-time. There 
 are already indications enough of its approach- 
 ing fall into popularity with the tourist tribe. 
 The railway has run out a branch from the 
 great Brussels and Luxembourg line within the 
 last fourteen months, and the inhabitants of the 
 village are already talking of a Kursaal to be 
 built in the place of the modest little Kiosque 
 du Pare in which at present a travelling band 
 of choristers sings once a year. We lie in a 
 gentle valley (one of many, for the land is all 
 rolled and crumpled into soft hills and dimpled 
 vales), and the slopes which shelter us from 
 
302 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 the outer world are richly wooded. At the 
 moment at which I write the woods are in the 
 fulness of their autumn glory, and the long 
 level sunlight smites the hillside on which my 
 window looks into unfancied splendours of gold 
 and crimson and russet and purple, mingled 
 with the deep, deep green of the unchanging 
 firs. At a season when London is all murky 
 and foggy and rainy, we have had two days' 
 rain here in six weeks, and old inhabitants 
 prophesy a bright November. I am not a 
 misanthrope or a hater of my kind, but, with 
 something of that inborn human selfishness 
 which makes one's fireside-shiver on a wintry 
 night a thing of joy, I reflect on the fact that 
 there is no other Londoner within miles of 
 me. 
 
 When you walk out in this delightful coimtry, 
 and the solemn splendour of the woods draws 
 you up the hillside through long empurpled 
 vistas, you find views which for quiet charm 
 are not easily to be rivalled. There are no 
 Alpine heights to impress you with a sense of 
 your own smallness — a wholesome thing enough, 
 at times, no doubt — but you can get an honest 
 appetite and a reasonable bracing of the muscles 
 out of our average ascent. And when the 
 ascent is made you can see about you for many 
 miles gentle wood-clothed hills, and vales of 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES, 303 
 
 deeper forest where no woodman's axe resounds. 
 These far-reaching woods are the home of big 
 game, antlered deer and tusky boar, and the 
 Garde General-Champetre, after a six months' 
 acquaintance, had grown to be a crony of 
 mine, and offered me rare sport for the autumn 
 and winter-time. Now, outside my profession 
 as a writer of fiction, I have never killed 
 anybody or anything, though within that 
 demesne I can upon occasion be as blood- 
 thirsty as my neighbours; but I am an 
 Englishman, and therefore a keen sportsman 
 to Continental notions. I know at which end 
 a gun goes off, and I am even a decent 
 hand at a rifle and a target, having been 
 put through a musketry course in Her Majesty's 
 service years ago. So, not being oppressed by 
 any such fears as assailed the long-gamekeeper 
 in the presence of Mr. Winkle, I set out 
 one glorious morning rather more than a 
 month ago with a borrowed double-barrelled 
 smooth-bore, carried sportsmanlike under my 
 arm, to hunt the grisly boar in companionship 
 with a dozen sportsmen true and tried, com- 
 manded by and subvervient to (though we 
 had a baron and one or two other local swells 
 among our company) the Grarde-Greneral. He, 
 with a finger at his nose to mark a sort of 
 confidence in the statement, sent round a 
 
304 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 whisper that one of his henchman had brought 
 news of the presence of the sanglier in a 
 certain belt of forest six kilometres distant, 
 and with high hope we marched thither 
 through the glorious lanes, where summer's 
 full-flushed foliage had begun, ever so little, 
 to incline to gold. The great belts of wood 
 on either hand were silent. Not one solitary 
 chirp sounded from the leafy screen, and that 
 seemed and still seems something of a pity. 
 But the Belgian sportsman, like his French 
 confrere^ is death to little birds. I heard 
 last week, for instance, of one bold gentleman 
 who shot twenty-one larks for his day's spot, 
 hiding in a thicket and enticing the poor 
 things with the flash of a mirror which was 
 laid upon the grass. And at this time of 
 the year we eat thrushes twice a day — a 
 deadly shame — and very plump and tender 
 and well-flavoured they are, the little French 
 emigrants. 
 
 When we had reached the spot appointed, we 
 all sat down to await the beaters. Probably 
 acting on the principle of the bridegroom who 
 refused to haste to the wedding because it 
 couldn t begin without him, the beaters kept 
 us waiting for an hour. They were a pic- 
 turesque and odd-looking lot when they came. 
 There were one or two pairs of sahots amongst 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES, 305 
 
 them, but for the most part they were heavily 
 booted in leather. All wore blue blouses and 
 trousers parti-coloured with patches, as a testi- 
 monial to the thrift and care of Belgian wives. 
 They all smoked porcelain or meerschaum pipes 
 and carried thick sticks, and every man of them 
 wore the ridiculous stiffly-upright cap of the 
 country. They had one or two dogs amongst 
 them, one of unknown breed, who looked un- 
 commonly like a sheep, and certainly went on 
 legs of mutton as to his hinder part ; a turnspit, 
 with ample room for a third pair of legs in the 
 middle of him ; and another, half spaniel, half 
 terrier, and all mongrel. The G-arde-Greneral, 
 with a finger at his nose, went round the sports- 
 men, and in strict confidence disposed of each; 
 one to this post, one to that other, as if the places 
 were state secrets. Then the beaters having been 
 started up one sylvan road and down another, 
 we all got stationed at our various posts and wait- 
 ed. I kept guard at the end of a lovely alley at 
 the forest's edge, and, looking along the sylvan 
 road to the right, could just make out the figure 
 of the Juge de Paix between the tree trunks fifty 
 yards off. Far and far away, after a long wait, 
 we heard the voices of the beaters and the barking 
 of the nondescript dogs. The Grarde, passing with 
 a hurried step to his own post, paused with a 
 finger at his nose once more for a last word of 
 
306 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 caution. " Fire at notliing but the wild boar or 
 the fox." They shoot foxes in this part of the 
 world, then? I felt as if I had a commission 
 to kill a baby, and resolved that Eeynard should 
 go free for me. I struggled against my supersti- 
 tion, vainly. I could not find the heart to think 
 of myself in the act of shooting a fox. There 
 are men at home whom I could never face with a 
 quiet soul after the committal of such a 
 crime. 
 
 There is something in waiting for big game 
 to break cover which imparts a sort of electric 
 feel to a gun-barrel. It is less as if your 
 own nerves tingled, than as if the cold iron 
 had suddenly discovered nerves of its own. 
 The stillness of the wood (except for the faint 
 and far-ofE cries of the beaters) was a thing 
 to wonder at. Blazing sunshine on the sylvan 
 road, slant lines of arrowy light within the 
 wood, not a breath of air, not a rustle of a 
 single leaf not the chirp of a grasshopper or 
 twitter of a bird, or even the hum of a gnat. 
 Dead silence near at hand, and only that far- 
 off halloo to give sign of any life within a 
 hundred miles ; the halloo coming nearer by 
 slow degrees, and the gun-barrel growing more 
 and more electric. Suddenly on my listening 
 ear there breaks a sound as of a heavy body 
 forcing its way through the dense brushwood. 
 
BOAR'HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 307 
 
 I cock both barrels and kneel to make my 
 aim the surer. If it should turn out a deer 
 I am forbidden to fire, and I must wait until 
 the object declares itself fully. The crackling 
 grows nearer. I can already tell the very 
 spot at which it will break, and I hear a 
 voice, a voice of joy to me, an emphatic 
 grunt, like that of the domestic porker in his 
 drowsy hour of after dinner contemplation. 
 " Ugh ! ugh ! " And then the crackling noise 
 again. Now for it! There breaks upon my 
 vision a fat and middle-aged gentleman, who 
 fans himself with his broad-brimmed straw 
 hat, grunting at the heat and effort of the 
 way at every foot-step. "Bon jour, m'sieur," 
 says the fat and middle-aged one, politely, as 
 he passes. He disappears into the sombre 
 wood on the other side the alley. If a boar 
 had come that way within the next five min- 
 utes, he would have found my post unguarded. 
 The revulsion was too much; and when the 
 beaters came up after beating unsuccessfully, 
 I was found sitting on the turf with my 
 back against a tree, helpless and tearful and 
 breathless with laughter. I am conscious that 
 it is nothing in the telling, but my sides 
 have ached over it. 
 
 The beaters and the nondescript dogs being 
 again despatched by diverse routes, the Garde, 
 
308 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 with an aspect more knowing than before, 
 and twice as confidential, passed from one to 
 another of his band, and, with his finger at 
 his nose to mark anew the secrecy of the 
 proceeding, told off each to a new post. 
 Once more we found ourselves, after a quar- 
 ter of an hour's tramp, ranged round a dense 
 wood, and once again the far-off voices of the 
 beaters rose and drew slowly nearer, and once 
 more we came away without a sight of bristle, 
 fur, or feather. "II ne va pas," said the 
 Garde sadly, and we all sat down to smoke. 
 Then I heard such stories of past big bags 
 that all wonder at the barrenness of the 
 forest vanished. But every man there being 
 assured in his own mind that the place 
 swarmed with boar and deer and fox, my 
 hopes revived, and our interval of rest being 
 over, away we trudged again to new posts, 
 to go through the old programme of waiting 
 with the old result. Then we came home, 
 comfortably tired, and sat doAvn to a table- 
 d'hote dinner purposely delayed for us. The 
 hotel people politely feigned prodigious sur- 
 prise at our want of good fortune, and did 
 it so naturally that I began to think a 
 blank day hitherto unheard of. 
 
 Business took me to England for a week 
 or two, and when I got back one of the 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 309 
 
 first objects I beheld was the undoubted bead 
 of a wild boar, splendidly tusked — a trophy 
 of a cbase I bad missed. He bad fallen to 
 the Garde's own gun, and had taken five 
 bullets, charging with great gallantry to receive 
 the last, and falling in quite an appropriate 
 and befitting manner to expire at his con- 
 queror's feet. I ate a part of the conquered 
 and have no high opinion of him. It befell 
 a day or two thereafter that a small Belgian 
 boy, wandering in the woods, was frightened 
 almost out of his wits by the sight of a 
 herd of boar, numerous (if the small boy were 
 believable) as Laban's flocks. Without trou- 
 bling the tracquers this time, the Grarde 
 hastily formed a party for the morrow, and 
 in the dewy calm of an October morning 
 we set out again. We had an addition to 
 our party that morning, in the shape of a 
 young gentleman whose form, features, and 
 costume are made familiar to the civilized 
 world four months of every year on the 
 front page of the Journal pour Eire. He 
 wore a small hat of whitish felt, with a 
 down-turned brim. A pigeon's wing was 
 stuck gaily in the band. His coat and waist- 
 coat, of thickly ribbed brown velveteen, were 
 profusely besprinkled with bronze buttons, 
 bearing in high relief the device of a horse's 
 
310 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 head. His trousers were of blue, a heavenly 
 blue, and he wore leggings and boots of 
 unblackened leather. The heavily fringed 
 game-bag, dear to the Parisian sportsman, 
 depended from his shoulder, and fitted jauntily 
 on his shapely waist. Being questioned some- 
 what sardonically by the justice of the peace 
 as to whether he meant to carry home a 
 boar in this contrivance, he answered affably 
 that it was chic to wear it. In the course 
 of a month's residence in London, this young 
 gentleman had picked up half a dozen of 
 our most familiar locutions and about as 
 many catch-words and refrains of popular 
 songs, which he quoted with genial irrelevance. 
 Socially considered, he was a decided acquisi- 
 tion to our party, but he could hardly be 
 said to increase our chances of sport, and he 
 continually scandalized our leader throughout 
 the day by ill-timed indulgence in dance and 
 song. He was accompanied, in spite of the 
 Garde's objections, by a dog, a beast bearing 
 about as much resemblance to the English 
 setter as his owner to the English sportsman. 
 This brute in all his mis-spent life had 
 probably never seen a spinney until now, but 
 his owner was prepared to stake his reputa- 
 tion as a sportsman upon his dog's virtues, 
 and as an Englishman I was appealed to aiH 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 311 
 
 to whether the animal was or was not a 
 '^settare" of the true British breed. I re- 
 sponded cautiously that he was of the proper 
 colour, and the overfed asthmatic and degen- 
 erate beast was noisily caressed and encouraged 
 on the strength of this testimonial. Through- 
 out the day the " settare " lost himself in the 
 undergrowth once in each quarter of an hour. 
 His master yelled and whistled, and fired his 
 gun to recall him, and when the brute came 
 wheezing up, he was received with noisy 
 demonstrations of affection. 
 
 There were only half a dozen of us, and 
 we entered the forest from a road cut through 
 it, and made our way as straight on as we 
 could, at an interval of perhaps forty yards 
 from each other. It was warm work, though 
 the year was getting old, and the morning 
 air was keen and invigorating. There was 
 no track to follow, and the branches of the 
 lower trees and shrubs were so knitted together 
 as to be quite impenetrable in places. Imme- 
 diately in my rear came a pale-faced youth, 
 newly imported from the modern Babylon — 
 a youth in pince-nez^ who had in vain striven 
 to borrow a gun from his Parisian friend. 
 A casual inquiry on his part made me rejoice 
 at his failure. On the chance of a snap at 
 a hare on the road, I had up to that time 
 
312 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES, 
 
 carried a shot cartridge in my rigtit barreL 
 Before entering the wood I exchanged this 
 for a ball, and the pale-faced youth stretched 
 forth an innocent hand for the rejected car- 
 tridge as I returned it to my pocket, and 
 asked "What's that?" He requested me 
 afterwards to lock and unlock the breech, 
 and said that the process seemed admirably 
 simple and easy. He remarked later on that 
 he had always felt an interest in fire-arms, 
 and he seemed pleased to have seen a gun 
 so near. Except for our footsteps and the 
 occasional song and shout of our Parisian 
 friend, we were in the midst of a dead 
 silence, and suddenly, as we stood still to 
 breathe, we heard distinctly the hoarse grunt 
 of our quarry. The spot was likely enough 
 to look at. We had reached a green division 
 in the forest where rankly grassed slopes ran 
 downwards to a marshy brook, and about the 
 damp earth afterwards we found ample traces 
 of the wild pigs' recent presence. The hoarse 
 grunt sounded again, but nothing was visible, 
 and no other sound occurred to guide us. 
 By this time we had lost both sight and 
 hearing of the rest of our company. We 
 stood still, all eyes and ears, and suddenly 
 in our rear there was a panting rush, and 
 that beast of a dog came careering along 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES, 313 
 
 with his tongue lolling and his asthmatic 
 wheeze sounding like a death rattle. Almost 
 at that second there was a shot and a loud 
 cry from the Grarde, who had stealthily and 
 silently stalked to within twenty yards of us. 
 " Par ici ! " yelled the Garde, and we dashed 
 in the direction of the voice. The son of 
 the woods had his finger to his nose when 
 we came up with him. What was it? we 
 demanded. A boar! Had he hit him? He 
 believed so. Yes. Here was his track plainly 
 to be seen in the long grass, and when a 
 score of yards had been traced, there was 
 blood upon it. We ran along upon the easy 
 track for a hundred yards or so, and then 
 lost it on the shed leaves and in the tangled 
 undergrowth. TJncas or Pathfinder might 
 have followed it, but we had neither o 
 them there, and after hunting about ineffect- 
 ually for a long time in the attempt to 
 recover it, we abandoned it reluctantly, and 
 having fired a shot or two to attract our 
 companions, sat down to await their arrival. 
 In the meantime the Grarde, always with a 
 finger to his nose, matured and set forth a 
 plan. Two of us were to stay at that spot, 
 and the other four sportsmen were to beat 
 up towards us, from the far end of the 
 wood. No sooner had the others arrived, 
 
 X 
 
314 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 than, with a request to our Parisian friend 
 to stay with the pale-faced amateur and 
 myself, and a brief injunction to us both to 
 keep a good look-out, he led off his party. 
 In a minute he was back again with an 
 expression of deep seriousness on his ruddy 
 and friendly face. If the wounded boar 
 should turn that way, he would be dangerous. 
 Caution and coolness, then. Ole ze forte, 
 for 'e is comeing ! " sang the Parisian with 
 joyful gesture. " Ah ! " said the Garde sar- 
 donically ; on avez-vous etudie Tanglais ? " 
 
 En Chine," responded the gay Parisian with 
 a flourish of the untanned boots. There was 
 a general laugh at this, and the Garde com- 
 manded silence with the unfailing finger at 
 his nose, and led the way again. We waited 
 while the sun wheeled slowly up the over- 
 hanging arch of steely blue, and shot long 
 pencils of light through the yet dense mass 
 of autumn foliage. A light mist curled 
 through the wood until it reached the high 
 lines of leafage, and then faded in the radiant 
 tranquillity of the upper air. The thick-leaved 
 trees, glorious with brown and green and 
 purple mosses forbore the faintest rustle, and 
 no thrill of song or flap of wing broke the 
 almost deathlike stillness. The Parisian for 
 a while beguiled the time with song — " Ee 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES, 315 
 
 loaf 'er, ee loaf 'er, 'tis all zat he can say;" 
 hut even he grew quiet after the first five 
 minutes, and the cold iron began to grow 
 electric again within my fingers. Silence for ten 
 minutes, for fifteen, for twenty. The electric 
 thrill had gone and come again, and gone 
 again, and a tranquil idle lassitude succeeded. 
 The place we stood in was like a landscape- 
 painter's dream. The full flush and bloom 
 of summer was as yet only ripened and 
 enriched by the hand of autumn, and which- 
 ever way you might look, there were exquisite 
 vistas, each one of them a picture full of 
 sweet form and strong yet delicate colouring. 
 
 A rustle somewhere in the brushwood near 
 at hand, and all notions of landscape beauty 
 swept clean away. A low whistle — the ap- 
 pointed signal of the coming of our friends, 
 lest any flurried sportsman should fire at a 
 mere sound — and tranquillity returns, with some- 
 thing of disappointment. Then the stalwart 
 form of the Justice of the Peace heaves in 
 sight. " Est-ce que vous n'avez vu rien ? " he 
 cried. " Ri — ' began the Parisian, but the last 
 syllable died upon his tongue, and he threw 
 his gun to his shoulder and fired. There rose 
 such a squeal as haunted the dreams of the 
 butcher's daughter in Holmes's touching verse, 
 and out from the undergrowth into the open 
 
 X 2 
 
316 BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 dashed a great brown mass within ten yards 
 of us, heading straight for the musical French- 
 man. The brown mass was almost on him 
 when he leapt nimbly on one side, and swing- 
 ing round discharged the second barrel without 
 effect. Piggy's rush, for he was here at last, 
 had carried him twenty paces beyond his ob- 
 ject when he turned again. Just as he turned, 
 the judge and I fired together, and the great 
 brute staggered and dashed on once more. 
 Then came another shot, and the boar spun 
 clean round like a teetotum and dropped. The 
 gay Parisian ran forward, but the Garde's 
 voice cried — "Au large!" and the warning 
 was not misplaced. The life was not out of 
 our quarry yet. He rose and made another 
 rush, but this time three shots met him, and 
 when he fell again he was still enough in 
 all conscience. 
 
 We left him there, and marched forth from 
 the wood and struck the road, along which 
 we continued until we came to a little auherge 
 where we told our news, and secured bearers 
 for the dead. A very sprightly old lady 
 keeps the auherge^ and while we sat sipping 
 at Dinant beer and pulling at our pipes with 
 a quite heroic air upon us all, the sprightly 
 old lady told a story. Yesterday, said the 
 sprightly old lady, she was cleaning her door- 
 
BOAR-HUNTING IN THE ARDENNES, 317 
 
 step at about half -past five in the morning, 
 when she suddenly espied a sanglier walking 
 leisurely up the road. He had evidently been 
 out for a night's ramble in the cultivated 
 fields, possibly in hope of a discovery of tur- 
 nips or potatoes. Anyhow, there he was ; and 
 the old lady calling her husband and her son, 
 the three armed themselves with pitchforks, 
 and intercepted his passage. And between 
 them they slew him, and there was his body 
 lying in a hut outside to prove the story, 
 a body pierced with many wounds. 
 
 " Mais, madame," said the Grarde, " c'est du 
 braconnage.'* But what, asked the sprightly 
 old lady, were poor folks to do. If the nasty 
 things were ringed in the nose like the do- 
 mestic porker, there might be a chance for 
 poor folks' gardens ; but as it was — There 
 an appealing shrug of the shoulders and a 
 still more appealing extension of the hands 
 ended the address. "Eh bien," said the 
 Justice of the Peace, " n'en dis rien." The 
 Garde shook his head with great gravity, 
 and talked about the divine right of kings. 
 The particular forests hereabouts belong to 
 Leopold the Second. The sprightly old lady 
 urged that the sanglier had been found on 
 the high road, and not in the forest : surely 
 he was anybody's property there ; " Eh bien," 
 
318 BOAR'HVNTING IN THE ARDENNES. 
 
 said the Justice of the Peace again, "n'en 
 dis rien ; " and eventually his advice was 
 taken. 
 
 Then a cart being brought up, and the 
 bearers of our slain one arriving, the body 
 of the boar was hoisted in and we set out 
 in triumph. The scene at the hotel was one 
 to be remembered. A crowd of at least a 
 score of people surrounded the vehicle ; the 
 gendarme was under arms, and came out to 
 look on. The cook brandished a rolling-pin 
 about the prostrate giant of the forest, and 
 prophesied rare dishes out of him, and the 
 sportsmen's wives received the sportsmen as 
 if they had just returned from the successful 
 storming of a Malakoff. I thought of the 
 sprightly old lady at the auberge^ and her 
 son and husband armed with pitchforks, but 
 that was a thing to be silent over. 
 
 Henderson, Rait, & Spalding, 3 & 5, Marylebone Lane, London, W 
 
"It Might Have Been." 
 
 Mer Joy coas Duty 
 And Love ooas Laco. 
 
 For one of the brightest poetic gems. P.T.O. 
 
JMJBLXJjy MXXLlLiEJFt. 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day, raked the meadowsweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee the mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But when she glanced to the far-off town, white from its hill-slope looking down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest and a nameless longing filled her breast, — 
 
 A wish, that she hardly dare to own, for something better than she had known. 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade of the apple-trees to greet the maid, 
 
 And asked a draught from the spring that flowed through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, and filled for him her small tin cup. 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down on her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 
 
 " Thanks!" said the Judge ; "a sweeter draught from a fairer hand was never quaffed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 
 
 Then talk< d of the haying, and wondered whether the cloud in the west would bring foul 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, and her graceful ankles bare and brown [weather. 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! 
 
 *' He would dress me up in silks so fine, and praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
 " My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; my brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 " I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, and the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 
 " And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, and all should bless me who left our door." 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, and saw Maud Muller standing still. 
 
 " A form more fair, a face more sweet, ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 
 
 *' And her modest answer and graceful air show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 " Would she were mine, and I to-day, like her, a harvester of hay : 
 
 " No doubtfal balance of rights and wrongs, nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 
 
 " But low of cattle and song of birds, and health and quiet and loving words." 
 
 But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, and his mother vain of her rank and gold . 
 
 So, closing his heart the Judge rode on and Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, when he hummed in Court an old love tune; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower, who lived for fashion, as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, he watched a picture come and go ; 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, he longed for the wayside well instead ; 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms to dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 
 
 And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, " Ah, that I was free again ! 
 
 " Free as when I rode that day, where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 
 
 She wedded a man unlearned and poor, and many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot on the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 
 
 And she heard the little spring brook fall over the road side, through the wail. 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again she saw a rider draw his rein. 
 
 And, gazing down with timid grace, she felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls stretched away into stately halls ; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, the tallow candle an astral burned. 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lu^, dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw, and joy was duty and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life again, saying only, " It might have been." 
 
 Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, for rich repiner and household drudge ! 
 
 God pity them both ! and pity us all, who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these : " It might have been." 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may roll the stone from its grave away ! Whittier. 
 
 What Higher aim can Man attain than Conquest over Human Pain ? 
 
 The .JEOPARDY OF LIFE IS IMMENSELY INCREASED without such a simple precaution as 
 
 ELISTO'S «irr»XJITIT SAI^T.' 
 
 How important it is to every individual to have at hand some simple, effective and 
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THIS LIFE is the GREAT SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
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 DISORDERED STOMACH, BILIOUS 
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ALPHABETICAL CATALOGUE OF BOOKS 
 
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 III St. Martin's Lane, Charing Cross 
 
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 ABC (The) of Cricket : a Black 
 
 View of the Game. (26 Illustrations.) 
 By Hugh Fielding Demy 8vo. i^. 
 
 ADAMS (W. DAVENPORT), 
 Books by. 
 A Dictionary of the Drama: A 
 
 Guide to the Plays, Playwrights, Players, 
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 AQONY COLUMN (The) of * The 
 
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 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 
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 The Cost of her Pride. 
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 A Missing Hero. 
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 The Step-mother. 
 
 Blind Fate. Post 8vo, picture boards, 25. 
 
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 The Wine of Finvarra. 
 
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 Post-Prandial Philosophy, Crown 
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 Babylon. With 12 Illustrations. 
 Strange Stories. 
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 For Maimie's Sake. 
 Philistia. I In all Shades. 
 The Devil's Die. 
 This Mortal Coil. 
 The Tents of Siiem. 
 The Great Taboo. 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 Under Sealed Orders. 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 Blood Royal. 
 
 Ivan Greet's Masterpiece. 
 
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 cloth. Is. net. 
 
 APPLETON (G. W.), Novels by. 
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 Barbara. 
 
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 Mrs. Crichton's Creditor. 
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 A Missing Hero. 
 
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 Valerie's Fate. 
 A Life Interest. 
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 The Cost of Her Pride. 
 
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 Strange Stories. 
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 The Devil's Die. 
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 ARTEMUS WARD'S WORKS. Complete. 
 
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 Red Spider. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING-GOULD 
 
 I Eve. 
 
 By ROBERT BARR. 
 
 I A Woman Intervenes. 
 I Revcnijc I 
 A Prince of Good Fellows. 
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 A Prodig-al's Progress. 
 Woman of Iron Bracelets. 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Between Life and Death. 
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 The Gates ot Wralh. | The Grand Babylon Hotel. 
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 A Missing Witness. 
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 Vasliti and Esther. 
 
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 My Little Girl. 
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 This Son of Vulcan. 
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 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
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 Chaplain cf the Fleet. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft. 
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 The Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
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 All Sorts and Conditions. 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 Dorothy Forster. 
 Uncle Jack. | Holy Rose. 
 World Went Well Then. 
 Children of Gibeon, 
 Herr P.^ulus. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 The Revolt of Man. 
 The Bel! of St. Paul's. 
 Arniorel of Lyonesse. 
 S. Katherine's by Tower. 
 
 Verbena Camellia Stepha- 
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 The Rebel Queen 
 Dreams of Avarice. 
 In Deacon's Orders. 
 The Master Craftsman. 
 The Ci y of Refuge. 
 A Fountain Sealed. 
 The Changeling. 
 The Fourth Generation, 
 The Charm. 
 The Alabaster Box. 
 The Orange Girl. 
 The Lady of Lynn. 
 
 No Other Way . 
 By AMBROSE BIERCE.-In Midst of Life. 
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 Ainslie's Ju-ju. | A Sower of Wheat. 
 
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 Dora Myrl. j Shillelagh and Shamrock. 
 
 Patsey the Omadaun. 
 By PAUL BOURGET.— A Living Lie. 
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 By H. A. BRYDEN.— An Exiled Scot. 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 .Shadow of the Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Martyrdom of Madeline. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Annan Water. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Charlatan 
 
 The New Abelard. 
 Matt. I Rachel Dene. 
 Master of the Mine. 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Red and White Heather. 
 Lady Kilpatrick. 
 Andromeda. 
 
 GELETT BURGESS and WILL IRWIN. 
 
 The Picaroons. 
 By HALL CAINE. 
 Shadow of a Crime. | Son of Hagar. | Deemster. 
 By R. W, CHAMBERS.— The King in Yellow. 
 By J, M. CHAPPLE.— The Minor Chord. 
 By AUSTIN CLARE.— By Rise of River. 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CHYE. 
 Paul Ferroll. | Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 By ANNE COATES.-Rie's Diary. 
 By MACLAREM COBBAN. 
 The Red Sultan. | The Burden of Isabel, 
 
 By Y. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 The Cruise of the " Black Prince." 
 
 By WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 27 
 
 By MORT. and FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. I You Vliy Me l-als* . 
 The Vitlat^e Comedy. I Midniglit to Midnight 
 By M. J. COLQUHOUN.— !• very Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By HERBERT COMPTON. 
 The Inimilaljlc Mrs. Massiiigham. 
 
 By E. H. COOPER.- GeofTory Hamilton. 
 By V. C. COTES.— Two Girls on a Barge. 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 The Prophet of the (^reat Smoky Mountains. 
 His Vanished Star. 
 
 By H. N. CRELLIN. 
 Romances of the Old Seraglio. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. 
 The Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By S. R. CROCKETT and otherfl. 
 Tales of Our Coast. 
 
 By B. M. CROKER. 
 
 Basil. I Hide and Seek, 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman in White. 
 The Law and the Lady. 
 The Haunted Hotel. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Miss or Mrs. 
 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 ' I Say No.' 
 Little Novels. 
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 Jezebel's Daughter. 
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 Heart and Science. 
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 The Legacy of Cain 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 Diana Barrington. 
 Proper Pride. 
 \ Family Likeness. 
 Pretty Miss Neville 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 Mr. Jervis. 
 Village Tales. 
 Some One Else. | Jason. 
 Infatuation. 
 
 Tne Real Lady Hilda. 
 Married v»r Single? 
 Two Masters. 
 In the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 Interference. 
 A Third Person. 
 Beyond the Pale. 
 Miss Balmaine's Past. 
 Terence. I The Cat's-paw 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 
 By H. C. DAYIDSON.-Mr. Sadler's Daughters. 
 By DOROTHEA DEAKIN. 
 
 The Poet and the Pierrot. 
 
 The Princess and the Kitchen-maid, 
 
 Sy JAMES DE MILLE. 
 A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder. 
 
 By DICK DONOYAN. 
 
 Man from Manchester. Tales of Terror. 
 Records of Vincent Trill. Chronicles of Michael 
 Myst. of Tamaica Terrace. Danevitch [Detective. 
 Deacon Brodie. Tyler Tatlock, Private 
 
 RICHARD DOWLING.-OId Corcoran 's Money. 
 CONAN DOYLB.-The Firm of Girdlestone. 
 
 By S. JEANNETTE DUNCAN. 
 A Daughter of To-day | Vernon's Aunt. 
 
 By ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 Archie Lovell. | A Plaster Saint. 
 
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 By G. MANYILLE FENN. 
 
 Cursed by a Fortune. 
 The Case of Ailsa Gray. 
 Commodore Junk. 
 The New Mistress. 
 Witness to the Deed. 
 The Tiger Lily, 
 The White Virgin. 
 Black Blood. 
 Double Cunning. 
 The Bag of Diamonds. 
 
 A Fluttered Dovecote. 
 King of the Castle. 
 Master of the Ceremonies. 
 The Man with a Shadow. 
 One Maid's Mischief. 
 Story of Antony Grace. 
 This Man's Wife. 
 In Jeopardy. 
 Woman Worth Winning, 
 A Crimson Crime. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD.-Fatal Zero. 
 By Hon. Mrs. W. FORBES.-Dumb. 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 
 One by One. | ARealQueen. I A Dog and his Shadow. 
 Ropes of Sand. | Jack Doyle's Daughter 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. | The Lawton Girl. 
 By PAUL GAULOT,-The Red Shirts. 
 
 By DOROTHEA GERARD. 
 
 A Queen of Curds and Cream, 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. The Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Of High Degree, Queen of the Meadow. 
 
 The Golden Shaft. The Flower of the Forest 
 
 By E. GLANYILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. The Golden Rock. 
 
 Fair Colonist. I Fossicker. Tales from the Veld. 
 By E. J. GOODMAN. 
 F.ite of Herbert AVayne. 
 
 By ALFRED A. GRACE. 
 Talcs of a Ikying Race. 
 By CECIL GRIFFlTH.-Corinthia Maraxiott. 
 
28 
 
 CHA TTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels— co«^i«««ff. 
 
 By A. GLAYERING GUNTER. 
 A Florida Enchantment. 
 
 By GYP.-CI0CI0. 
 By OWEN HALIi. 
 Th« Track of a Storm | Jetsam. 
 
 By COSMO HAMILTON. 
 Glamour of Impossible. | Through a Keyhole. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BRET HARTE, 
 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 A Ward of the Golden 
 Gate. (Springs. 
 A Sappho of Green 
 Col. Starbottle's Client. 
 Susy. I Sally Dows. 
 
 Bell-Ringer of Angel's. 
 Tales of Trail and Town. 
 
 Tack 
 
 Protegee of Jj 
 Clarence. [Haanlin's. 
 Barker's Luck. 
 Devil's Ford. 
 Crusade of * Excelsior. 
 Three Partners. 
 Gabriel Conroy. 
 New Condensed Novels. 
 
 By JUIilAN HAWTHORNE 
 
 Beatrix Randolph 
 David Poindexter's Dis- 
 appearance. 
 Spectre of Camera, 
 
 Garth. ~ j Dust. 
 EUice Quentin. 
 Sebastian Strome. 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 
 Love— or a Name, 
 By Sir A. HELPS.— Ivan de Biron. 
 By I. HENDERSON. -Agatha Page. 
 By G. A. HENTY. 
 
 Dorothy's Double. | The Queen's Cup. 
 
 Rujub, the Juggler. | Colonel Thorndyke's Secret 
 By HEADON HILL.— Zambra the Detective. 
 By JOHN HILL.— The Common Ancestor. 
 By TIGHE HOPKINS. 
 Twixt Love and Duty. I Incomplete Adventurer. 
 Nugents of Carriconna. | Nell Haffenden. 
 
 By E. W. HORNUNG. 
 Ihe Shadow of the Rope. 
 By VICTOR HUGO.— The Outlaw of Iceland. 
 
 By FERGUS HUME. 
 Lady from Nowhere. | The Millionaire Mystery. 
 By Mrs. HUNGSRFORD. 
 
 Marvel. 
 Unsatisfactory Lover. 
 In Durance Vile. 
 A Modern Circe. 
 Lady Patty. 
 A Mental Struggle. 
 Lady Vemer's Flight. 
 The Red-House Mystery. 
 The Three Graces. 
 
 The Leaden Casket. 
 That Other Person. 
 
 Professor's Experiment. 
 A Point of Conscience. 
 A Maiden all Forlorn 
 The Coming of Chloe. 
 Nora Creina. 
 An Anxious Moment. 
 April's Lady. 
 Peter's Wife. 
 Lovice. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 Self-Condemned. 
 Mrs. Juliet. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING.— A Drawn Game. 
 By GEORGE LAMBERT.— President of Boravia 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 
 Madame Sans-Gene. 
 
 By ADAM LILBURN.-A Tragedy in Marble 
 By HARRY LINDSAY. 
 
 Rhoda Roberts. | The Jacobite. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON 
 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 Under which Lord ? 
 My Love ! ' | lone. 
 Paston Carew. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY.-Gideon Fleyce. 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 Atonement Leam Dundas 
 The One Too Many. 
 Dulcie Everton. 
 Tne Rebel of the Family 
 An Octave of Friends, 
 The World Well Lost. 
 
 A Fair Saxon, 
 Linley Rochford. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Camiola. | Mononia. 
 Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 Maid ofAthens. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 The Dictator. 
 Red Diamonds. 
 The Riddle Ring. 
 The Three Disgraces. 
 
 JUSTIN H. McCARTHY.-A London Legend. 
 By GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. 
 By W. H. MALLOCK.— The New Republic. 
 By P. & V. MARGUERITTE.-The Disaster. 
 
 By L. T. MEADE. 
 
 On Brink of a Chasm, 
 The Siren. 
 
 The Way of a Womart. 
 A Son of Ishmael. 
 The Blue Diamond. 
 Rosebury. 
 
 A Soldier of Fortune. 
 In an Iron Grip. 
 Dr. Rumsey's Patient. 
 The Voice of the Charmer. 
 An Adventuress. 
 This Troublesome World. 
 
 A Stumble by the Way. 
 By HOPE MERRICK. 
 When a Girl's Engaged, 
 By LEONARD MERRICK« 
 This Stage of Fools. | Cynthia. 
 
 By EDMUND MITCHELL. 
 The Lone Star Rush. 
 
 By BERTRAM MITFORD. 
 The Gun-Runner, I The King's Assegai. 
 
 Luck of Gerard Ridgeley. | Renshaw Fanning's Quest, 
 The Triumph of Hilary Blachland, | Haviland's Chum. 
 
 Mrs. MOLESWORTH.— Hathercourt Rectory. 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 
 Maid Marian and Robin I Basile the Jester. 
 Hood. I Golden Idol. 
 
 Young Lochinvar, 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 
 Bob Martin s Little Girl. 
 Time's Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crime. 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Mount Desoair. 
 A Capful o' Nails. 
 Tales in Prose and Verse. 
 A Race for Millions. 
 This Little World. 
 His Own Ghost. 
 Church of Humanity. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 Coals of Fire. 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 A Model Father. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 V.C. : Castle Barfield and the Crimea. 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 The Bishops' Bible | Paul Jones's Alias. 
 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 By HUME NISBET.— • Bail Up I' 
 By W. E. NORRIS. 
 Saint Ann's. | Billv Bellew. 
 
 Miss Wentworth's Idea. 
 By G. OHNET.-A Weird Gift. 
 Love's Depths. | The Woman of Mystery. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. | The Sorceress. 
 
 By OUIDA 
 
 Held in Bondage, 
 Strathmore. I Chandos. 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Cecil Castlemaine's Gage. 
 Tricotrin. | Puck. 
 FoUe-Farine 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. | Signa. 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 Two Wooden Shoes. 
 In a Winter City. 
 The Massarenes. 
 
 Friendship, [ Idalia. 
 Moths. Ruffino. 
 Pipistrello. | Ariadne. 
 A Village Commune. 
 Bimbi. I Wanda. 
 Frescoes. | Othmar. 
 In Maremma. 
 Syrlin. | Guilderoy. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
 Two Offenders. 
 The Waters of Edera. 
 A Rainy June. 
 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple, 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 The Clyffards of Clyffe. 
 The Family Scapegrace. 
 ACounty Family. [Painted, 
 Less Black than We're 
 
 High Spirits. | Bv Proxy. 
 The Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 For Cash Only. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 The Word and the WiU. 
 Sunny Stories, 
 A Trying Patient. 
 Modern Dick Whittington 
 
 .\ Confidential Agent, 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 In Petil and Privation. 
 Mystery of Mirbridge, 
 
 By WILL PAYNE.-Jerry the Dreamer 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. I Mrs. Tregasktss, 
 Christina Chard. | Nulma, | Madame Izan. 
 
 ♦ As a Watch in the Night.' 
 
 By E. C. PRICE.— Valentina, 
 By RICHARD PRYCB. 
 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. RIDDBLL. 
 
 Weird Stories. | A Rich Man's Daughter, 
 
Ill ST. MARTIN'S LANE, LONDON, WX:, 
 
 29 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels— co/t^mM^^f. 
 
 By CHARLES READE 
 
 Peg Woffington ; and ' 
 
 t hristie Johnstone. 
 Hard Cash. 
 
 Cloister and the Hearth. 
 Never Too Late to Mend. 
 'I he Course of True 
 
 Love ; and Singleheart 
 
 and Doubleface. 
 Autobiography of a 
 
 Thief; Jack of all 
 
 Trades ; A Hero and 
 
 a Martyr ; and The 
 
 Wanderujg Heir, 
 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 Love Little, Love Long. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Foul Play. 
 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 A Simpleton. 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 The Jilt, & other Stories : 
 & Good Stories of Man. 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 Readiana ; and Bible 
 Characters. 
 By FRANK RICHARDSON. 
 Man Who Lost His Past. I The Bayswatcr Mystery. 
 
 By AMELIE RIVES. 
 Barbara Bering. | Meriel. 
 
 By F. W. ROBINSON. 
 The Hands of Justice. | Woman in the Dark. 
 
 By ALBERT ROSS.— A Sugar Princess. 
 By J. RUNCIMAN.-Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 Book for the Hammock. 
 Mystery of * Ocean Star.' 
 Jenny Harlowe. 
 An ()cean Tragedy. 
 A Tale of Two Tunnels. 
 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on Wide Wide Sea. 
 The Phantom Death. 
 Is He the Man ? 
 Good Ship • Mohock.' 
 The Convict Ship. 
 Heart of Oak. 
 The Tale of the Ten. 
 The Last Entry. 
 
 The Death Ship. 
 By DORA RUSSELL.-Drift of Fate. 
 By HERBERT RUSSELL.-True Blue. 
 By BAYLE ST. JOHN.-A Levantine Family. 
 
 By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 Dr. Endicott's Experiment i Under False Pretences. 
 By WILLIAM SHARP. 
 Children of To-morrow. 
 By M. P. SHIBL.-The Purple Cloud. 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 
 Dagonet Abroad. 
 Once uponChristmasTime, 
 Without the Limelight. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 Biographs of Babylon. 
 
 In London's Heart. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 The Small-part Lady. 
 A Blind Marriage. 
 
 By UPTON SINCLAIR.-Prince Hagen. 
 By J. MOYR SMITH.— The Prince of Argolis. 
 By T, W. SPEIGHT. 
 
 The Grey Monk, 
 The Master of Trenance, 
 The Web of Fate. 
 Secret of Wyvern Towers. 
 
 As it was Written. 
 Her Ladyship. 
 The Strange Experiences 
 of Mr. Verschoyle. 
 
 The Doom of Siva. 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 The Junior Dean. 
 Master of St, Benedict's, 
 To his Own Master, 
 Gallantay Bower. 
 In Face of the World. 
 Orchard Damerel. 
 
 The Tremlett Diamonds. 
 The Wooing of May. 
 A Tragic Honeymoon. 
 A Proctor s Wooing. 
 Fortune's Gate. 
 Bonnie Mag-gie Lauder. 
 Mary Unwm. 
 
 Mrs, Dunbar's Secret. 
 By JOHN STAFFORD.-Doris and L 
 By R. STEPHENS.— The Cruciform Mark. 
 R. NEILSON STEPHEN S.-Philip Winwood. 
 By R. A. STERNDALE.— The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. L. STEYENSON.-The Suicide Club. 
 By FRANK STOCKTON. 
 
 The Young Master of Hyson Hall. 
 By SUNDOWNER.-Told by the Taffrail. 
 By SWBET and KNOX. 
 On a Mexican Mustang. 
 
 By ANNIE THOMAS.-Thf5 Siren s Web. 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 In a Cathedral Ci^.y, 
 By FRANCES E. TROLLOPE. 
 Like Ships Upon Sea. | Anne I'urneiS. 
 
 Mnbel's Progress. 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 The Way we Live Now. I Marion I-ay. 
 Frau Frohmann. I Scarborough's Family. 
 
 Land- Leaguers. 
 
 The I 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 Choice Works, 
 Library of Humour. 
 The Innocents Abroad. 
 Roughing It; and The 
 
 Innocents at Home. 
 A Tramp Abroad. 
 The American Claimant. 
 Adventures Tom Sawyer. 
 Tom Sawyer Abroad. 
 Tom Sawyer, Detective. 
 
 idd'nhead Wilson. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Prince and the Pauper. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 A Yankee at Court. 
 Stolen White Elephant. 
 
 000,000 Bank-note. 
 A Double-barrelled Detec- 
 tive Story. 
 
 C. C. FRASER-TYTLER.— Mistress Judith. 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 What She Came Through, 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 The Blackball Ghosts. 
 The Macdonald Lass. 
 Witch-Wife. | Sapphira. 
 
 Mrs, Carmichael's God- 
 desses. 
 Rachel Langton. 
 A Honeymoon's Eclipse. 
 A Young Dragon. 
 
 ALLEN UPWARD.— The Queen against Owen. 
 By ALBERT D. YANDAM.— A Court Tragedy 
 
 By E. A. YIZETELLY. 
 The Scorpion. \ 1 he Lover s Progress. 
 
 By LEW. WALLACE.-Ben Hur. 
 By FLORENCE WARDEN. 
 Joan, the Curate. | A Fight to a Finish, 
 
 By CY WARM AN.— Express Messenger. 
 By A. WERNER.— Chapenga's White Man. 
 By WILLIAM WESTALL. 
 
 Red Ryvington. 
 Ralph Norbreck's Trust 
 Irust-money. 
 Sons of Belial. 
 Roy of Roy's Court. 
 With the Red Eagle. 
 A Red Bridal. 
 Strange Crimes. 
 Her Ladyship's Secret. 
 
 For Honour and Life 
 A Woman Tempted Him. 
 Her Two Millions. 
 Two Pinches of Snuff. 
 Nigel Fortescue. 
 Birch Dene. | Ben Clough, 
 The Phantom City. 
 A Queer Race. 
 The Old Factory. 
 
 As Luck would have it. 
 By ATHA WESTBURY. 
 The Shadow of Hilton Fernbrook. 
 By FRED WHISHAW. 
 A Forbidden Name | Many Ways of Love. 
 
 By C. J. WILLS.— An Easy-feoing Fellow. 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. 
 Cavalry Lite : and Kcginiental Legends. 
 By LOUIS ZANGWILL. 
 A 55ineteenth Century Miracle. 
 By EMILE ZOLA. 
 
 The Honour of the Army, 
 Germinal. | The Dream. 
 Abbe Mouret's Trans- 
 gression. I Money. 
 The Conquest of Plass^ns. 
 Dram-Shop. | Downfall. 
 His Excellency. 
 
 His Masterpiece. 
 The Fat and the Thin. 
 Dr. Pascal. | Joy of Life 
 Fortune of the Rougons. 
 Lourdes. | Fruitfulness. 
 Rome Work. 
 Paris. I Truth. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVEI.S. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 By Hps. ALEXANDER. By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow. 
 Blind Fate. 
 Valerie's Fate. 
 
 I A Life Interest, 
 Mono's Choice. 
 By Woman's Wit 
 
 By E. LESTER ARNOLD. 
 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD*S WORKS. Complete. 
 
 Philistia. | Babylon. 
 
 Strange Stories. 
 
 For Maim^fi's Sake. 
 
 In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 
 The Devil's Die. 
 
 The Tents ofShem. 
 
 The Great Taboo. 
 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 Duchess of Powsyland. 
 Blood Royal. 
 IvanGreefs Masterpiece, 
 The Scallywag. 
 This Mortal Coil. 
 At Market Value. 
 Under Sealed Orders, 
 
30 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 Two-Shilling 1^o\ei.s— continued. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING-GOULD. 
 
 Red Spider. | Eve, 
 
 By FRANK BARRETT. 
 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 Between Life and Death. 
 Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
 Folly Morrison. 
 Lieut. Barnabas. 
 Honest Davie. 
 
 A Prodigal's Progress. 
 Found Guilty. 
 A Recoiling Vengeance 
 For Love and Honour. 
 John Ford, &c. 
 Woman of Iron Bracelets. 
 The Harding Scandal. 
 
 A Missing Witness. 
 By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE. 
 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 My Little Girl. 
 "With Harp and Crown. 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
 By Celia's At hour. 
 Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 The Case of Mr. Lucralt. 
 In Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Ten Years' Tenant, 
 
 By Sir WALTER BESANT. 
 
 AH Sorts and Conditions, 
 The Captains' Room, 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 Dorothy Forster. 
 Uncle Jack, [Then. 
 The World Went Very Well 
 Children of Gibeon. 
 Herr Paulus. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 The Master Craftsman. 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. 
 The Holy Rose. 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. 
 St. Katherine'sby Tower, 
 Verbena Camellia Stepha- 
 The Ivory Gate. [notis. 
 The Rebel Queen. 
 Beyond Dreams Avarice. 
 The Revolt of Man. 
 In Deacon's Orders. 
 The City of Refuge. 
 
 AMBROSE BIERCE.-In the Midst of Life. 
 
 Camp Notes. 
 Savage Life. 
 
 By FREDERICK BOYJLE. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 
 Californian Stories. 
 Gabriel Conroy. 
 Luck of Roaring Camp. 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 FHp. I Maruja. 
 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 Ward of Golden Gate. 
 
 Shadow of the Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 Annan Water. 
 
 The Martyrdom of Ma- 
 deline. 
 The New Abelard. 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Rachel Dene. | Matt. 
 Lady Kilpatrick. 
 
 BUCHANAN and MURRAY.-The Charlatan. 
 By HALIi CAINE. 
 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 The Cruise of the ' Black Prince.' 
 By HAS^DEN CARRUTH. 
 The Adventures of Jones. 
 By AUSTIN CLARE.— For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 Pau Ferroll. | Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
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 The Cure of Souls. | The Red Sultan. 
 
 By C. ALLSTON COLLINS.- The Bar Sinister. 
 By MORT. and FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Sweet Anne Page. 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Mid 
 
 night. 
 A Fight with Fortune. 
 
 By WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 Sweet and Twenty. 
 The Village Comedy. 
 You Play Me False. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 Frances. 
 
 Armadale. | After Dark. 
 No Name. | Antonina. 
 Basil. I Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 Miss or Mrs. ? 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Law and the Lady. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 The Haunted Hotel. 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 
 The Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 • I Say No 1 ' 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 By M. J, COLQUHOUN.— Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 
 The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 
 
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 MATT CRIM.— The Adventures of a Fair Rebe. 
 By B. M. CROKER. 
 
 Pretty Miss Neville. 
 Diana Barrington. 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 Proper Pride. | ' To Let. 
 A Family Likeness. 
 A Third Person. 
 
 Village Tales and Jungle 
 Tragedies. | Mr. Jervis. 
 Two Masters. 
 Tlie Real Lady Hildn, 
 Married or Single? 
 Interference. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 By JAMES DB MILLE.— A Strange Manuscript 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 
 The Man-Hunter. 
 
 Michael Danevitch. 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 From Information RC' 
 
 ceived. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 Link by Link. 
 Suspicion Aroused. 
 Riddles Read. 
 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Caught at Last ! 
 Who Poisoned Hetty 
 Duncan? | Wanted! 
 Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs. 
 Mystery Jamaica Terrace. 
 
 By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell. 
 
 By EDWARD EGGLESTON.— Roxy. 
 By G. MANVILLE FENN. 
 The New Mistress. I The Tiger Lily. 
 
 Witness to the Deed. | The White Virgin. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Bella Donna. | Fatal Zero. I Seventy - five Brooke 
 Never Forgotten. | Polly. Street. 
 Second Mrs. Tillotson. | The Lady of Brantome. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD and others. 
 
 Strange Secrets. 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 
 Olympia. 
 One by One. 
 A Real Queen. 
 Queen Cophetua. 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. I The Lawton Girl. 
 
 King or Knave ? 
 Romances of the Law. 
 Ropes of Sand. 
 A Dog and his Shadow. 
 
 Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE. 
 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 Fancy Free. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What will the World Say ? 
 In Love and War. 
 For the King. 
 In Pastures Green. 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 Flower of the Forest. 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 By Mead and Stream. 
 Loving a Dream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT.-James Duke. 
 By ERNEST GLANYILLE. 
 
 The Lost Heiress. | The Fossicker. 
 
 A Fair Colonist. 
 
 ANDREW HALLIDAY.-Every day Papers. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Quentin. | ElHce Garth. 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 Miss Cadogna. | Dust. 
 Beatri.x Randolph. 
 
 Love— or a Name 
 David Poinde.xter s Dis- 
 appearance. [Camera. 
 The Spectre of the 
 
 By Sir ARTHUR HELPS.— Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY.— Rujub the Juggler. 
 By HEADON HILL. -Zambra the Detective. 
 By JOHN HILL.— Treason-Felony, 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
 
 A Maiden all Forlorn, 
 In Durance Vile. 
 Marvel. | Peter's Wife. 
 A Mental Struggle. 
 A Modern Circe, 
 April's Lady. 
 
 Lady Veruer's Flight, 
 The Red-House Mystery. 
 The Three Graces. 
 Unsatisfactory Lover. 
 Lady Patty. | Nora Creina 
 Professor's Experiment. 
 
31 
 
 Two-Shilling I^ovels— continued. 
 
 By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY.-The Lover's Creed. 
 
 Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER.— The House of Raby. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 That Other Person. | The Leaden Casket. 
 
 Self-Condemned. 
 By MARK KERSHAW. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. [Green.' I Passion's Slave. 
 ' The Wearing: of the | Bell Barry. 
 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 Madame Sans-Gene. 
 
 By JOHN LEYS.-The Lindsays. 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 Under which Lord? 
 Paston Carew. 
 ' My Love 1 ' | lone. 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 
 The Atonement of Leara 
 
 Dundas. 
 Rebel of the Family. 
 Sowing^ the Wind. 
 The One Too Many. 
 Dulcie Everton. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY.-Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 A Fair Saxon. | Camiola. 
 Linley Rochford. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 Maid of Athens. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 The Dictator. 
 Red Diamonds. 
 The Riddle Ring. 
 
 By HUGH MACCOLL. 
 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. 
 GEORGE MACDONALD.— Heather and Snow. 
 By AGNES MACDONELL.— Quaker Cousins. 
 By W. H. MALLOCK.— The New Republic. 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 By L. T. MEADE.— A Soldier of Fortune. 
 By LEONARD MERRICK. 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOGK. 
 Dead Man's Secret. | From Bosom of the Deep. 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 Bob Martin's Little GirL 
 Time's Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crime, 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Mount Despair. 
 A Capful o' Nails. 
 
 A Model Father. 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 Coals of Fire. 
 Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 The Way of the World. 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 One Traveller Returns. | The Bishops' Bible. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 • Bail Up I • I Dr. Bernard St. Vincent. 
 
 By W. E. NORRIS. 
 Saint Ann's. | Billy Bellew. 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 Dr. Rameau. | A Weird Gift. 
 
 A Last Love. 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. I The Greatest Heiress in 
 
 The Primrose Path. | England. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held in Bondage. 
 Strathmore. I Chandos. 
 Idalia. I Tricotrin. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Cecil Castlemaine's Gage. 
 Puck. 1 Pascarel. 
 
 Folle-Farine. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Signa. I Ariadne. 
 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 In a Winter City. 
 Friendship, 
 
 Two Little Wooden Shoes 
 Moths. I Bimbi. 
 Pipistrello. 
 A Village Commune. 
 Wanda. I Othmar. 
 Frescoes. I Guilder oy. 
 In Maremma. 
 Ruffino. I Syrlin. 
 Santa Barbara. 
 Two Offenders. 
 Ouida's Wisdom, Wit, 
 and Pathos 
 
 By MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN 
 
 Bentinck's Tutor. 
 Murphy's Master. 
 A County Family. 
 At Her Mercy. I Kit. 
 Cecil's Tryst. | Halves. 
 The ClyfTards of Clyffe. 
 The Foster Brothers. 
 Found Dead. 
 The Best of Husbands. 
 Walter's Word. 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 Humorous Stories. 
 £200 Reward. 
 A Marine Residence. 
 Mirk Abbey. | High Spirits 
 Under One Roof. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 For Cash Only. 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 The Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 What He Cost llcr. 
 A Confidential At,'eiit. 
 Cilow-worm Tales. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 Sunny Stories. 
 Lost Sir Massingbcrfl. 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 The I'amily Scapei^race. 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 Like l'"ather, Like .Son. 
 Married Beneath Him. •■ 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 Less Black than We're 
 Painted. | By Proxy. 
 Some Private Views. 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 The Mystery of Mir- 
 bridge. | From Exile. 
 The Word and the Will. 
 A Prince of the Blood. 
 
 A Trying Patient. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 
 The Romance of a Station I Christina Chard. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. | Mrs. Tregaskiss 
 The Soul of Countess Adrian. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 
 It is Never Too Late to 
 
 Mend. |TheJUt. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 Love Little, Love Long. 
 Cloister and the Hearth. 
 Course of True Love. 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 
 Foul Play. | Hard Cash. 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 Singleheart, Doubleface. 
 Good Stor.es of Man, &c. 
 Peg Woffmgton. 
 Griffitli Gaunt. 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 A Simpleton. 
 Readiana. 
 A Woman- Hater. 
 
 By Mrs. J H. RIDDELL. 
 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace 
 
 Gardens. 
 Idle Tales. 
 
 Weird Stories. 
 Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Prince of Wales s 
 Garden Party. 
 
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 Women are Strange. | The Woman in the Dark. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
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 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch, 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 Hook for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the 
 
 'Ocean Star.' 
 Romance Jenny Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on Wide Wide Sea. 
 Good Ship * Mohock." 
 Tlie Phantom Death. 
 Is He the Man? 
 Heart of Oak. 
 The Convict Ship. 
 The Tale of the Ten. 
 The Last Entry. 
 
 By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. 
 Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 
 Zeph. I My Two V/ives. 
 Memoirs of a Landlady. 
 Scenes from the Show 
 Ten Commandmen-ts. 
 Dagonet Abroad. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 
 ARTHUR SKETCHLEY.— A Match in the Dark. 
 By R. A. STERNDALE.— The Afghan Knife. 
 By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 
 The Mysteries of Heron 
 
 Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. 
 Hoodwinked. 
 By Devious Ways. 
 
 Back to Life. 
 The Loudwater Tragedy, 
 Burgo's Romance. 
 Quittance in Full 
 A Husband from the Sea. 
 
32 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 Two-Shilling Novels— contiftued. 
 
 By AIiAH ST. AUBYN. 
 
 A Fellow of Trinity. I Orchard Damerel. 
 The Junior Dean. In the Face of the World. 
 
 Master of St. Benedict's. | The Tremlett Diamonds. 
 To His Own Master. 
 
 By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 
 New Arabian Nig^hts. 
 
 By ROBERT SURTEES.-Handley Cross. 
 
 By WALTER THORNBURY. 
 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 
 By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Frau Frolimann. 
 Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 
 The Land-Leagfuers. 
 The American Senator. 
 Scarborough's Family. 
 Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
 By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. | Anne Furness. 
 
 Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 A Pleasure Trip. I Stolen White Elaphant, 
 
 The Gilded Aee. Life on the Mississippi. 
 
 Huckleberry Finn. ;^i,ooo,coo Bank-Noie. 
 
 Tom Sawyer. I Sketches. 
 
 By C. C.FRASER-TYTLER.-Mistress Judith. 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 Bride's Pass. | Lady Bell. 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 St. Mungo's City. 
 Noblesse Oblige. 
 
 The Huguenot Family. 
 The Blackhall Ghosts. 
 What She Came Through. 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 
 Disappeared. 
 
 By ALLEN UPWARD.— Queen against Owen. 
 By WM. WESTALL.-Trust-Money. 
 By Mrs. WILLIAMSON.— A Child Widow 
 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. 
 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends. 
 
 By H. F. WOOD. 
 
 The Passenger from Scot- 1 The Englishman of th« 
 land Yard. | Rue Cain. 
 
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 The Constable ©f St. Nicholas. 
 
 NEW SERIES OF TWO-SHILLING NOVELS. 
 
 Bound in picture cloth, flat backs. 
 
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 The Luck of Gerard Ridgeley. | The King's Assegai. 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 Maid Marian and Robin Hood. 
 By CHRISTIE MURRAY.— His Own Ghost 
 By OUIDA. 
 Syrlin. I The Waters of Edera. 
 
 By J AS. P A YN.— Modern Dick Whittington. 
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 A Country Sweetheart. | The Drift of Fate. 
 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 In London's Heart. | Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 
 By Sip WALTER BESANT. 
 
 St. Katherine's by Tower. | The Rebel Queen. 
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 By McD. BODKIN. K.C. 
 Dora Myrl, the Lady Detective. 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 Man from Manchester. I The Man-Hunter. 
 Wanted ! I The Mystery of Jamaica 
 
 Dark Deeds. | Terrace. 
 
 Tales of Terror. 1 Vincent Trill. Detective. 
 
 By G. M. FENN.— A Crimson Crime. 
 By PAUL GAULOT.-The Red Shirts. 
 By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS. 
 
 No. 99 ; and Blue Blood. 
 By OWEN HALL.-TrackofaStorm. 
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 Luck Roaring Camp, &c. I Col. Starbottle's Client. 
 In a Hollow of the Hills. Protegee of Jack Hamlin's 
 Sappho of Green Springs. | Sally Dows. 
 
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 Plotters of Paris. | The Temple of Death. 
 
 Towards the Eternal Snows. 
 
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 The Young Master of Hyson Hall. 
 
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 ALLEN UPWARD.— Queen against Owen. 
 
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 Children of Gibeoa I All Sorts and Conditionsof 
 
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 Dorothy Forster. | The Orange Girl. 
 
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 The Golden Butterfly. 1 Ready-Money Mortiboy 
 The Monks of Thelema. | The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
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 Red Spider. | Eve 
 
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 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
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 The Moonstone. j The Dead Secret. 
 
 The Woman in White. | The New Magdalen. 
 
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 Diana Harrington. | Pretty Miss Neville. 
 
 A Bird of Passage. | Beyond the Pale. 
 
 By E. LEPELLETIER.— Madame Sans-Gene. 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.— Joseph s Coat. 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Puck, I Moths I Strathmore. | Tricotrii. 
 Held in Bondage. | Under Two Flags. [ Chandos. 
 The Massarenes. ( Friendsliip. I Ariadne. 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 Walter's Word. | Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 
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 Griffith Gaunt. Put Yourself in His Place. 
 
 Foul Play. I Hard Cash. The Cloister and tha 
 Pe-g Woffington ; and Hearth, 
 
 Christie Johnstone, Never Too Late to Mend. 
 
 A Terrible I'eniptation. The Double Marriage. 
 By W. CLARK RU3SELL.-The Convict Ship 
 By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights 
 By WILLIAM WESTALL.-The Old Factory. 
 
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 The Downfall. | The Dram- Shop. 
 
 Lourdes. | Rome. | Paris. 
 
 By JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 A Short History of our own Times. 
 
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