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 DON JOHN 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 GILBERT AND EIVINGTON, PRINTERS, 
 
 ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. 
 
DON JOHN 
 
 S ^tog 
 
 By jean INGELOW 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, 
 
 CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1881. 
 [^AU rights reserved.'] 
 

 DON JOHN 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It may be doubted whether in all London 
 there is, considering its width and the size of 
 its houses, a more gloomy street than Upper 
 Harley Street. 
 
 The houses in this fine street are too 
 deep to be lighted well within ; and so high 
 as to give it on a dull day very much the 
 effect of an exceedingly long railway cutting 
 between two high hills. 
 
 Some years ago, a very young woman in a 
 widow's cap was furtively peeping out from 
 an upper window in the front of one of these 
 houses, and as she gazed down towards 
 Cavendish Square and up towards Harley 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 /- 
 
^ DON JOHN. 
 
 Place she made the above comparison in 
 her mind. 
 
 It was rather a dull day in the beginning 
 of April, but she did not find the gloom of 
 a London spring at all depressing, for she 
 was sometimes allowed to take the baby now 
 lying in a frilled bassinet behind her, into 
 Oxford Streetjwhere she could feast her eyes 
 on the splendid contents of the shop windows, 
 or she might stroll into the Soho bazaar, or 
 she would be taken for a drive in the park 
 with her charge by the baby's mother, for she 
 was wet-nurse to the said baby, and thus 
 found herself for the first time in her life a 
 personage of great importance, whose tastes 
 were to be consulted, whose dinner was by no 
 means to be delayed, and whose comfort and 
 even pleasure were considered to be of con- 
 sequence. 
 
 To do her justice, she gave herself fewer 
 airs than most of her class, and did her best 
 for the baby, who was the child of a lawyer in 
 excellent practice. 
 
DON JOHN. 3 
 
 His name, the very same as that of his son, 
 was Donald Johnstone ; he was of Scotch 
 extraction, but his family had been for two 
 generations settled in the South. 
 
 Maria Jane Aird, such was the name of the 
 nurse, had been highly recommended to her 
 present place ; and, in order to take it, had 
 left her own young infant under the charge 
 of her mother. But that she fretted after 
 him now and then, she would have been 
 thoroughly content ; she had not much loved 
 the young husband whom, to please her 
 mother, she had married. She was consoled 
 now, for he had been already dead six 
 months ; the main regret she still felt was 
 that during his long illness (he was a car- 
 penter) all his savings had been spent, so 
 that she had nothing whereon to begin life 
 again, and had even become familiar before 
 the birth of her child with both want and 
 cald. 
 
 She was a sweet-tempered young creature, 
 had never done any particular good in the 
 B 2 
 
4 DON JOHN 
 
 world ; but then what opportunity had she 
 found ? for the same reason possibly she had 
 never done any particular harm. 
 
 She had one habit which Mrs. Johnstone, 
 the baby's mother, did not like ; she was 
 constantly reading books from a circulating 
 library. Some of these were dirty, and smelt 
 of tobacco ; Mrs. Johnstone had remarked 
 more than once that she did not approve of 
 books of that kind in the same room with 
 the baby. 
 
 He was her only son, and a very precious 
 
 infant ; everything that love and money could 
 
 '^o was to be lavished on him. His three 
 
 little sisters were in the country under the 
 
 .charge of an old servant, and just as Mrs. 
 
 .Aird withdrew her head and cautiously shut 
 
 down the window, a boy with a telegram in 
 
 his hand came up the street, containing a very 
 
 important message concerning them. They 
 
 were expected home that very afternoon, and 
 
 their father was gone to fetch them. 
 
 Mrs. Aird, as she turned, looked about the 
 
DON JOHN. 5 
 
 wide chamber, with that kind of exultation 
 which comes of a fresh and advantageous 
 change. 
 
 It was before the date when the browns we 
 use on our wall papers began to be reverently 
 studied from Thames mud, and the greens 
 and yellows from mouldy cheese. No one 
 as yet toned down tender dirty drab within 
 to match the formless smoky drab without, 
 no one adored rhubarb tints, or admired the 
 colour resulting from mixtures of cocoa and 
 milk. 
 
 The walls here were all one flush of comely 
 cabbage roses making the most of themselves 
 in quantities enough if they could have been 
 gathered to fill several clothes' baskets. They 
 sprawled quite innocent of artistic propriety 
 over a paper satin-soft, and glossy, and in 
 hue of a delicate dove-colour. There was 
 gilding about certain picture-frames, and pink 
 flutings and embroidered muslin draped the 
 dressing-table. The baby, as a little god of 
 love, was half smothered in lace frillings, his 
 
O DON JOHN. 
 
 little quilt was edged with swan's-down, and 
 all his surroundings were enriched with fine 
 needlework. All was gay and fresh and 
 clean. 
 
 Mrs. Aird, hearing a step on the stairs, 
 thrust away her novel, took up a piece of 
 needlework, and at the same moment Mrs. 
 Johnstone came in, looking very much flushed 
 and agitated. 
 
 The nurse set a chair for her, but she was 
 too restless to sit down. She had a telegram 
 in her hand. 
 
 ' ''> This has just come from Mr. Johnstone," 
 she said, ''it is about the little girls, nurse." 
 
 *' Indeed, ma'am." 
 
 *' Mr. Johnstone telegraphed from Reading 
 Station." 
 
 *' Indeed, ma'am," repeated the nurse, '' I 
 hope there's nothing wrong ? " 
 
 '' I don't know, I hope not ; but he says 
 my eldest little girl has a slight rash on her 
 neck." 
 
 !*'Dear, ma'am !" exclaimed the nurse, 
 
DON JOUN. 7 
 
 ** don't flurry yourself so ; consider how ill 
 you have been. I dare say it's nothing ; 
 might I see the message ? " 
 
 With a trembling hand Mrs. Johnstone 
 held out the telegram. It ran thus : — 
 
 " Have only just observed that Irene has a 
 slight rash on her neck ; seems unwell, and is 
 cross. Send baby into lodgings before we 
 arrive. I hope nothing of consequence. If 
 doctor says so, can have him back to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Upwards of twenty words ; how these 
 gentle-folks throw away their money ! This 
 was the nurse's first thought ; after it 
 crowded in others that nearly took her breath 
 away. 
 
 ** I understand, I am told, Mrs. Aird, that 
 your mother lives at Dartford, and has the 
 care of your baby." 
 
 '^ Yes, ma'am ; it is a very nice clean 
 place." 
 
 *' Oh, I have of course no thought of 
 sending you there for only one night." 
 
8 DON JOHN. 
 
 Mrs. Aird showed no disappointment in 
 her face ; she only said, — ■ 
 
 *^ This handsome str:et and these squares 
 about here never have any card up to show 
 they let lodgings." 
 
 '^ Oh, no, no; and there is so little time ; 
 what can I do ? " 
 
 '' There's Kew; is that far off, ma'am ? " 
 
 ** Kew, yes, of course it is ; but why ? " 
 
 * ^ I have a friend there, close to Kew Green, 
 a very respectable woman that comes from 
 the same place in Oxfordshire that my 
 poor husband did, and she told me this very 
 morning that an artist gentleman had just 
 left her, and she wished she could hear of 
 another let,'' 
 
 *'I hope it would be only for a night," 
 mused the mother. 
 
 *^ She is the cleanest woman that ever 
 was," urged the nurse, *' and I am sure she 
 would not charge much." 
 
 ** It would be sure to be for two nights," 
 thought Mrs. Aird. ^ ^ I can telegraph as well 
 
DON JOHN. 9 
 
 as other people, and I might get a sight of my 
 blessed baby.'' 
 
 *^ Ma'am, I would not deceive you for the 
 world," she cried, the clear colour at a 
 thought of this possibility flushing up all 
 over her face and throat. 
 
 ^^ You mean that this person is really clean 
 and respectable ? " 
 
 ^^ Yes, ma'am." 
 
 '^ And no other lodgers taken ? " 
 
 " Oh no, ma'am, the house is too small for 
 that." 
 
 ''It is a healthy place ? " 
 
 '* Oh yes, close to the gardens." 
 
 " And in half an Bour they will be here ; 
 ring the bell, Mrs. Aird." 
 
 " The baby is ready dressed to go out," 
 proceeded the nurse as she rose. 
 
 ''And the carriage," sighed the mother, 
 "is already at the door." 
 
 It had been ordered in fact to take Mrs. 
 Johnstone out. 
 
 " If I trust you for this one night," she 
 
10 DON JOHN. 
 
 pleaded, '^ you will not leave my dear baby 
 for a moment ? " 
 
 '*No, ma'am, it cuts me to the heart to 
 see you so trembling. I would not, I assure 
 you, as I am a Christian, But I'll be bound 
 there's very little the matter with little miss; 
 perhaps it's scarlatina she's got coming on, 
 and all children must have that ; the baby 
 could not have it at a better time." 
 
 The sight of Mrs. Johnstone's nervous 
 anxiety and changing colour wrung these 
 words from the nurse almost in spite of her- 
 self, and though she longed to go ; but the 
 bell was soon answered by a housemaid who 
 was told to help Mrs. Aird at once in 
 packing the baby's clothes. 
 
 Mrs. Aird observed with excitement and 
 joy that though the baby was to come back 
 to-morrow, enough clothes were put up to 
 last him at least a week. She herself was 
 told to take a box of clothes with her, and 
 in a very few minutes all was ready. 
 
 ** I shall hope to drive over for you to- 
 
DOX JOHN. 11 
 
 morrow," said Mrs. Johnstone, and in the 
 meanwhile she gave her twelve postage cards 
 and three pounds, in case she should not 
 be able to come, charged her not to return 
 without further orders, and took leave of her 
 baby, with floods of passionate tears. 
 
 In the comfortable closed carriage the 
 nurse was driven through the streets in a 
 state of exultation scarcely to be described ; 
 here at least was absolute freedom for twenty- 
 four hours, and if it proved that there really 
 was any danger of infection, she might be left 
 there some days, and manage to send her 
 mother money to Dartford to buy a third- 
 class ticket with, so that she might be 
 willing to bring over the baby. 
 
 This would be a costly pleasure certainly, 
 but her circumstances as she understood 
 them were so comfortable that she could 
 afford it well. 
 
 That very afternoon, having taken a 
 friendly leave of the coachman and footman, 
 and established herself in all state in the 
 
12 DON JOHN. 
 
 clean tidy lodgings which were everything 
 she had described, Mrs. Aird wrote to 
 her mother to relate these circumstances, 
 dwelt on her longing to see her child, and 
 expressed a naive, and perhaps not unnatural, 
 hope that the rash might turn out to be 
 scarlatina, in which case she was likely, as 
 she thought, to have her time to herself for 
 at least a week, and she should take it 
 hard if her mother did not spare a day to 
 bring the baby. 
 
 The next day passed and no notice was 
 taken of Mrs. Aird ; Mrs. Johnstone did not 
 appear, and a card was posted to her ac- 
 cording to her directions. 
 
 The following day Mrs. Aird's spirits were 
 put into a flutter by the arrival of a telegram, 
 in which she was informed that the little 
 Miss Johnstone really had got scarlatina, 
 that Mrs. Johnstone's doctor would pay 
 her a visit that day at four o'clock, and that 
 he would give her any directions which she 
 might need. 
 
DON JOHN. 13 
 
 Mrs. Aird was ready to receive the doctor, 
 she was so fresh, clean, cosy, and cheerful, 
 that she looked a very ideal nurse, and the 
 baby only six weeks old (her own being one 
 fortnight older), looked already the better 
 for her ministrations. 
 
 The little lodgings were so neat, the 
 house so detached in its pretty little garden, 
 the air so pleasant, that altogether the 
 doctor was very well satisfied. ''You may 
 be here a week yet," he observed, knowing 
 that if she was found to be doing her duty 
 she would be there much longer. " Of 
 course it is perfectly understood that you are 
 never to go into London." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, and I have no such wish, 
 I am sure. I have not a single friend 
 there." 
 
 " Nor are you to go into any houses 
 here." 
 
 " Sir, I have not a single acquaintance 
 anywhere near." 
 
 " Of course you are to have no communi- 
 
14 DON JOHN. 
 
 cation with Mr. Johnstone's servants, not 
 even by letter.'' 
 
 ** You have not been there, then, sir ? " 
 
 It was taking a great Hberty in the nurse 
 to say that. 
 
 '* Certainly I have," he answered a little 
 sternly; *Hhat is another thing, doctors 
 understand these matters, doctors never 
 convey infection." 
 
 ^' No, sir," answered Mrs. Aird, as an 
 echo of his words, but not as conveying any 
 opinion of her own ; ' ^ I hope the little girl 
 is not very ill ? " she continued. 
 
 ** Oh, no, quite an ordinary case." 
 
 The doctor then stepped out into the 
 road. 
 
 " You are in a position of great trust, 
 Mrs. Aird. Prove yourself worthy of it for 
 your own sake. Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone 
 are both rich and kind. By-the-bye, I may 
 be expected to drop in any day." 
 
 ** Yes, sir, at what time ? " 
 
 ** At any time." 
 
DON JOHN. 15 
 
 ^^ Then I had hetter never take the baby 
 out of sight of the house." 
 
 ^^I don't say that, I will always send a 
 telegram an hour or so before I come, and 
 if you take care never to be away more than 
 an hour I shall be sure to find you." 
 
 He thus effectually prevented her from 
 doing more than take the baby for a walk, 
 but she by her absolutely contented face 
 when he spoke, prevented his thinking it 
 needful to come ! She evidently did not 
 mind the restraint at all, and he left her 
 without having the remotest intention of 
 going near her any more. The baby was 
 thriving, the nurse was well, the lodgings 
 were all that he could wish, the young 
 woman had no friend, and believed herself 
 liable to frequent supervision. 
 
 But why was the nurse so well contented 
 to stay at home ? Because she had got an 
 answer to her letter from her mother, and it 
 set forth, to her great joy and surprise, that 
 this frugal and respectable woman, having 
 
16 DON JOHN. 
 
 made up her mind to leave her lodgings at 
 Dartford, where she got as "Maria well 
 knew such a poor living out of the washing," 
 was coming up with the bahy to her old 
 quarters at the back of Kensington Square, 
 and to-morrow might be expected to drop 
 in to an early dinner, and, if it was not an 
 ill conveniency, could enjoy a pork chop or 
 two and a green gooseberry pudding. 
 
 Mrs. Aird could hardly beheve her good 
 fortune. She saw at once a reason, though 
 not the reason, for this sudden resolution. 
 She was herself to have every comfort; if 
 more pork chops were eaten than could have 
 been expected, no questions would be asked 
 provided the baby w^as well and flourishing. 
 Her mother intended, of course, to come and 
 share in some of the good things. The 
 friend in the lodgings would never tell that 
 she might now and then have cooked for 
 two instead of for one. Moreover the mother 
 had hinted already that she might as well 
 constitute herself the baby's washerwoman 
 
DON JOHN. 17 
 
 as allow any other woman to have that post. 
 Mrs. Aird was rather late the next morn- 
 ing, and was about to dress the baby, w^ho, 
 havmg only just been washed, was sprawling 
 on her knee, a little red, limp, crying crea- 
 ture, when, to her delight, her mother with 
 her ow^n baby came in. 
 
 ^^ Oh, mother, mother, take this one,'^ 
 she cried, *' and give me mine ! " 
 
 The exchange was instantly effected, and 
 Mrs Aird began to devour her own baby 
 with kisses. Her mother laid the little 
 Johnstone down on the bed, and let him 
 comfort himself as well as he could with his 
 own tiny fist, wdiile she carefully took off 
 and folded her own best shawl, and put on 
 an apron. 
 
 '' A nice little fellow," she then said, 
 looking at him critically. ''A fine boy I 
 call him, for he's as as big as yours already, 
 and a fortnight younger. A nice fresh skin," 
 she continued, taking him up and turning 
 him over on her competent motherly aim, 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
18 DON JOHN. " . 
 
 ** not a spot nor — nor — nor, a mark about 
 him. Yes, he's as near as may be the same 
 weight as yours." 
 
 The young mother, absorbed in her child, 
 took no notice of these remarks, but tenderly 
 cuddling her own baby against her neck, 
 said sighing, — 
 
 **And to think he's weaned! Oh, how 
 much more interestmg he does look than 
 that other woman's child." 
 
 **La ! " cried her mother, '^ how can you 
 say so, Maria ! I call that real, real foohsh. 
 Interesting indeed, one's just as interesdng as 
 — as the other, same size, same blue eyes, and 
 what little down there is on their heads, just 
 the same colour." 
 
 ^^Well, mother, you were all for my 
 having a nurse-child, so you're bound to 
 make out it's for the best." 
 
 '* And I hope it'll prove for the best, my 
 — my girl," said the mother, with a slow, 
 quiet impressiveness. ^' Well, if this child 
 ain't gone off to sleep ! I'll just wrap him 
 
DON JOHN. 19 
 
 in — in the. nursing apron and put him in his 
 cot. I've brought you a bundle, Maria," 
 she continued, cautiously lifting the child. 
 ^' A bundle with your two old print gowns 
 in it, no need for you to go tramping up 
 and — and down these dull roads in your good 
 new clothes. Did you manage to — to get those 
 library books returned ? I should be loath 
 for you to get into trouble, through their 
 being sent for to the house, such a lot as 
 you had too by what you wrote." 
 
 '' Yes, mother, I got them back ; I had to 
 send them from here by the carrier, and send 
 the ninepence too in stamps for the reading 
 of them." 
 
 *' See how you waste your money," an- 
 swered her mother, cautiously laying the baby 
 in his cot, *^ read, read, for ever read; that's 
 what ca^me of — of my settling at Kensington, 
 and your going to S'Mary Abbots' schools. 
 What a man the old vicar is, to be sure ! If 
 all the S'Mary Abbots' scholars can't read 
 the — the smallest print and — and write the 
 c 2 
 
20 DON JOHN. 
 
 longest words as soon as look at them, it's not 
 for want of his worritting after them. Little 
 he cares, I'll be bound, what your mother had 
 to pay in that very High Street for novels for 
 you to read by candle-light in bed (all along 
 of his being so keen after the learning). It's 
 a wonder you did not burn the house 
 down ! " 
 
 ^' Mother," said Mrs. Aird, '* I don't want 
 Mrs. Johnstone to know I was brought up at 
 Kensington ; she's not aware but what we've 
 lived at Dartford all our lives, instead of 
 only while poor Lancey was with us." 
 
 ** Of course not," answered her mother, 
 with gentle deliberation, which derived 
 emphasis from a very slight impediment in 
 her speech. ^* And she never need. Ma — 
 Maria." 
 
 She showed this imperfection of speech 
 very little unless she was excited or agitated, 
 and this is the exact contrary of what 
 happens in most cases. 
 
 < ' She hates the notion of my so much as 
 
DON JOHN. 21 
 
 looking at poor people, as if the very air of 
 them could foul her child," said the daughter. 
 
 ^^Most of 'em do." 
 
 '* And as to your coming all the way from 
 Dartford through me wanting to set my eyes 
 on my own just for an hour, she'd never 
 believe it." 
 
 '^ Just like 'em again, hut most of us is even 
 toith 'em, Ma — Maria, And it does see — seem 
 a good deal to act out for — for an hour or 
 two, it does in — deed, Maria." 
 
 '^ Well., mother, it does; but you see I sent 
 the money." 
 
 "Ay," continued the mother, Mrs. Pear- 
 son by name, with her gentle, slow hesitation, 
 '* and don't you go hiring your rubbishing 
 no — novels here. It might be found out. 
 And — and — and I've — I've lit on two or three 
 first — first-rate ones, that I brought with me, 
 shilling ones, I got half — half price — Ma-— 
 Maria." 
 
 ''Why should mother be so put out 
 about the novels ?" thought Mrs. Aird ; '' I've 
 
22 DON JOHN. 
 
 not heard her talk so badly I don't know 
 ■when." 
 
 ** "What are you doing, mother ? " 
 ' **Well, I'm not fond of washing frocks 
 constant ! you're crumpling the child's robe, 
 and he — he — poor little fellow ! has — has 
 but one. I'll lay it by till we — we — go 
 home. And how's Mrs. Leach, Ma — 
 Maria?" (Mrs. Leach was the landlady.) 
 
 *' She's well, and full of joy ; got work 
 for nine days to come, morning till night, 
 charing. I'm to have my dinner cooked at the 
 bake-house, and I shall oblige her by making 
 my bed, and that." 
 
 Master Lancelot Aird, having been divested 
 of his best frock, Vv^as now laid in his mother's 
 bed, with his bottle, over which he also fell 
 asleep. Mrs. Aird let her mother know that 
 now she could do as she liked, she dined at 
 twelve, and then she could enjoy her tea at 
 four o'clock, and eat a good supper by half- 
 past eight. 
 
 '^ I wonder how you'll do when you've 
 
DON JOHN. 23 
 
 weaned this child ? '' observed the mother, her 
 capricious impedinient quite gone; ^'you'll 
 find a difierence then, my girl." 
 
 ' ' Don't talk of that, mother ; I hope that 
 won't be for six months at least." 
 
 ^' It'll be no trouble," replied the mother, 
 '^ be it sooner or later — sooner or later. Ma — 
 Maria. For by what you told me, he has 
 been used to have the bottle once a day from 
 his birth. I had no trouble with — with yours 
 my — my — my girl. And — and if their 
 being as like as — as two peas is any — any 
 rule, you'll have none with — with him." 
 
 '^ There she goes again," thought Mrs. 
 Aird, quite impressed by the uncommon degree 
 of discomfort that her mother was suffering. 
 
 Then it all went off again, the dinner was 
 carried into the tiny parlour, the two babes 
 slept in peace, and the two women, leaving 
 the door open, sat down to enjoy themselves, 
 a pot of porter, and some new bread, and 
 other luxuries being set on the table. 
 
 *' Mrs. Leach doesn't so much as know I 
 
24 DON JOHN. 
 
 brought your child," said Mrs. Pearson, the 
 young widow's mother. 
 
 *'Why should she, mother?" answered 
 Mrs. Aird sharply, '^ she might take it into 
 lier head to tell Mrs. Johnstone." 
 
 The mother nodded with an air of wisdom 
 and triumph. '^The children have all got 
 the scarlatina now, my girl, and one of them 
 is very ill." 
 
 ^^ How do you know, mother ? " 
 
 ** I went and inquired. Said I to the cook, 
 she was cleaning the steps, ' Mrs. Thompson's 
 love, and has heard the little Johnstones are 
 ill, and I was to inquire. She told me all I 
 wanted to know. Mrs. Johnstone's very unwell 
 herself, and the servants say she'll certainly 
 fret herself sick, so ill as she has just been, 
 and she won't leave the children a minute. 
 ^ Well,' said I, ^ you won't forget to give Mrs. 
 Thompson's love to your lady;' and I left. 
 You've some days to yourself, my girl, yet." 
 
 '^ So I think, mother." 
 
 ^^ Then — then — then do — ijo^ir hest.'^ 
 
DON JOHN 25 
 
 '' Yes, mother, why not ? " answered Mrs. 
 Aird carelessly, when at last her mother had 
 managed to utter these words. Mrs. Ah'd 
 now went into the little kitchen and fetched 
 in the pudding, she was hy no means too 
 proud to wait on herself when her friend and 
 landlady was busy. 
 
 And now that this comfortable meal was 
 over, Mrs. Pearson, to her daughter's great 
 surprise, expressed a strong wish to see Kew 
 Gardens. "But as you've never dressed the 
 baby, Maria," she continued, " along of his 
 being asleep, you have no call to come too, 
 you can see them any day. There he is 
 awake, I hear him stirring, and yours '11 wake 
 too directly." She stepped out into the road, 
 and before her daughter had recovered from 
 the surprise of feeling that there was some- 
 thing unusual about her mother, she was 
 gone. " I'll — I'll — I'll be in by tea-time, my 
 — my girl," she said; " undo the bundle and 
 put in any — anything you have for the wash, 
 and I'll take it with me." 
 
26 DON JOHN. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 Mrs. Pearson had no sooner departed than 
 the Johnstone baby began to cry lustily. 
 His nurse took him up, and while she sat on 
 the side of the bed, satisfying his little wants, 
 she gazed at her own child with tender love. 
 
 Two or three tears rolled down her comely 
 cheeks, while the ahen baby made himself 
 at home at her breast, and half choked his 
 greedy little self, over the nourishment she 
 had sold away from her own. 
 
 As she held her nurseling with one hand, 
 she drew towards her the bundle her mother 
 had brought, with the other, untied the knots, 
 shook out her two gowns, and three shabby 
 little volumes fell away from them on to the 
 bed. She lifted one, and a sudden touch of 
 self- consciousness made her feel how odd it 
 
EON JOHN. ^: 
 
 was that her mother should have accidentally 
 lighted on such a story ; but she put it aside 
 without another thought, for she had read it 
 before, and it was not interesting. Then she 
 took up the next, and when she saw that it 
 was on the same subject — a very common and 
 favourite subject with writers of fiction — she 
 no longer thought there was any accident in 
 the matter. Her mother, she perceived, had 
 brought these books to her on purpose to 
 suggest what she did not dare to say. She 
 took up the third book — one very dirty volume 
 from an old-fashioned story called '^ The 
 Changeling." 
 
 She turned very pale; her first thought 
 was one of almost unreasonable anger against 
 her mother. If she had been minded to do 
 this thing, as she now perceived, she could 
 not have done it without an accomplice, with- 
 out doubling therefore the slender chance 
 of escape from detection. She felt that a 
 longing that such a thing could have been 
 done had already existed deep down in her 
 
28 DON JOHN. 
 
 heart. She accused her mother as alone 
 having given it form and possibiHty. The 
 httle nurseHng, now fed to the full, was awake 
 and quiet in her arms ; but temptation was 
 too new to be acted on. She put on his fine 
 and ample clothes all but his robe, and 
 laying him down beside the other babe, 
 began to recall the things her mother had 
 said. They had the same coloured eyes, 
 the same coloured down on their heads, 
 they were about the same size; but as to 
 bringing the remote romances of a by- gone 
 age into families that lived in Harley Street 
 and sent a baby with his nurse to Kew 
 —now, at this very present time— it was a 
 thing too arduous for thought, too wicked 
 for every-day hfe. An Irish castle — tumble- 
 down, haunted by ghosts, and full of re- 
 tainers — had been the scene of one of these 
 stories. A fugitive family hundreds of years 
 ago had stolen away the heir of the house, 
 in another; and had left their child in its 
 stead. 
 
DON JOHN. 29 
 
 In the third, children were also changed at 
 nurse — but there was a gipsy in the case, 
 and there were awful midnight incantations, 
 and the nurse was conjured into the crypt of 
 a ruined chapel, far among the Scotch moun- 
 tains ; and there the baby was charmed away 
 from her, and an elf-child left in her arms. 
 
 She mocked at her mother, and was sore 
 against her in her heart. She was holding 
 up the broidered robe of her nurseling ; did 
 it look like anything that her child could 
 wear upon his pretty low-born limbs without 
 detection ? Yes ! There was nothing to 
 choose. He was the finer child of the two ; 
 at leasts if there was anything to choose 
 between them. 
 
 It was time he had his bottle. She would 
 warm its contents for him. She did so, and 
 her tears fell fast, as she leaned over the 
 httle kitchen fire. 
 
 When he had finished this meal — each 
 child being full dressed, excepting that it 
 had its frock off — she thought she should 
 
30 DON JOHN. 
 
 like to see how her child would look in the 
 beautiful robe. She put it on ; and to her 
 fond eyes he seemed to become it far better 
 than the other did. To change them ! Oh, 
 that such a thing could be ! But she was 
 not unreasonable; she knew as well as 
 possible that it could not ; but, for the 
 moment — only for the moment — her child 
 should look like the gentleman's son. 
 Nature was not unfair at the first ; the 
 carpenter's baby as he had come from her 
 hand was as fair, as refined, as innocent in 
 aspect as he could be. It would only be 
 when art stepped in and educated him, that 
 he would be, however he might dress, all the 
 cockney and all the carpenter. 
 
 His mother (over the Johnstone baby's 
 robe) put on the delicate blue cashmere 
 cloak, enriched with swan's-down, and the 
 pretty satin hood, with its lace cockade. 
 And sat hanging over him with a yearning 
 sense of envy against the other baby and a 
 rapture of pride in him. 
 
DON JOHN. 31 
 
 She did not care whether her mother 
 came in or not. She would hy no means do 
 this thing. In fact, it could not be done 
 with the least chance of success — but not 
 the less, her mother should know she per- 
 ceived she had been tempted — not the less — 
 A sudden qualm at the nurse's heart. A 
 noise of wheels ! A dust rising up ! A 
 carriage! — oh misfortune, a carriage, — and 
 both the children in the house ; she herself, 
 sitting in the little bedroom, which was on 
 the ground floor and led out of the sitting- 
 room, must have been plainly seen by its one 
 occupant — a lady ; and this lady was now 
 descending. It was Mr. Johnstone's mother. 
 Something must be done, and done instantly. 
 But nothing could ever make things come 
 right if it were discovered that two babies 
 were in the house and one of them her own. 
 She had but one instant to decide ! the lady 
 was coming up the tiny garden. The little 
 Johnstone was lying contentedly on the 
 bed — no time to dress him, no time to un- 
 
32 DON JOHN. 
 
 dress the other. She kept her own baby on 
 her arm, and m sheer desperation opened 
 the bedroom door, and shutting it behind 
 her, came to meet her guest with a curtsey 
 and a welcome. Something sadly like a 
 prayer was on her trembling lips — her 
 situation was terrible — and for the first few 
 moments while the supposed grandmother — 
 a fine capable woman little more than fifty, 
 who had just come up from Scotland — lifted 
 the baby's lace veil, kissed him, chirped to 
 him, and asked how he was, she trembled so 
 as to attract attention — he was lying flat on 
 his mother's arms staring at the nodding 
 feathers in the visitor's bonnet. 
 
 '* You look very pale, nurse! " exclaimed 
 the grandmother. 
 
 ** Oh, ma'am," answered Mrs. Aird, the 
 ready lie rising to her lips. ^^ I was afraid 
 you might be come to say the children were 
 worse." 
 
 *^ The children are worse, I am sorry to 
 say," was the answer. ^^I have not seen 
 
DON JOHN. 33 
 
 them, of course, that would not be prudent 
 — but Mr. Johnstone writes me word that 
 Miss Irene causes them a good deal of 
 anxiety. 
 
 *^You may put your bonnet on, nurse. 
 The darling is dressed — you shall take him 
 out with me for a little airing in the 
 carriage." 
 
 What ! and leave the other baby all 
 alone on the bed ? Mrs. Aird felt as if her 
 heart stood still. 
 
 **0h, ma'am," she exclaimed, lying again, 
 *^I am so sorry, but the person of the 
 house is gone out for an hour or so, just to 
 do a little shopping, and I promised to see 
 to the house while she was away — and she 
 has locked the back-door and given me the 
 key." 
 
 *' Oh, well, another time, then," said the 
 lady slowly, and as if Mrs. Aird's manner 
 surprised her. 
 
 '' You are quite well ? " she inquired. 
 
 '' Oh, yes, as well as can be, ma'am," and 
 
 VOL. T. D 
 
M DON JOHN. 
 
 all her soul was in her ears. What if the 
 Johnstone bahy should cry ! 
 
 *' Pretty little man," said the grand- 
 mother, again caressing the bahy, but not 
 taking him from the nurse; *^ I hope he is 
 thriving." She had not seen her grandson 
 before. 
 
 '* Oh, ma'am, he is as good-tempered and 
 as contented as he can be." The nurse had 
 now recovered her colour, every moment that 
 the other baby remained quiet was a great 
 gain, she was beginning to pluck up courage, 
 and was trying to look cheerful. 
 
 **Well, well," said the lady, smiling 
 kindly, ^' I confess I do not see much virtue 
 in a baby's contentment, when he has as 
 good cause for it as I hear you give this one." 
 
 *' Thank you, ma'am, I am sure I try to 
 give satisfaction." 
 
 ''I am very well satisfied," answered the 
 grandmother graciously, " I shall write to 
 my daughter that I am." 
 
 A few more commonplaces, a few more 
 
DON JOHN. 35 
 
 adverse chances to be overlived, a few more 
 flutterings of the heart on the part of the 
 nurse, and then her visitor got up and took 
 her leave and went back to the carriage, 
 followed by the nurse with her own child in 
 her arms. It seemed to her that she had 
 never listened and never looked before. 
 
 That baby on the bed, how her ears were 
 open to him ! That velvet mantle she was 
 following, how she noted every fold and 
 every '' frog " upon it ! 
 
 But now her curtsey was made and the 
 carriage was gone. 
 
 She ran back into the house, laid her child 
 on the bed, and burst into tears ; for the 
 first time in her life she knew what bitter- 
 ness there is in the fear of detection. '' The 
 wages of sin are hard. ' ' Her ruin as regarded 
 this situation and the character she hoped to 
 have from it would have been irretrievable 
 if anything had been found out. 
 
 Even if she had meant really to do the 
 thing, and keep to it, such an inter- 
 D 2 
 
36 DON JOHN. 
 
 view would have beeD more than she could 
 have borne. What if Mrs. Leach had walked 
 in and it had come out that she had not left 
 the house at all ! What if the other baby had 
 begun to cry ! And yet how sweet that one 
 of her own had looked when the strange 
 visitor had nodded and chirped to him, and 
 he had twisted his tiny mouth into the 
 promise of a smile ! 
 
 It was not worth while to go through so 
 much. 
 
 No, that was not exactly it. She loved 
 ierself as well as her baby. She had 
 not expected to be so frightened. The least 
 questioning would have betrayed all. She 
 never could so much as act such a thing again, 
 and she pulled down the broidered robe, even 
 tearing it in her hurry, and threw it aside 
 from her own child. Then she took up her 
 nurseling, dressed him in all his bravery, 
 and waited her mother's arrival with an 
 easier heart. She had not known herself 
 before. She was aware now what shame 
 
DON JOHN. 37 
 
 and dread had come of the mere prophecy of 
 a crime in her heart. 
 
 What, then, would experience be ! Well, 
 it might be a pity, perhaps it was ; but she 
 was not one of those who could stand such 
 a thing. It was not her conscience that was 
 awake, but her reason ; even if she could do 
 such a thing successfully, she should suffer 
 constant fear of detection ; she would not do it. 
 
 Master Johnstone had enjoyed his supper, 
 and was in his cot, and Master Aird had en- 
 joyed his bottle before Mrs. Pearson came in. 
 
 She entered slowly, and as if she would 
 not startle her daughter. Mrs. Aird had one 
 of the babies on her knee. Mrs. Pearson 
 never cast her eyes on him. 
 
 ''La, Maria, my girl," were her first words; 
 '' such queer things as I have seen! " 
 
 *' No, have you, mother ? " answered Mrs. 
 Aird, with a keen consciousness that her 
 mother cared about the said things nothing 
 in the world. 
 
 ''If some of those cactus things wasn't 
 
88 DON JOHN. 
 
 just like an — an old man's head all over 
 white hairs, my name's not Fanny Pearson," 
 said the mother, without any signs of hesita- 
 tion.' ^' There was a — a glass-house full of 
 such. The last time I saw them was the 
 first bank hohday Parhament made. The 
 shops all shut up, and yet the Punches going, 
 and barrows of fruit cried all about the 
 streets, it was just like — like a wicked Sun- 
 day, that had got sorted wrong and come in 
 the middle of the — the week." 
 
 Her daughter, with a baby on her knee, 
 remained silent. 
 
 ^^ And so tea's ready, Maria, my girl, and 
 very acceptable, I say." She glanced at 
 her daughter, and noticed the signs of tears 
 upon her face. '' I'm always glad of — of 
 my tea," she continued; *^how quiet the 
 dear children are ! " she added, as she drew 
 her chair to the table. 
 
 *^One of them has been crying pretty 
 hard," replied the daughter, without specify- 
 ing which. 
 
DOX JOEX. 39 
 
 She had a Httle white pmafore in her 
 hand, and seemed to be giving her atten- 
 tion to the sleeve which she was folding 
 back mth a button. 
 
 Her mother glanced keenly at her, but 
 did not dare to look at the face of the child 
 she had on her knee. 
 
 Tea was now poured out. Mrs. Pearson 
 had begun to feel the silence rather awk- 
 ward, when at last her daughter said, ''Those 
 three novels you brought me, mother, I won- 
 der you should have thought I hadn't read 
 them, they're old things every one of them." 
 
 ''"Well," answered the mother, with 
 obliging suavity, '' if you don't mean to read 
 them again, I'll take them back. Ma — ■ 
 Maria." 
 
 ''No, I don't," said Mrs. Aird. She 
 knew she was making her mother uncom- 
 fortable, but a certain slight perversity of 
 temper afflicted her just then. " I saw 
 you'd looked them over before you chose 
 them," >she continued. 
 
40 DON JOHN. 
 
 Her mother reddened, she was not at all 
 sure that the thing suggested had not been 
 done. '* Maria's so deep," she reflected, 
 ** that she's quite capable of playing at inno- 
 cence with me. Still ' Least said is soonest 
 mended,' and I wish she would hold her 
 tongue." 
 
 **I'll take them back," she managed to 
 say, with many breaks and repetitions through 
 the return of her impediment, and she rose 
 and tied them up in a blue handkerchief, 
 and returned almost meekly to the tea-table, 
 she was quite at her daughter's mercy now ; 
 she could not articulate tolerably. The 
 least little smile hovered about Mrs. Aird's 
 lips, such a subtle small smile as justified at 
 once her mother's assertion that she was 
 «*deep." 
 
 ** I should burn them, mother, if I was 
 you," she observed calmly, ^' not that they 
 signify.*' 
 
 Her mother answered nothing. 
 
 ** I've read dozens such — dozens," con- 
 
DON JOHN. 41 
 
 tinued the daughter. " I've not forgot one 
 of them. They're enough to dishearten the 
 willingest sinner that ever breathed." 
 
 *^ I don't know what you mean, Maria," 
 the mother burst out, anger overcoming her 
 hesitation. She hardly knew whether she 
 was most angry with her daughter for 
 ^^ giving words " to the matter at all when 
 perfect silence would have been most prudent, 
 or for thus leaving her in some doubt what 
 she had done or meant to do, or for (as it 
 really seemed) not being perfectly certain 
 whether she dared trust her own mother. 
 
 " Don't know what I mean, mother ?" re- 
 joined the daughter, that small smile hover- 
 ing over her upper lip; '' well, I call them 
 disheartening because after they've (whoever 
 they may be), after they've done it so beauti- 
 ful, you know, they're always found out." 
 The mother looked very red and irate. 
 ** No," she continued, appearing to cogitate, 
 '* I don't remember one but what's found out, 
 nor one but what's brought to shame for it." 
 
42 DON JOHN. 
 
 And what was the effect of this speech 
 on the mother ? She caught the subtle 
 smile as it went and came, it never rose 
 higher than the lij) or warmed the eye, 
 and she was in doubt. Something had put 
 Maria out she thought; perhaps though 
 she meant to do the thing that had been 
 hinted at, the peril of it mixed as worm- 
 wood with the sweetness of her hope. 
 
 '' They're always found out," repeated the 
 daughter. 
 
 Tlie mother recovered speech. ^* No, 
 tlieifre not,'' she replied angrily, '* J hiow 
 hetter than that.'' 
 
 The significance of her manner was inex- 
 pressible. Mrs. Aird gave a great start, and 
 with frightened eyes gazed at the woman 
 who had claimed for herself such awful 
 experience. But having said so much, the 
 mother either could not or would not say 
 more. She poured out some tea, cut her 
 daughter more bread and butter, and still 
 not looking at the baby, scarcely looking in 
 
DON JOHX. 43 
 
 his direction, left her words to work their 
 due effect. 
 
 What she had to do was finished. She 
 had made a certain suggestion, and her 
 daughter surely was aware that she might 
 count on her help to carry it out. 
 
 There was silence ; then Mrs. Leach, the 
 landlady, came in. She had a promise of 
 several days' charing, wanted for many days 
 to be away till eight o'clock at night, was 
 very anxious to propitiate. Did Mrs. Aird 
 think she should mind answering the door 
 herself if anybody came to see the baby ? 
 Mrs. Aird was sure she should not, and also 
 was quite willing to have a baked dinner for 
 the next few days. 
 
 Mrs. Leach had not seen the second baby 
 who had made his appearance on the scene, 
 neither the mother nor the daughter cared to 
 mention him. He was lying on his mother's 
 bed with his bottle. The little Johnstone, 
 taking it into his head to be very fractious, 
 Mrs. Aird carried him into the bedroom, 
 
44 DON JOHN. 
 
 and there, shutting herself in, comforted him 
 and contemplated her heir. The mother and 
 Mrs. Leach meanwhile (tea being over) pro- 
 ceeded into the back of the house together, 
 to inspect a new copper, and were a long 
 while away, so that Mrs. Aird had plenty 
 of time for thought. 
 
 It was nearly three quarters of an hour 
 before Mrs. Pearson returned and saw her 
 daughter sitting by the window with a baby 
 on her lap. He was dressed in the robe 
 that had been folded up so carefully in 
 the morning, had on the neat little grey 
 cloak and hood familiar to Mrs. Pearson's 
 eyes, he had also a fine handkerchief 
 trimmed with imitation lace lightly laid over 
 his face. A bundle of clothes to be washed 
 was lying beside her. The nurse explained 
 that the omnibus her mother had wished to go 
 back by was very nearly due, and that she had 
 dressed the baby ready. The grandmother 
 did not look either at her or at the child 
 with anything but a hasty glance. 
 
DON JOHN. 45 
 
 She took the child upon her arm and ad- 
 vanced to the open door, but the omnibus 
 was not yet visible. She could not stand 
 waiting, she felt too much excited, and she 
 proposed, as well as her impediment permitted, 
 to go on and let it overtake her. She was 
 just stepping out when, as if by an irresistible 
 impulse, the daughter exclaimed, "Oh, I must 
 have another kiss of him." She flung back 
 the handkerchief, and, behold, it was the 
 same baby that had been brought, it was the 
 carpenter's child ! the grandmother could not 
 doubt it, and anger reddened her face and 
 filled her soul. 
 
 Then Maria had not done it after all — after 
 the trouble she had taken to come and live 
 at Kensington — after the day's work she 
 had given up in order to bring the child to 
 Kew. She was so wrath that she would have 
 liked to box Maria's ears. So irate in fact 
 when Maria burst into a little chuckling 
 laugh that she trembled all over till she was 
 fain to step inside again and sit down, setting 
 
46 DON JOHN. 
 
 her bundle beside her on the floor. Mrs. 
 Aird, after that small laugh, darted into the 
 bedroom and appeared with the other baby in 
 her arms and an air of simple innocence. The 
 omnibus went by and neither of them noticed 
 it till too late. The mother was trying hard 
 to calm herself, and the irate hue of her face 
 was fading ; the daughter had the subtle smile 
 about her lips when their eyes met, but it 
 gave way to a gleam of surprise when her 
 mother spoke as pleasantly as if nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 '* I wish you could have managed to take 
 him off niy hands for two days while I look 
 about me, Ma — Maria, he is a great handful." 
 
 i i Why, mother, it would be found out, you 
 know it would." 
 
 ^^Mrs. Leach don't know he's here; you 
 couldn't help your own crying now and then 
 in the night, but there's no ne — eed they 
 should ever bo — oth cry together, for the 
 other you can always stop. They'd only- 
 only seem to be one." 
 
DON JOHN. 47 
 
 ^' So I could, mother ; how I should love 
 to have him till you hring the clothes hack!" 
 
 *'The doctor is to send a telegram if ever 
 
 he comes. There's a girl in the cottage 
 
 A round by the green that would take him out 
 
 at what's calling time for ladies, Ma^Ma — 
 
 ria." 
 
 ^^ To be sure," answered the daughter ; 
 *' they never lunch till nearly two, they can- 
 not possibly get here till three at earliest ; I 
 might send the blessed babe out at that time 
 of day. The girl need never see my nurse- 
 child. Well, mother—" 
 
 " Well, you'll take him off — off — my hands 
 then, till the clothes are — are — are ready." 
 
 Mrs. Aird took him, that is, she got her 
 mother to lay him in the cot, for her own 
 arms were full, and she agreed with her 
 mother to send on the girl who had been 
 mentioned to speak to her. The temptation, 
 as she herself looked upon it, was over, she 
 had not yielded. She now thought she could 
 enjoy the sweet for that little time without 
 
4S DON JOHN. 
 
 the bitter. She could have her own baby to 
 sleep in her arms for those two nights, and 
 send him away during the afternoon, so that 
 she could no more suffer as she had done 
 during the grandmother's visit. She was 
 glad at heart. It was only safety she wanted. 
 Not to do the right, but to be safe in doing 
 wrong. So the baby was left, and Mrs. 
 Pearson departed with a light step and con- 
 siderable confidence in her mind as to what 
 would be the end of it. There never was 
 such a chance, as she told herself as she went 
 home — babies altered from week to week, 
 who could challenge them ? The mother who 
 could at this moment tell her child out of a 
 hundred was sure not to come near him for 
 fear of infection ; and though she might in 
 her jealous love and care send a friend 
 almost every day to look that he was happy, 
 clean, and cared for, the visit would be of no 
 use as regarded the child's real danger, the 
 only danger that threatened him. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone did indeed send almost 
 
DON JOHN. 49 
 
 every day, and was consoled by letters from 
 various friends who came at her desire. They 
 always found a charming, fresh, healthy 
 young nurse, a clean room and a fat baby. 
 They never found any one with the nurse. 
 She seemed glad to see them, and always 
 expressed much sympathy with Mrs. John- 
 stone. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
50 DON JOHN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 At about ten o'clock on the morning of the 
 appointed day, Mrs. Pearson entered the 
 cottage at Kew with the baby Johnstone's 
 clean clothes. 
 
 Mrs. Aird looked tired and flushed. 
 *' Such a night as I have had, mother, you 
 wouldn't believe ! " she exclaimed; ^' as fast 
 as one was quiet the other set off crying, 
 and it's been nothing but cry, cry, one or the 
 other, all the time I've been washing and 
 dressing them. They're both just fed, and 
 I hope they'll take a spell of sleep now, for 
 I'm about tired out." 
 
 The clothes from the wash were then 
 spread on the table, and Maria proceeded to 
 pay her mother for doing them. 
 
 **And now, mother, sit down," she pro- 
 
DON JOHN. 51 
 
 ceeded. *' You are the washerwoman, you 
 see, sit down, but in case anybody should 
 come in, leave the money and the clothes on 
 the table to look natural." 
 
 ** Nobody will come to-day," answered the 
 mother, rather seriously. 
 
 *^ Why not?" 
 
 *' That — that little girl that was first taken 
 ill — she's dead, Maria." 
 
 *^ Mother!" 
 
 ** Yes, I inquired, and — and the cook told 
 me ; " she gave a little gasp here, as if 
 making a supreme effort to overtake and 
 run down her words, then went on quite 
 easily. She said, *' They've just sent the 
 death to the Times, and — and you'll see it 
 to-morrow, ^ Irene, beloved child of Donald 
 Johnstone, aged three years and three 
 months.' " 
 
 '^Yes, she was their eldest child. Poor 
 Mrs. Johnstone ! I wonder how the others 
 are, mother ? " 
 
 u Yevj ill by what I hear; the cook said 
 E 2 
 
62 DON JOHN. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone was very ill too, and the 
 master was so knocked down by that, and 
 his trouble at the child's death, that it was 
 a pity to see him." 
 
 * ' He is very fond of her ; I wonder whether 
 she is going to have the fever." 
 
 *' Nobody will know that yet, with grown- 
 up people it seldom shows before the four- 
 teenth day. But — but — but, dear me, my 
 girl, you do look tired out." 
 
 ** I am tired. I'm sorry at my heart for 
 the Johnstones. Mother, I've done a deal 
 of thinking since we parted." 
 
 '' Thinking about what. Ma— Maria ? " 
 
 ** "Well, partly about you, mother, and 
 what you let out the other day." 
 
 ** I suppose, whatever you may have thought 
 all your — all your life, you — you — you never 
 thought your mother was a fool ? " 
 
 ** No, I never did ; but I have thought 
 there might be things — " 
 
 ** Things as you'd have a right to hear 
 when you was older. Well, there might be. 
 
DON JOHN. 53 
 
 or again there might — might — might not be, 
 Ma-Maria." 
 
 ^' But if you go on Hke this, mother, I 
 shall know as clear as can be that you're 
 not easy in your mind about trusting me, 
 and don't seem to like it ; if so, I'd as lief 
 not hear anything." 
 
 *'I've no call to be uneasy, Ma — Maria, 
 what I had a hand in is done constant — con- 
 stant, Maria." 
 
 ^^ Mother! " 
 
 ''And if I tell it you now, it's — it's for 
 your good." 
 
 ''Yes, mother, what else should it be 
 for?" but the daughter blushed, and the 
 mother looked anywhere rather than at her 
 face. 
 
 "Before I married your father, when I 
 was in service — nursemaid to Mrs. Plumstead 
 — we were in Italy, and the baby died." 
 
 " Yes, I've heard you say so." 
 
 '^But she kept me. Ma — Maria, for there 
 was another expected very soon, and the 
 
5^ DON JOHN. 
 
 master was going so fast in con — consump- 
 tion, that she was glad enough of me to help 
 to nurse him." 
 
 She lifted the edge of a Paisley shawl she 
 had on. *' She was very free-spoken. This 
 very shawl, such a good one it was, she 
 gave it me the first par — particular talk we 
 had. She said she knew he (she — she always 
 called him he, and whispered as if she was 
 cautious about being overheard) — she knew 
 he couldn't live long, and she did so wish 
 for a boy. Once when — when we talked she 
 said, * If — if I have a girl, I shall be a nobody; 
 but if it's a boy, he will inherit the estate, 
 and I shall have a handsome allowance for — 
 for bringing of him up.' She said, * Fanny 
 Slade, my husband is very dark, as — as dark 
 as most Italians. It's likely his son should 
 be dark. Don't you think,' she said, very 
 soft and gentle, * Don't you think I can 
 manage to have a boy ? ' I knew a — a good 
 many of her thoughts by that time, I said. 
 You wouldn't be so cruel, ma'am. What ! 
 
DON JOHN. 55 
 
 and — and leave your own child, if it's a girl, 
 with these nuns and people.' 
 
 '* She laughed me to scorn at that. * Leave 
 my own, if it's a girl,' she said ; ' for shame 
 of you, to think of such a thing, but why 
 — why — why shouldn't I have twins, Fanny 
 Slade ? ' 
 
 " She had a curious smile. Ma — Maria. 
 Many an hour I sat and thought on it after 
 I left her. A little smile like — like yours. 
 She was so deep that I could never make 
 out more of her than — than she liked to ex- 
 plain. Yet she seemed so free-spoken. I 
 often wondered over her. She would sit and 
 look up in the bare sky, not a bit afraid 
 of it." 
 
 " Why should she have been afraid of it ?" 
 
 ^'Why — ^^^hy, wait till — till you see it, 
 everything wiped clean away betwixt you and 
 heaven ; seems as — as if they must see down 
 so awful clear — everything you're doing, 
 and that for — for weeks and weeks together. 
 When — when I came to have things on my 
 
56 DON JOHN. 
 
 mind I hated that sky, and there seemed to 
 be nothing worth breathing, it was so clear. 
 All the time before you were born, I — I 
 often sat and thought how she would paint 
 her flowers, and smile when he wasn't look- 
 ing at her. He — he was very fond of her. 
 She had a dove- coloured quilted satin gown, 
 and she would be dressed in it for him to 
 admire her, and then when he fell asleep 
 she would smile. 
 
 '^ She said, ^ Why shouldn't I have twins, 
 Fanny Slade ? ' and she looked at — at — at me 
 so quiet. She would be often painting, and 
 — and she would send me out under the 
 olive-trees to — to gather flowers for her. I 
 didn't Hke it. You — you may think your 
 mother soft. Ma — Maria, but I often cried 
 over that work, I — I assure you." 
 
 '' Why, mother ? " 
 
 *'They were so mortal beautiful; they 
 3tood so thick together, white, and crimson, 
 and blue, in the shadow among the green 
 wheat, all scent and glory. I was afraid of 
 
DON JOHN. 57 
 
 them, for — for — for I knew the Lord would 
 never have made them hke that, and not 
 often he coming down to look at them." 
 
 All this time the daughter listened wide- 
 eyed, and the mother whispered, ''We had 
 been all the winter in that little island I told 
 you of, they call it Capri ; and now we was 
 journeying — we — we was journeying slowly 
 home. Ma — Maria. The orange-trees were 
 full of blossom, and what with their scent 
 and the sun I — I — I used to feel quite giddy. 
 
 " We stopped once at a little — little village 
 inn, for the master was very faint ; he went 
 indoors, and he laid himself down on the 
 bed to rest a couple of hours. We sat down 
 on a bench under a vine. As we sat we saw 
 a young girl with a very young baby on — on 
 her arm. Down there they fix them out 
 straight. Mrs. Plumstead called her, and 
 began to whisper to her, and she sat — sat 
 down almost at her feet. She could speak 
 Italian quite well, but the master could not, 
 at — at all, no, nor understand it. 
 
58 DON JOHN. 
 
 *^ Such a pretty young girl she was, and 
 by— by what Mrs. Plumstead told me, she 
 had no father for her babe. 
 
 *' Well, I went in to see how the master 
 was, and — and we dined there; after that 
 they sent for me, and when I came she said, 
 * Fanny Slade, Mr. Plumstead has — has just 
 noticed that my diamond ring is not on my 
 finger, and he is sure I had it this — this 
 morning.' ' Sure,' said he. She looked at 
 me so — so calm and gentle. Said he, ' I 
 seem to recall the sound of some small thing 
 that I heard roll on the floor before dinner,' 
 and he thought it had rolled under the skirt- 
 ing. Well, I searched, and when it was not 
 found, if he didn't have all the flooring up ! 
 she encouraging him. But my thought was 
 that she had given it to the girl. Well, we — 
 we slept there, and — and — and the next day 
 he was better. We went on and then 
 stopped (because she said she was tired), in 
 the market-place of a little small town, and 
 there to — to — to my wonder, I saw that same 
 
DON JOHN. 59 
 
 girl forty miles from lier home, looking out 
 for us. I — I looked at missis. She said, 
 so gentle and sweet, * Love, I wish you were 
 not so short-sighted,' she said, * there is 
 such a pretty cos — costume down there,' 
 that was said to him, but it was meant for 
 me, he — he could not see the girl. We had 
 a vast deal of talk that afternoon, she and I, 
 Then we went on and — and again, in a little 
 village by an inn door was the girl, she had 
 gone on before us, Mrs. — Mrs. Plumstead 
 saying what — what inn she should drive to. 
 We did not move any more. That — that 
 night Mrs. Plumstead was taken ill, and 
 about dawn her baby was born, and — and, 
 Ma — ria, it was a girl. 
 
 ** As soon as the doctor was gone I knocked 
 at — at Mr. Plumstead's door. Well, it — it 
 was shocking to hear him thank God for my 
 lie. I told him he had twin children born, 
 a son and a daughter." 
 
 She gave a little gasp here in this the 
 crisis of her story, and as if her words could 
 
60 DON JOHN. 
 
 not be commanded, went back to an easier 
 part of it. 
 
 '' Mrs. Plumstead had said to me, ' I mean 
 to have that girl for a wet nurse, and I have 
 told her also to — to wash her baby and bring 
 him to me to — to look at.' I could see in 
 the dawn light how — how wan Mr. Plumstead 
 looked ; but he gave thanks as — as well as he 
 could like a Christian ; and — and said he, 
 * It's a sin — singular thing, Fanny Slade, 
 that Mrs. Plumstead has more than once 
 expressed to me a sort of pre — sentiment, 
 that she should have twins.' 
 
 '^ I was obliged to leave him, ill as^— as 
 he seemed. When I went to him again he 
 seemed to rally a bit, but little as I knew 
 then about sickness and death, I knew that 
 death was nigh. 
 
 **And — and he would send me out for 
 flowers. There never were such people for 
 flowers. They were easy enough to get, the 
 olive-yards were choked up with them, spread- 
 out anemones, and tulips, and Jacob's ladder. 
 
DON JOHN. 61 
 
 I pulled an armful, but I was frightened, for 
 — for there was a sign in the sky.'^ 
 
 *^ Mother ! what sign ? " 
 
 ^' I had — had seen too many pictures of 
 angels not to know what sign. It was a 
 vast way off. It was an angel, you could not 
 make out the form of its — its body, but 
 his two long pointed wings just like a gauze 
 cloud were tilted towards the world as — as 
 if he was flying down. I saw the — the faint 
 shadow of them, it fell just where I stood.'' 
 
 '* You saw only the white wings ? " 
 
 *'Yes, I tell you only the wings. The 
 sky being so clear there, you can see things, 
 Maria, that — that here are invisible. It was 
 the Angel of Death passing — passing down 
 and going to stop. 
 
 ^ ^ I ran in. He was propped up with pillows, 
 writing to his father, to express the birth of 
 the twins. He — he directed the letter and 
 sent me to his wife with his dear love, and 
 how did she feel herself ? When I got back, 
 dying he was with the letter in his hand. I 
 
62 DOiN JOHN. 
 
 could see his face change as I gave him 
 the — the message. He expressed he was 
 pleased, but he soon began to ramble in his 
 talk, and just at noon that day he died in 
 my Tirms, as softly as could be. 
 
 *' We kept the — the girl about us, and when 
 Mrs. Plumstead was able to travel, we took 
 her and the — the boy-baby too, for it was 
 made out that the poor lady was — was too 
 delicate by half to nurse her child. 
 
 '^ When we got well away, Mrs. Plumstead 
 had to give the — the girl a very heavy bribe, 
 to leave her child. She was a thief and a 
 good-for-nothing little — little hussy; but 
 she loved her baby, and at last Mrs. Plum- 
 stead got out her jewel-case and sat smiling 
 at her, and showed her — her two diamond 
 earrings ; and she sat staring as — as if she 
 would eat them. Then Mrs. Plumstead put 
 them in her ears, and gave her a little hand- 
 glass to look at herself; but she kept 
 sulking and pouting. Then Mrs. Plum- 
 stead gave her a pink coral brooch, and she 
 
DON JOHN. 63 
 
 began to talk and smile and show her pretty 
 ^vhite teeth; and — and at last Mrs. Plum- 
 stead shook out a long gold chain, and looked 
 at her and smiled, and put it round her neck, 
 and — and the girl started up and gave a 
 great cry, and ran out of the room, never 
 looking back, and took herself off, and — and 
 we saw her no more. 
 
 " That's all about it, Maria, it was very 
 easy done. We soon hired a wet nurse for the 
 boy, and came out of Italy to a place they — 
 they call Mentone. 
 
 ** But nothing seemed to go right, for here 
 the little girl baby died, and Mrs. Plumstead 
 took on most — most fearful, and made out 
 that I'd encouraged her to do the thing, and 
 the death of the baby was sent to punish her. 
 She fretted and used to put herself quite 
 in a rage over the letters she got from her 
 relations. She must be — be thankful, they 
 all said, she'd got her dear boy left. 
 
 ^^ She was all brown, her cheeks were soft 
 and brown, and her eyes like — like brown 
 
64 DON JOHN. * 
 
 velvet. The baby was not as brown as she. 
 Well, Maria, in a few months we came to 
 England, and there I did a— a foolish 
 thing—" 
 
 The daughter, all eyes, sat listening ; tears 
 were on the mother's cheeks. 
 
 '^ A foolish thing, and lost my hold over 
 her. I married your father. He came to see 
 me, and vowed he would not wait any longer. 
 And I married him." 
 
 *'Well, mother, many's the time you said 
 he made you a good husband, and he never 
 drank." 
 
 '^No, my girl; but 5/1^ had promised me 
 two hundred pounds, and she — she said she 
 could not get at it before I married, for — 
 for she must not part with any more of her 
 jewels. Afterwards she was engaged to be 
 married again, and I — I heard it. I was bent 
 on having that money. I thought if she put 
 me off a,ny more, I would threaten her that 
 I would speak ; and as soon as I got well, 
 after you were born, I took you on my arm 
 
DON JOHN. 65 
 
 and went to her house. Oh, Ma — Maria ! it 
 cuts me to the heart to think on it. I'd 
 done my level best to serve her, and nothing 
 was to come of it. 
 
 *' * You cannot speak with Mrs. Plumstead 
 to-day,' said the butler, ^ she's distracted 
 with — with grief; we've lost Master Geoffry.' 
 I did see her, though ; she was hiding herself 
 in her dressing-room. She did not wish it to 
 be seen that she had no tears to shed. But 
 oh! she was vexed. He had died of croup. 
 I saw it was a bad chance for me ; she — she 
 put me off with promises and promises." 
 
 '^ Then why didn't you say you would 
 speak of it ? " asked the daughter eagerly. 
 
 '' Where would have been the use, my girl ? 
 And — and she promised me so fair. Who 
 could I tell it to either — nobody cared ? He 
 was out of the way of the next heir, and — 
 and — and the girl could never come and 
 seek her own ; she did not so much as know 
 our names. But, Maria, it — it seemed hard." 
 
 *' Mother, didn't I say that those stories 
 VOL. I. r 
 
66 DON JOHN. 
 
 never end well ? They are alike for 
 that." 
 
 ** I got but ten pounds of her, Maria, and 
 when I was put out she smiled — yes, she 
 did ; she — she looked at me and smiled ! " 
 
 ^^It was a shame." 
 
 ^ ' Ay, and she soon went to Scotland with 
 her new husband, and had live fine boys, one 
 after the other ; but — but she never gave me 
 aught but their old clothes for mine, and 
 paid the carriage of the parcels — I will say 
 that : she — she paid the carriage." 
 
 ^'You've no writing for the two hun- 
 dred ? " asked the daughter. 
 
 *'No — and there's nothing to be done. 
 I — I — I can't punish her without ac — 
 accusing myself." 
 
 '' If you think so, mother — " 
 *' I know it, my girl, and it seems to hold 
 me back ; and me only five and forty and a 
 widow, to think of my missing such a 
 payment after — after, as you may say, it was 
 fairly won ! " 
 
DON JOHN. &7 
 
 ^' I'm sorry I vexed yon the other clay, 
 mother," said the daughter with ahsurd 
 compunction. 
 
 '^Ay, Ma — Maria, my girl, it was not 
 dutiful of you." The daughter kissed her, 
 and the mother wiped away some tears. 
 Then there was a long silence. 
 
 ' ' You'll stop and dine, mother ? We could 
 both dine in the kitchen ; and, if anybody 
 called, I could leave you and baby there," 
 said Mrs. Aird at last. 
 
 *'No, I'd best not; but if you could 
 keep him another day or so — " 
 
 " To be sure, mother. Why, I find nobody 
 ever comes except between three and six. 
 As to Mrs. Leach, she'll not have a day at 
 home for the next fortnight, so she'll never 
 see him. Leave him, mother, and, when I 
 want you to come for him, I'll drop you a 
 post-card." 
 
 So Mrs. Pearson departed, not having 
 stayed more than an hour or seen either of 
 the children. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 DON JOHN. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone's mother drove oyer again 
 that afternoon, and wept as she told the 
 story of the httle Irene's death, and the 
 father's distress. Her daughter-in-law, she 
 said, was causing great anxiety to them all 
 by the way that she appeared to be sinking 
 under this trial. Maria Aird won golden 
 opinions for herself by the tears she also 
 shed when she heard this. 
 
 One baby was gone out for a walk, in 
 charge of the girl ; the other was lying on 
 her knee : which was it ? If it was not the 
 same that Mrs. Johnstone's mother had 
 seen two or three days before, she certainly 
 did not notice any such fact. 
 
 Maria Aird, after that, expected at least 
 one visitor every day, and never failed to have 
 one. The day following the grandmother's 
 visit came a telegram from the doctor. She 
 was in every way ready for him ; the house 
 very clean, the baby fast asleep (she said she 
 had just nursed him), the other baby away. 
 
 ** I shall not be able to come again," he 
 
DON JOHN. 69 
 
 said as he departed. ^' Mrs. Johnstone's 
 mother will now see that you have what you 
 want. At the same time, if anything should 
 ail the child, you will of course telegraph to 
 me ; for in such a case, you understand, I 
 certainly should come." 
 
 So he took his leave, having done mischief 
 which, when it disclosed itself, he was truly 
 sorry for. But what are doctors to do ? He 
 had changed his coat after his morning visit 
 to Harley Street, and, as we all know, 
 doctors never convey infection. 
 
 Mrs. Pearson had agreed with her daugh- 
 ter that a card should be posted to her when 
 the baby was to be fetched, but she was very 
 much surprised when a fortnight within one 
 day had elapsed, and the expected card had 
 not arrived. " But Maria is very deep," she 
 reflected, " and, if she is going to do her duty 
 by her own child, she'll yet be wishful that I 
 should not know it — know it, for certain. 
 Yery like I may go on to the end of my days 
 and never hear the real truth from her own 
 
70 DON JOHN. 
 
 mouth ; but I shall feel sure about what it is 
 for all that ; and she thinks the child may 
 alter a good bit in a fortnight. Besides, 
 she'll have weaned the other." 
 . The same evening a letter arrived : — 
 ^' Dearest Mother, 
 
 *' I feel myself very ill. Come as 
 soon as ever you can to-morrow morning and 
 fetch away Lancey. They are both so very 
 fractious, I don't know where to turn. 
 ['^ Both so fractions, are they? I expected it of 
 one of them," mused the grandmother.] I shall 
 get up as early as I can, and have mine ready. 
 I do so want you to take him ; I cannot do 
 with them both [^^ That looks ivell ! "], for my 
 head aches so, night and day, and his fretting 
 makes me feel worse. Mother, don't fail to 
 come. 
 
 ** Your dutiful daughter, 
 
 ^' Maria Jane Aird." 
 At nine o'clock the next morning, Mrs. 
 Pearson walked in. Her daughter Maria, 
 who seemed to be sitting up with difficulty, 
 
DON JOHN. 7L 
 
 was dressing one baby ; the other— presuma- 
 bly her own — was abeady in cloak and hood. 
 
 The mother's keen glance made her at 
 once aware of something more the matter 
 than she had anticipated. The daughter 
 acknowledged no discomforts but headache 
 and sore throat, and was presently so giddy 
 that her mother made her go into the 
 chamber and lie down on her bed. 
 
 And now, as is often the case, the daughter 
 found herself more than commonly under 
 the dominion of her natural qualities of mind, 
 just, as it seemed, because it was more than 
 commonly needful to success that she should 
 escape from them. : 
 
 She preserved an open innocence of 
 manner, and said nothing at all to her 
 mother, who knew, or thought, at once that 
 no confidence would be reposed in her, and 
 that all depended on her own keenness of 
 observation. So she left her on her bed, and, 
 taking her time to examine the children, 
 to cogitate, and to make her arrangements, 
 
72 DON JOHN. 
 
 sent, in about an hour, by a passing child, to 
 fetch the girl always trusted to carry out one 
 of the children, put him into her arms in the 
 little grey cloak and veil, and, having already 
 despatched a telegram for the doctor, sat 
 nursing the other child till his carriage ap- 
 peared, and out he bustled. Mrs. Pearson 
 met him. 
 
 ^^ My daughter wrote me word, sir, last 
 night, that she felt herself ill, and I have 
 just come over to see her." 
 
 '' What is the matter ? " 
 
 ^' I hope, sir, considering that — that she 
 has done her best," the mother began, 
 following him into the little chamber. 
 
 ''Take the baby out of the room," were 
 almost his first words. 
 
 ' ' I feel so confused, sir, and my throat so 
 sore," said the poor young creature. 
 
 Mrs. Aird felt more confused as the day wore 
 on, but she knew her mother was sometimes 
 present, and that both the babies were gone. 
 
 She was quite able also to take pleasure 
 
DON JOHN. 73 
 
 in the knowledge that she was to be nursed 
 at the charges of the Johnstones, and she did 
 not forget that, wdien her mother said to the 
 doctor that she knew very well how her 
 daughter had caught the infection which had 
 deprived her of her situation, he looked con- 
 cerned, said not a word, but put his hand in 
 his pocket and gave her a sovereign. 
 
 She was skilfully and carefully nursed, 
 and was never seriously ill — scarcely in bed 
 more than a fortnight. 
 
 Then began her education. 
 
 She sat up, thin, white-handed, and with 
 eyes full of brooding thought and doubtful 
 cogitation. She was to remain in the little 
 lodgings at Kew for a full month, and then 
 to have change, that the Johnstones might 
 not have it on their consciences that anything 
 was left undone for her good, or to prevent 
 the further spread of infection. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone's mother had fetched away 
 the baby, and happily he did not have the 
 fever. The other child took it, and, of course, 
 
74 DON JOHN. 
 
 was nursed in the little lodgings at the back 
 of Kensington Square. 
 
 Always in doubt, turning things over in 
 her mind, Maria Aird would sit out in Kew 
 Gardens, pondering over what she had done. 
 ^^ Was it worth while to have done this thing ? 
 No, but it was now not worth while to go 
 through the far worse misery of undoing it. 
 But was it done, after all ? That depended 
 entirely on what had been her mother's 
 opinion of matters when she had been left 
 alone with the children. But, oh, to be well 
 again ! " thought the young woman, ^'and see 
 the baby again. I shall know whether it's my 
 own or not. If it is, after all I've gone 
 through, I think I shall be glad, though it may 
 seem hard, when I'd got it done, to have it 
 undone. Yet if it is not — oh ! I do think I 
 must confess it, come what will ! " 
 
 But all sense of the possibihty of such a 
 thing as confession and restitution was soon 
 over, and every day she got more used to 
 the dull brooding pain that had worn itself 
 
DON JOHN. 75 
 
 a home in her hreast. She knew and felt 
 that she had done a cnmmal action, hut she 
 did not, strange to say, hy any means think 
 of herself as a criminal. 
 
 A criminal seemed to he some one whose 
 crime was a part of himself, sone one with 
 whom crime was ingrain, and she felt, in spite 
 of all Bible teaching and school teaching, as 
 if her fault was external to herself — something 
 into w4iich she had been tricked by cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 And yet she knew it was wrong to dislike, 
 as she did, the notion of having to work for, 
 and bring up, and act mother to, the John- 
 stone baby. Very soon, almost all her sense 
 of wrong- doing attached itself to this dis- 
 like. 
 
 She longed to go to service again, though 
 she should have to pay her mother half the 
 money she got to take care of this child 
 and bring him up. And how soon could 
 she make interest for his being got into 
 some orphan school ? Then she could go 
 
*?Q DON JOHN. 
 
 abroad and see him no more. Better by half 
 never to set her eyes upon her own son again 
 than have that other woman's son always 
 beside her ! 
 
DON JOHX. 77 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 It was nearly the end of July when Maria 
 Jane Aird, getting out of an omnibus, passed 
 through Kensington Square to her mother's 
 lodgings. 
 
 She was expected. Her sister, a girl of 
 fourteen, ran and snatched up the baby, and, 
 thrusting him almost into her face, expatiated 
 on his good temper, and demanded her eu- 
 logies in the same breath. * * Ain't he grown ? ' ' 
 she exclaimed, giving him a sounding kiss. 
 
 The mother, having greeted her daughter, 
 turned again at once to the ironing-board 
 and looked away, while Mrs. Aird, without 
 taking the child, gazed at him with earnest, 
 anxious attention. 
 
 ** What ails you ? " asked her sister. 
 
 **He's so changed," she murmured. 
 
78 DON JOHN. 
 
 The thing sat boldly up, and stared at 
 her — she stared at him. 
 
 Though it was a hot night, she began to 
 shiver ; she remembered so well the two 
 babes she had parted from, and all the small 
 but unmistakable particulars of feature and 
 countenance in which they differed ; but this 
 differed from both. 
 
 This little fellow had a certain small 
 amount of speculation in his bead-like blue 
 eyes ; he was more than ^yq months old. He 
 clutched the little sister's hair, and tried to 
 suck it ; when she tossed him up, he uttered 
 an ecstatic squeal to express approval ; he 
 turned his head when he heard the click of 
 the iron as it was set down ; when she took 
 him in her arms he cried, for his dawning 
 intelligence seemed to assure him that she 
 was a stranger. 
 
 She had thought incessantly on the two 
 children ever since they had been taken from 
 her. This child was not the least like her 
 faithful recollection of either. 
 
DON JOHN. 79 
 
 ** By my not knowing him," she reflected, 
 *'I am sm-e he is not mine; mine I shall 
 certainly know, and I shall never rest till 
 I've seen him." 
 
 **He kicks ever so when he wants me to 
 put him down," observed the zealous little 
 sister ; *^ he likes to lie on the floor on the 
 woolly mat." 
 
 Mrs. Pearson then came forward to show 
 off some of his accomplishments ; he took a 
 great deal of notice, it appeared. 
 
 '' Toss him up and make him laugh, 
 'Lizabeth." No sooner said than done. The 
 baby crowed and cooed, and showed his 
 toothless gums, and, at the sight of this 
 reality, her remembrance faded away. 
 
 She took him and pressed him to her 
 bosom with a sort of yearning, for he might 
 be hers ; but she soon put him down again, 
 for — oh, strange uncertainty, he might not ! 
 
 The baby, the two sisters, and their 
 mother, all slept in one room that night ; 
 there was but one other — the living-room, 
 
80 DON JOHN. 
 
 which also served for a kitchen. There was 
 scant opportunity for such conversation as 
 the young widow might have been supposed 
 to long for with her mother; but it was 
 characteristic of both the women that, so far 
 from wishing to talk, they dreaded to be 
 alone together. The mother, having for so 
 many years kept her own secret, felt a kind 
 of resentment against her favourite child for 
 having been so tardy, so unwilling to take a 
 hint as to have at last forced it from her ; 
 the daughter feared to ask a direct question, 
 lest her mother should prevaricate in her 
 answer, and so make her feel doubtful ever- 
 more in spite of any protestations that might 
 come after. No, she should certainly find 
 her own child less altered ; she should know 
 him easily enough. She would wait, and in 
 the meantime try to be good to this one. 
 
 Some weeks after this the Johnstones 
 came back to London for a short time pre- 
 paratory to an autumnal sojourn at the sea- 
 side, and Mrs. Johnstone received a letter, 
 
DON JOHN. 81 
 
 which she thought a very nice one. She 
 was quite well herself, and her little girls 
 were well, so was the baby — -mdeed, he had 
 never been otherwise. 
 
 '' Madam," ran the letter, ** I have long 
 been perfectly recovered, and hope never to 
 forget how good you have been to me. I came 
 home some time ago and found my baby 
 very well under mother's charge. 
 
 " Madam, I feel such a great wish to see 
 your dear babe ; might I take the liberty to 
 come some morning to set my eyes upon 
 him ? I hope he was none the worse for my 
 being ill so suddenly. Hoping to hear from 
 you, madam, I am, 
 
 '^ Your humble servant, 
 
 *' Maria Jane Aird." 
 
 " Kindly creature ! " said Mrs. Johnstone, 
 handing over the letter to her husband. 
 " ]\rany women feel a great love for their 
 foster-children. I shall be pleased to show 
 baby to her." 
 
 So one morning, about the end of September, 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 DON JOHN. 
 
 Mrs. Aird was shown up into the nursery at 
 Upper Harlej Street. She was to dine there 
 and spend the day. Mrs. Johnstone brought 
 her up herself. The boy was asleep in his 
 cradle ; he was a great, fat, heavy child, al- 
 most half as big again as the active, lean 
 little fellow she had left at home. She had 
 all but made up her mind — the want of 
 maternal yearning towards the baby at home 
 having persuaded her most of all — ^yet she 
 longed to recognize this child, and so be 
 sure for ever. She fully looked for certainty, 
 but this child also was so much changed, 
 that, as she stood looking at him, she could 
 not help shedding tears. He awoke, rosy 
 and cross, and would not come to her, and 
 she knew she must now tell all to her mother, 
 and get the real truth from her, or else for 
 ever be uncertain which was which. She 
 looked round at the pretty little sisters ; 
 there was no special likeness between him 
 and them ; just so she had recalled all her 
 own and her husband's relatives as far as 
 
DON JOHN. 83 
 
 she had known them in childhood, and she 
 found no decisive hkeness to either child 
 there. The children were both fair, both 
 blue eyed ; this was a fine fat baby, but then 
 he had never been ill. The other had had 
 an attack of scarlatina, had been pulled down 
 by it, and was not fat ; that was all. 
 
 Maria Aird did not get out of the omni- 
 bus which brought her to Kensington High 
 Street till about seven o'clock in the even- 
 ing; the day had been hot and the street was 
 more shady than dusk, though the weather 
 was remarkably overcast. 
 
 As she walked on, she saw a stretcher 
 preceding her. It was borne on the shoulders 
 of four policemen, who were pacing carefully 
 along. At first she knew not what was 
 upon it — it was something brown. Then 
 suddenly it revealed itself plainly to her — 
 a woman's gown. Yes, poor creature, it was 
 a woman. 
 
 Bandages were swathed round and round 
 her and the stretcher, but she did not move 
 
S4 DON JOHN. 
 
 or show any sign of life. Mrs. Aird could 
 make out her figure, and, as she went on, 
 still the stretcher preceded her up a street, 
 through the square, then down another street, 
 then to the little court where she lived, and 
 there — oh, terror ! it stopped at her mother's 
 door. 
 
 A cry from within echoed her agonized 
 voice without, ^* Oh, mother, mother ! " 
 
 The dull misery of the day was as nothing, 
 now this more acute agony absorbed all her 
 thoughts. 
 
 The poor patient was carried to her bed, 
 and her daughters were told of her having 
 been run over in one of the narrow streets 
 near, and from the first, having been in- 
 sensible, showing in her face no expression 
 of pain. 
 
 A kindly neighbour proposed to take 
 charge of the baby for the night. The young 
 widow let him go, scarcely looking at him ; 
 she remembered every few minutes, with a 
 flash of fear, that she might now perhaps 
 
DON JOHX. 85 
 
 never be able to ask the question on which 
 so much depended. She loved her mother, 
 and between this love and this fear it seemed 
 as if nothing could exhaust her. That night 
 and the next day, and through the next 
 night, her untiring eyes kept watch ; her un- 
 wearied hands were busy about the silent 
 patient. 
 
 Sometimes a little better, there would 
 seem to be intelligence in her mother's eyes, 
 then again there would be a wandering and 
 aimless gaze. 
 
 The daughters were told to hope, and 
 hope assisted in sustaining them ; but as yet 
 no communication was possible. At last 
 Maria Jane Aird felt that she could do no 
 more, and left her place by the bed-side to 
 her sister. 
 
 Another weary day and night passed, still 
 they were told to hope ; then, just at dawn, 
 the tired sister crept to Maria's bed and 
 woke her with, '' Mother has spoken quite 
 sensibly several times;" and she got up, and 
 
86 DON JOHN. 
 
 came to take her turn at the nursing. The 
 red flush and solemn light of sunrise was 
 on the ceiling, and seemed to be cast down 
 on her mother's pallid and wasted features. 
 She saw at once an improvement of a certain 
 kind, but the face was no longer calm ; she 
 laid her hand gently on her mother's, saying, 
 in a soothing tone, ^* You must be quite still, 
 mother dear, and not fuss yourself about 
 anything — there's no occasion." 
 
 Such a commonplace reply, — '' Me not 
 fuss, and your silk gown gone to the 
 pawnbroker's ? " 
 
 " Don't trouble about that, dear mother." 
 
 **And your watch — I heard you both 
 express that you'd do it when you did not 
 think I noticed." 
 
 ''Well, mother dear, I can get them out 
 when you're better," said the daughter 
 soothingly. 
 
 " I — I never loved to see the dawn, I told 
 Mm — told him that lie, just at the dawn." 
 
 "It did no harm in the ending of it. 
 
DON JOHX. 87 
 
 mother dear," she answered, miderstauding 
 her instantly. 
 
 " Then it — it don't signify, Maria, my 
 girl ? " 
 
 "No, nothing signifies but your getting 
 well." 
 
 " And Where's the child ? " 
 
 " I paid fourpence to have him taken care 
 of for to-night.— Mother ?" 
 
 '^Ay, my girl." 
 
 '• The child — we were talking of the child. 
 Is he mine ? " 
 
 She leaned down with a face full of 
 earnest entreaty and anguish ; the mother 
 gasped, and seemed to make an effort to 
 speak. 
 
 "Is he mine?" murmured the daughter. 
 " Did you change him, mother ? Say yes, or 
 say no." 
 
 And yet neither could be said. There 
 seemed to be some effort first to speak, then 
 some effort to bear in mind the matter that 
 should be spoken of, and after that the little 
 
88 DON JOH^'. 
 
 glimpse of sense and reason was gone. The 
 daughter thought she whispered, ^' Some other 
 time;" then her eyes closed, and the fala- 
 cious hope of recovery was over. 
 
 It was about a month after this that Mrs. 
 Johnstone got another letter from Mrs. 
 Aird, and was touched by the simple filial love 
 and grief that breathed through it. Her 
 dear mother, the best of parents, had been 
 knocked down by a cab in the street on the 
 very day that the writer had spent in Upper 
 Harley Street, and had met with injuries to 
 her head. The last sentence Mrs. Johnstone 
 read without any thought of the anguish 
 which had wrung it from the writer, or of 
 how much it concerned herself. 
 
 ''She died, and, madam! there were 
 words I longed above all things to hear from 
 her poor lips, and she could not say them." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Mrs. Johnstone, 
 quietly laying the letter aside, '' I like that 
 young woman ; there's something so open 
 and sincere about her." 
 
 *' But I rather think this is meant for 
 
DON JOHN. 89 
 
 a begging letter, my dear," observed Mr. 
 Johnstone ; ^' this is rather a telHng sentence 
 as to her not being able to maintain herself 
 in service again on account of the hiirden of 
 her young child." 
 
 He had a newspaper in his hand, and, as 
 he spoke, he looked down and aside from it at 
 the Httle Donald, who was now seven months 
 old, and was crowing and kicking on the rug — 
 a puppy nestling close to him, and receiving 
 meekly various soft infantile thumps from his 
 fat little fist. A red setter, the mother of the 
 puppy, looked on with a somewhat dejected 
 air, as if she knew her offspring was honoured 
 by the notice of this child of the favoured 
 race, but yet could have wished those dimpled 
 hands would respect her treasure's eyes. 
 Mr. Johnstone, from looking at his heir, got 
 to whistling to him. '^ You're a burden — a 
 very sore burden," he said, smiling, to him ; 
 *' did you know that ? " 
 
 The baby stared at him, understanding 
 the good- will in his pleasant face, but 
 nothing more. He was old enough already to 
 
9.0 DON JOHN. 
 
 answer the paternal expression, and presently 
 he smiled all over his little face. 
 
 As long as only the puppy had been pro- 
 curable as a playmate, he had been contented 
 with it ; but now, conceiving hope of a more 
 desirable slave, he made vigorous efforts to 
 turn himself over, and, clutching his father's 
 foot, soon got himself taken up, and began 
 forthwith to amuse himself and make himself 
 agreeable according to his lights, dashing 
 his hand into his father's breakfast- cup, and, 
 when this had been withdrawn and dried, 
 seizing various envelopes, dropping them on 
 the floor, and beginning to crow and screech 
 with the peculiar ecstasy of a baby in full 
 action, v/hile he worked his arms and legs 
 about, reckless ofthe trouble it was to prevent 
 him from wriggling off. Meanwhile Mrs. 
 Johnstone smiled \vith some quiet enjoyment, 
 and carefully removed all the knives and all 
 the crockery out of his reach. 
 
 "Well, love," she said at last, '^have 
 you had enough of it ? " Thereupon Mr. 
 
DON JOHN. 91 
 
 Johnstone called to the dog, *^ Die, ring the 
 bell;" and the setter walked forth from 
 under the table, and, grasping the bell- 
 handle in both paws, pulled it down, while 
 his master, still struggling with the baby, 
 exclaimed, " This boy has more life in him 
 than all the girls put together. I defy any 
 fellow to hold him, and take care of him 
 without giving his whole mind to it and to 
 nothing else." 
 
 " There goes the milk ! " said the mother ; 
 '* I did not think he could have reached it. 
 Look, my baby, dear ! does baby know what 
 he has done ? " 
 
 ^' He looks as if he did; the sapient air he 
 gives himself is something wonderful. It is 
 evident that a man-child from the first is 
 difi"erent from girl babies. What shall I do 
 with you, my son, when you are older ? " 
 
 ^' Don't afflict thyself, love," said his wife, 
 caressing his hand ; " he is just like the 
 others ; but you know you were never in the 
 habit of having them downstairs at breakfast 
 
92 DON JOHN. 
 
 time, nor of otherwise troubling yourself 
 with the charge of them." 
 
 The nurse now appeared, and had no 
 sooner carried off Master Donald Johnstone, 
 and shut the door behind her, than Die the 
 setter started up with several little yaps of 
 satisfaction, and, seizing her puppy by the 
 neck, deposited it in Mrs. Johnstone's lap. 
 The setter knew very well that her puppy 
 was a thing of no account when the baby 
 was present, and she sometimes testified her 
 dissatisfaction, and expressed her sensation 
 of dulness in his society, and the neglect 
 it brought her, by uttering a loud an 
 somewhat impertinent yawn. Now she was 
 happy, and probably thought things were as 
 they should be ; her puppy had curled him- 
 self up in the upstart baby's place, and she 
 was watching him, with her chin upon her 
 master's foot. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone was a man about thirty- 
 four years of age ; he was about the middle 
 height ; in complexion he inclined to fairness; 
 
DON JOHN. 93 
 
 he was neither handsome nor plain ; he 
 walked much more like a soldier than a 
 civilian, and he had one remarkably 
 agreeable feature — his eyes, which were of a 
 bright light hazel, had a charming power of 
 expressing affection and frankness. He was 
 a man whom everybody liked, and most of 
 all those who had the most to do with him. 
 People who made his acquaintance often 
 found themselves attached to him before 
 they had discovered why. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone, on the other hand, was 
 much above the middle height ; she had not 
 one good feature, and yet she was exceed- 
 ingly admired by the other sex, and had 
 been won, with great difficulty, by her 
 husband from several other suitors who 
 sighed for her. She had that hair which, of all 
 the varieties called red, is alone beautiful. 
 It was so light and bright that it crowned 
 her like a glory, and she had blue eyes and 
 thick light eyelashes. 
 
 An easy, cordial manner, and that 
 
94 DON JOHN. 
 
 observant tact which always characterize a 
 much -admired woman, were in her case 
 mingled with real sweetness of natm-e and 
 wish to do kindness. These good qualities, 
 however, by no means accounted for the love 
 which had been lavished on her. That 
 must be indeed an unamiable woman whose 
 lovers can find no good quality to quote in 
 excuse, or perhaps as a reason (!), for the 
 extravagance of their love. Mr. Johnstone 
 had never raved about her virtues ; that was, 
 perhaps, because he had taken them all for 
 granted; and when, after some months of mar- 
 riage, he discovered that her charm was an 
 abiding one, and that she was just as sensible, 
 just as devoted, and no more extravagant than 
 other men's wives, he could hardly believe 
 in his own good fortune. He also showed 
 himself a sensible man. Of course she was 
 lovely — most men thought so — but he never 
 had her photographed. Photographs deal 
 with facts, and when the photograph showed 
 him rather a long upper lip, eyes by no means 
 
DON JOHN. 95 
 
 lustrous, and a nose neither Roman nor 
 Grecian, he destroyed it, all but one copy, 
 which he intended to keep carefully hidden 
 for himself, and begged her never to be 
 photographed again. 
 
 Then she laughed, but not without a 
 certain tenderness, and said, " Oh, Donald, 
 what a goose you are ! " 
 
 ''Do you think so, my dear?" he 
 answered, still looking at the portrait rather 
 ruefully, and then at her as she sat by him 
 on a sofa. 
 
 " Of course," she answered, looking him 
 straight in the face, as if lost in con- 
 templation. 
 
 "Well?" he asked. 
 
 '•'And yet I always did — and I suppose I 
 always shall — think you the only man worth 
 mentioning." 
 
 But that little scene had been long over 
 at the time when Die the setter put her 
 puppy into Mrs. Donald Johnstone's lap. A 
 discussion took place which concerned Mrs. 
 
96 DON JOHN. 
 
 Aird, and which ended in a handsome present 
 of money being sent her by post-office order, 
 with a letter from Mrs. Johnstone, who told 
 her that, if ever she did go to service again, 
 she might depend on a good character from 
 her as an honest, sober, cleanly, and 
 thoroughly trustworthy person. 
 
 Having written this kind letter, and 
 shown herself just as able as most of us 
 judge of character — that is, just as unable 
 to divide manner from conduct, to make 
 allowance for overwhelming circumstance, 
 and bridge over the wide gap, in her 
 thoughts, w4iich rends apart the interests of 
 the rich from those of the poor — Mrs. 
 Johnstone almost forgot Maria Aird. She 
 had a letter of thanks from her, but she was 
 never asked for the ^^ character ;" the very 
 dangerous illness which had caused her to 
 want this young v/oman's services, and the 
 loss of her little girl, began alike to recede 
 into the background of her thoughts. She 
 could think of her precious httle Irene 
 
DON JOHN. 97 
 
 without tears. Her two little girls were 
 healthy and happy, her boy was growing 
 fast, and she was shortly hoping to add 
 another boy to her little tribe. Of course 
 it was to be a boy ; her husband's great desire 
 for sons always made her feel as if her girls 
 were failures. He was fond of them, and 
 imagined that he made no difference be- 
 tween one and another of his children ; but 
 his little daughters, though by no means 
 able to express a contrary opinion, not 
 only held it, but would certainly have 
 justified it, if they had known how ; they 
 shared their father's views, and considered 
 that their ''boy-baby " enhanced their own 
 
 dignity. 
 
 It was about the longest day ; Mr. John- 
 stone, coming home to dinner, was advancing^ 
 along Upper Harley Street on foot, when a 
 young man, who seemed to be loitering 
 along, looking out for some one, met him and 
 suddenly stopped short without addressing 
 him. 
 
 VOL. r. ir 
 
98 DON JOHN. 
 
 Mr Johnstone for the moment stopped 
 short also. 
 
 '' Sir," said the man, turning as he went 
 on, and walking beside him, '^I am aware 
 that I am speaking to Mr. Johnstone." 
 
 ''Certainly you are: what do you want 
 with me ? " 
 
 He paused, for he had reached his own 
 steps. He had spoken with the brusque 
 manner that an officer uses in addressing a 
 soldier. He now looked the young man 
 straight in the face, and saw, to his surprise, 
 the signs of great and varying emotion, and 
 a strange flush of anger or shame. ''Not 
 drunk," thought Mr. Johnstone. The man 
 looked at him, and at that instant the 
 footman answered his master's knock. 
 
 " Well ? " said Mr. Johnstone. 
 
 "I can't say it," exclaimed the young 
 fellow ; and, turning round, he almost ran 
 away. 
 
 "Queer!" thought the lawyer, and he 
 entered his own house, pondering on the 
 
DON JOHN. 99 
 
 matter ; but he soon forgot it, for Mrs. 
 Johnstone was not at all well. 
 
 In the course of a few hours there was 
 another infantile failure in Upper Harley 
 Street. 
 
 The father, intensely grateful for this 
 endeared wife's safety, went to bed in broad 
 daylight ; but, first putting his head out of 
 the open window to inhale the early air, he 
 saw, looking up — but it flitted away almost at 
 once — a female figure that seemed familiar 
 to him. Surely that was the nurse — the 
 young widow, Mrs. Aird ? Odd of her to be 
 gazing up at his window at three o'clock 
 in the morning — and with her was (or he 
 was very much mistaken) the identical 
 young man who had accosted him in the 
 street, and then so suddenly taken himself 
 off! 
 
 Mr. Johnstone closed the window, and 
 
 very soon fell asleep, looked down upon by 
 
 hundreds of cabbage roses — for this was the 
 
 same room where Mrs. xiird had been sitting 
 
 ][ 2 
 
100 DON JOHN. 
 
 with his boy-baby when the telegram came 
 in that sent them out of the house. 
 
 A few days had passed, Mrs. Johnstone 
 was said to be " as well as could be expected," 
 when one evening, just as he had dined, her 
 husband was told that a young man wanted 
 to speak with him. 
 
 The young man had been shown into a 
 library at the back of the house, the Hght 
 was already going, but Mr. Johnstone recog- 
 nized him instantly. 
 
 '* You accosted me in the street the other 
 day?" 
 
 ^* Yes, sir." 
 
 The clear hazel eyes looked straight at 
 him ; his next speech seemed to be in answer 
 to them, — " I am not come here to deceive 
 you, sir." 
 
DON JOHN. 101 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mk. Johnstone rang the bell, and a shaded 
 lamp was brought in. The young man did 
 not speak till the servant had shut the door ; 
 then, looking at Mr. Johnstone as he stood 
 on the rug, ^' I should wish to prevent mis- 
 takes," he began. 
 
 '' You had better sit down," was the 
 answer. 
 
 The young man sat down. *^ I am not 
 come to ask your professional aid, sir," he 
 continued; ''I know this ain't the place to 
 do it in, and I know you've nothing to do 
 with criminal cases either. But, sir, it is a 
 crime that I'm come to speak of. Well — no, 
 I don't know what it is, and nobody else 
 does." 
 
 Here Mr. Johnstone naturally felt some 
 
J 02 DON JOHN. 
 
 asfconisliment, and his clear, keen eyes held 
 the young man so completely under their 
 control that he seemed to find nothing to say, 
 but to repeat his former assurance. 
 
 '^I am not come here to deceiv^eyou, sir — 
 why should I ? I might have kept away and 
 never said a word. But, oh, it's hard upon 
 me that I should have it to do ! " 
 
 '' It seems to me that you have to accuse 
 some one else, then ? " said his host, intend- 
 ing to help him. 
 
 ^^Yes." 
 
 '' By the way you express yourself, I gather 
 that the crime, whatever it may be, is not 
 committed yet ? It might be a burglary, for 
 instance, projected but not accomplished ? " 
 
 ^' Oh, no, sir, no — they were both as honest 
 as the day, poor things ! " 
 
 *' Women, then?" 
 
 *^ Yes, sir." 
 
 '^ Well, man, speak out ! " 
 
 *^ Speak out ! " repeated the young man 
 passionately ; *^ speak out ! when it's my own 
 
DON JOHN. 103 
 
 wife, that I haven't been married to three 
 weeks, and when I don't know what you'll 
 do to her ? Speak out ! If you'd ever loved 
 a woman as I love her, you'd — you'd be more 
 merciful, sir." 
 
 Excited as the young man was, he per- 
 ceived at once that this exclamation was, in 
 the ears of his listener, absolutely absurd. 
 Donald Johnstone had, as if involuntarily, 
 lifted his eyes ; they rested on the wall, be- 
 hind where the young husband had been 
 ordered to sit. He saw for a moment, in their 
 clear depth, not the assertion, but the evidence, 
 of a passionate love which, even in the first 
 freshness of his own, brought his thoughts to 
 a pause . Then there wa s something deliberate 
 in their withdrawal which checked the young 
 man's desire to glance behind him. Some- 
 thing like a flash of displeasure met his gaze. 
 He perceived that he was supposed to have 
 taken a liberty. There was no answer to his 
 speech ; he must begin again as well as he 
 could. 
 
104 DON JOHN. 
 
 '^ It's my wife and her mother," he said in 
 a low voice, ^'that I've come to speak of — 
 what one of them did, as we are afraid (for, 
 mark you, sir, we are not sure) — what one of 
 them did, and the other let to be done — what 
 one of them did, and then died, and we think 
 wanted to speak of first, hut could not find 
 the words." 
 
 *^ Your wife and her mother?" repeated 
 Mr. Johnstone with a weighty calm ; *' and 
 you feel that you must lay it before some 
 one ? You want advice — is that it ? " 
 
 *' No, sir, not advice; my wife wants for- 
 giveness, if you could forgive her." 
 
 Mr. Johnstone looked surprised, but not 
 at all alarmed. 
 
 The young man wiped his forehead. *' I 
 fell in love with her when she had her widow's 
 cap on a full year ago," he said; " but, when 
 I offered to her, she would not have me. I 
 was so fond of her ; I said, ' I ain't 
 capable of taking a denial without a reason.' 
 Then she says, * Have the reason : Fve some- 
 
DON JOHN. 105 
 
 tiling on my mind.' Her name was Maria 
 Jane Aird." 
 
 Mr. Johnstone was not surprised ; he re- 
 membered how he had seen this yomig 
 woman when he looked out of the window in 
 the night. Pity for the husband arose in his 
 mind. 
 
 '^ She was in a situation of trust," he said, 
 '^ and I am afraid you mean that she abused 
 it?" 
 
 '' Yes, sir— alas ! she did. But at that 
 time she would not telJ me what her fault was. 
 You, may be, would not hold to your wish 
 to take me,' was all she said, ' if you knew 
 what I have on my mind;' but I did hold to 
 it — I could not help it — and she never did 
 speak, though, in the end, she married 
 me." 
 
 His distress was such that Mr. Johnstone 
 tried to help him again. 
 
 '' And then she probably told you that she 
 had unfortunately taken something of value 
 out of this house—some jewel, perhaps ? If 
 
106 DON JOHN. 
 
 SO, you are come to return it ? Well, I pity 
 you, and I forgive her." 
 
 ^^ Bless you, sir!" exclaimed the young 
 man, quite impatient at his calm ; ''I told 
 you they were honest. Sir, don't make it 
 harder for me and yourself too. You will 
 have it that this thing is nothing to you. 
 It is ; I think, if you would sit down, I could 
 speak better ; won't you, sir ? There, that's 
 it ! I'm talking of my wife, Maria ; she was 
 wet-nurse here." 
 
 '^Yes." 
 
 '^ And you sent her away from the house 
 with your baby ? " 
 
 ^^Yes." 
 
 Now, at last, something like fear began to 
 show itself in Donald Johnstone's face, but it 
 was a vague fear. 
 
 '^ Y^ou never ought to have done it, sir." 
 
 " He was quite well," answered the father, 
 amazed and pale, ' ' quite well all the time ; 
 he cannot have met with any injury ? She 
 must have done her duty by him." 
 
DON JOHN. 107 
 
 ''You should not have done it," repeated 
 the young man. " Asl make out, you were 
 so afraid of an illness you had in the house 
 that you never came near him or set your 
 eyes on him for two or three months ; and 
 how were you to judge, when you had a child 
 back, whether it was the same ? Sir, sit 
 down; don't look like that ! There! it's quite 
 possible the children were not changed." 
 
 " Changed ! " exclaimed the father, shud- 
 dering. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know how to tell it you, 
 but my poor wife, all on a sudden, was taken 
 very ill, and sent for lier mother, who came 
 with the baby — Maria's baby. Maria did 
 not see either of the children again, being so 
 ill. I don't know how to tell it you, but I'm 
 afraid that woman, Vv^ishing her own grand- 
 child in a better position — I am afraid those 
 children were changed." 
 
 No need now to tell the father to take this 
 thing seriously ; he trembled from head to foot 
 and could not speak. 
 
108 DON JOHN. 
 
 *' But we shall never know," proceeded the 
 young man. '^ ^ Is the other child living f ' I 
 seem to thmk you would ask. Yes, sir, and 
 as well as can be." 
 
 '' It's impossible your wife should be in 
 any doubt," exclaimed the other, recovering 
 his voice and starting up, white to the lips. 
 ^^ Impossible she should not know ! She 
 must know, she does know, whether this 
 wicked, base, cruel crime was perpetrated 
 or not. And what makes her even sus- 
 pect such a thing ? " he added, sinking 
 back faint between his passion and his 
 despair. 
 
 " Her mother many times tempted her to 
 do it, sir, and was angry with her because 
 she would not," said the young man in a 
 deprecating tone. " They had words, and 
 Maria was angry with' her mother too." 
 
 ^*No, that story won't do. Angry with 
 her, and then send for her, and leave her 
 alone with all opportunity to do her worst ? " 
 
 ** It seems bad, sir," continued the young 
 
DON JOHN. 109 
 
 man Avith studied gentleness and patience. 
 *' And it's only a fancy of Maria's that she 
 might have done it. We haven't the least 
 proof, Mr. Johnstone." 
 
 *'If she connived at it, she is a wretch, 
 as lost to all justice and mercy as her 
 mother." 
 
 "And that's what lies so heavy on her 
 mind," said the husband, still in a low, de- 
 precatory voice. 
 
 " How did she tell it you ? Let me know 
 the worst — for heaven's sake let me hear it 
 all ! " 
 
 '' We had but been married three days, 
 and it was Sunday. Maria was putting the 
 little chap's coat on. I says, 'He's a credit 
 to you, Maria.' 'He'll be my punishment 
 before he's done,' she makes answer ; ' for, 
 David, this child is what I have on my mind,' 
 She was kneeling on the ground ; she put 
 on her things, but you may think we did 
 not go to church that morning. I carried 
 the child into Richmond park (I live and 
 
110 DON JOHN. 
 
 have my trade at Kiclimond). There we 
 sat down, and I said, ' Maria, my dear, it's 
 now time to speak. I've often seen you 
 fret — and so it's concerning your child ? ' 
 * Yes,' she makes answer again, ' for I give 
 you my plain word for it — and what I say 
 I mean, David — I don't know whether he's 
 mine or not.' " 
 
 It will be observed that this version of the 
 story was not the true one, for Maria Aird 
 did change the children. All her doubt was 
 as to what her mother had done, otherwise 
 she would have known well enough that the 
 child her second husband was so willing to 
 be good to was not hers. The young man, 
 however, did his best to make the thing- 
 plain ; he gave the version he had received. 
 His wife's sorrow and repentance were 
 genuine — this he had perceived at once ; 
 and that she was capable of fretting over her 
 fault, and yet misrepresenting it, never en- 
 tered his head. She screened herself at the 
 expense of the dead. He never supposed 
 
BON JOHN. Ill 
 
 that her misery, in the sense of this un- 
 certainty, was half owing to her doubt as to 
 whether or not she had secured a better lot 
 in life for her child in return for her own 
 distress of mind. If she had been sure this 
 was the case, she would have felt herself 
 repaid ; but to have lost her own child utterly, 
 and yet to have no reward— to be unable 
 to love the one she had in her arms, and 
 yet not be sure that she did not owe him 
 a mother's love — was more than her half- 
 awakened conscience could bear. She had 
 turned herself out of the paradise of inno- 
 cence ; she had gathered the apple and not 
 tasted its sweetness : how was she to know 
 what a common experience this is ? How 
 could she suppose that the promised good in 
 evil was all a cheat, and that she should 
 find nothing but bitterness in it from the 
 very first ? 
 
 The everlasting lie had been uttered to 
 her also. 
 
 There was silence now, and the young 
 
112 D0^: JOHN. 
 
 man did not dare to break it. His heart 
 was beating more freely, for the dreaded 
 words had been said. He felt a strange 
 consciousness of the picture that he knew 
 was hanging behind him ; but, though Donald 
 Johnstone's head was bowed into his hands, 
 it seemed impossible to turn and look at it. 
 But this poor gentleman was thinking of 
 her whom it represented. '^ Oh, my wife!" 
 the young man heard him murmur. The 
 words gave him a lump in his throat ; he 
 longed to be dismissed ; he thought of rising, 
 and proposing to take his leave, but did not 
 see his way to this. How long would Mr. 
 Johnstone sit with his face in his hands ? 
 
 Mr. Johnstone lifted it up at last, and the 
 young man had never been so astonished in 
 his life as he was at the tone and manner, 
 at the most unexpected words, and the most 
 keen expression of countenance with which 
 he accosted him. 
 
 '* What is your name, Mr. David ? " 
 
 '* My name is David CoUingwood, sir." 
 
DON JOHN. 1J3 
 
 ** And what is your calling, Mr. David 
 CoUingwood ? " 
 
 ** I'm a carpenter, sir, the same as Maria's 
 first husband was." 
 
 ** Oh ! Have you any thought of going 
 abroad — of emigrating ? " 
 
 *' Yes, sir! " exclaimed the young man, 
 very much astonished ; '* that's what I think 
 of doing as soon as ever I can. I'm saving 
 money for it." 
 
 ''1 thought so!" 
 
 **Sir?" 
 
 *^ A child would be a great burden to you 
 on a voyage." 
 
 *^ So Maria has always said, sir." 
 
 '' She has, has she ? Mr. David Colling- 
 wood?" 
 
 *' Yes, sir?" 
 
 ** You know nothing of me ? " 
 
 '^No, I don't." 
 
 *' For instance, as to whether I am a man 
 of my word or no ? " 
 
 Mr. David ColHngwood here began to look 
 voi. I. I 
 
114 DON JOHN. 
 
 a little alarmed ; involuntarily he glanced to- 
 wards the window. 
 
 His host was looking straight at him. 
 
 ** Don't be frightened," he said again, 
 coming close to Mr, David Collingwood's 
 thought. ** I have no intention of throwing 
 you out of that ! " 
 
 David Collingwood rose quietly, — ^^Sir, 
 I've said what I had to say." 
 
 "Yes, but you have not heard what I 
 have to say ! " 
 
 "No, sir, but I can't make out what you 
 should have to say as I need be afraid of ! " 
 
 " Why are you afraid, then ? " 
 
 " I'm not ! " said the carpenter, but he 
 trembled. 
 
 "Do I look like a man who may be ex- 
 pected to keep to what I say ? " 
 
 "Yes, you do." 
 
 " Well, I say, then, if you will confess to 
 me that all you have said to-night is a lie — " 
 
 " A lie ! " shouted the man. 
 
 ' ' Yes, a lie, and that you — not unnaturally 
 
DON JOHN. 115 
 
 — feeling what a burden this child will be to 
 jou, and hoping to get rid of him, have per- 
 suaded your wife — " 
 
 *' A lie ! " shouted the man again, almost 
 in a rage. 
 
 ' ' Have persuaded your wife to bear you 
 out in this story, I will give you, David 
 Collingwood, two hundred pounds, and no 
 man out of this room shall ever hear a word 
 of the matter." 
 
 " Why, what good would that do ? " cried 
 the carpenter, so much astonished that it 
 almost overcame his anger. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone was silent. There was a 
 long pause. 
 
 " It wouldn't help me to get rid of the 
 child," reasoned David Collingwood at last, 
 almost remonstrating with him, ^' because, 
 anyhow, one of them must be my wife's, and 
 thereby one of them must be on my hands ta 
 bring up." 
 
 '' You don't think so ? " 
 
 '' Don't I, sir ? " said the carpenter, almost 
 I 2 
 
116 DON JOHN. 
 
 helplessly, and with an air of puzzlement 
 indescribable. 
 
 *' No, you are just as well aware as I am 
 that, rather than let you two take over to 
 Australia — (you a step-father, as you are, and 
 Bhe a worse than step-mother, as she must 
 be, whether her tale is true or false, and 
 whether the boy is hers or not) — rather than 
 let you two carry away for ever a child who 
 may be my child, I shall take him off your 
 hands — do you hear me ? — take him off 
 your hands and bring him up myself. Do 
 you mean to tell me you have not thought 
 of this and counted on it ? *' 
 
 David Colhngwood trembled visibly. 
 
 *^ I may have gone so far as to think — " 
 he began. 
 
 ^*To think what?" 
 
 '' That maybe I should do so if I was 
 you, sir, and one of the children was 
 mine." 
 
 *' And what did your wife say when she 
 and you talked it over together ? " 
 
DON JOHN. 117 
 
 '' We never did talk it over together." 
 
 ** You never said to her, then, that if you 
 two stuck to this tale, the child was secure 
 of a good bringing up ? " 
 
 ^^No, I didn't." 
 
 ** She never wept over the boy, and said 
 it would be a sore distress to her to part with 
 him?" 
 
 '*No, she didn't; she has not a mother's 
 feelings for him, because of her doubt.". 
 
 *^ Well, David Collingwood, I offer you two 
 hundred pounds to confess that this is all a 
 lie, and a plot between you and your wife to 
 get rid of her child." 
 
 David Collingwood was silent. 
 
 **I should only add one condition — that 
 is, that you would stay here, in this room, 
 till after I have seen your wife, and seen her 
 alone. I should tell her of your confession, 
 and then you have my word for silence ever 
 after." 
 
 ** My wife would be frightened out of her 
 senses ! " 
 
118 DON JOHN. 
 
 *^ Why ? '' 
 
 '' She thinks, and I was afeard, you would 
 have the law of her— take her up and prose- 
 cute her for what she's done." 
 
 **But she did not do it." 
 
 David Collingwood was sitting down with 
 arms folded ; he had looked very much 
 puzzled, and sat long silent. At last he lifted 
 his face, and when Mr. Johnstone saw its 
 expression, he involuntarily sighed. 
 
 '^ I've had mean thoughts in my mind, 
 like other men," he began. '^ Sir, 3^ou may 
 go to my wife, if you have a mind, for I 
 think you have a right so to do. In short, 
 come what may, I don't see, now I've once 
 spoken, what I've got it in my power to 
 do for her. Yes, you may go, of course, 
 to her ; it ain't in my power to prevent it. 
 I seem to observe now what you mean, sir. 
 If I would own to a lie, it would what you 
 lawyer gentlemen call discredit me as a 
 witness, and then you could get alone with 
 my wife, and perhaps make her tell you a 
 
DON JOHN. 119 
 
 different tale, and so you'd buy your own son, 
 and be sure you'd got him. But I say — " 
 
 '' Yes, David CoUingwood." 
 
 ** I say, be hanged to your two hundred 
 pounds ! If my poor wife has done you 
 the base wrong she says she has — (well, I 
 mean the wrong she owns to have let her 
 mother do, wishing and hoping it was done) 
 — that money ain't of any use. It is only of 
 use in case she has told you and me a lie. 
 I may have had a mean thought as well as 
 another man, but I'm not a villain. You 
 want, by means of that money, to bring out 
 the falseness of the tale. It cuts me very 
 sharp to say it to you — the tale's not false ; 
 worse luck ! it's true." 
 
 No answer to this. Donald Johnstone, 
 looking straight before him, very pale, but 
 not convinced, was searching over his recol- 
 lections. David CoUingwood went on, — 
 
 ** She never told me this that was on her 
 mind through any thought that I should up 
 and tell it to you. It slipped out along of her 
 
120 DON JOHN. 
 
 feeling how fond I was of her, and to reHeve 
 her own mind. She cannot keep a secret. 
 And when I broke to her that it must be told 
 to you, she fell into a great faint, and said 
 you would take her up and she should be im- 
 prisoned. Through that I went to a lawyer." 
 
 '^Oh! you did?" 
 
 ** Well, I did, sir, and told him all except 
 the names and the places. If he had said 
 you could and would prosecute, you would 
 never have heard a word from me. He 
 said, * The weak place is ' — but you know 
 what it is, sir." 
 
 »* Go on." 
 
 '' * What is the woman afraid of?' he said; 
 
 * there is no witness — not one ! The person 
 is dead that is accused of having probably 
 done this thing.' * I was afraid she might 
 be prosecuted for a conspiracy,' said I. 
 
 * No,' said he, ' there was no conspiracy.' 
 'It's her opinion,' said I, 'that it's more 
 than likely the thing was done.' 'But,' 
 said he, ' she cannot be prosecuted for an 
 
DON JOHN. 121 
 
 opinion, and one that, if she is frightened, 
 she is not obliged to stick to. If there 
 had been any evidence whatever, but what 
 is to come out of her own mouth — if she 
 had ever breathed a word of this, or if the 
 other woman had — ' " 
 
 Here he paused. 
 
 '' Then the supposed father might have 
 brought an action in hope of obtaining 
 more evidence — more witnesses — was that 
 it ? How do you know that I shall not do 
 so even now ? " 
 
 "Well, I satisfied him fully, and had to 
 pay for it. I satisfied him that the thing — 
 the whole of it — was in my wife's mind and 
 nowhere else." 
 
 ' ' And then you went home and told her you 
 believed it ? What was the lawyer's name ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, you'll excuse me." 
 
 ** You paid for his information — I am 
 willing to pay for mine." 
 
 '^ I couldn't tell you, sir." 
 
 *^ If he was a respectable man, he told you, 
 
122 DON JOHX. 
 
 first, that he would have nothing to do with 
 the case ; and, secondly, that he believed it 
 was a got-up story intended to extort money 
 from an unfortunate father. He advised 
 you to drop it, and said you w^ere playing 
 with edge-tools." 
 
 David Collingwood's look of astonishment 
 and intense dismay seemed to show that 
 something very like this had actually been 
 said to him; he sat silent and became 
 angry. Donald Johnstone never took his 
 eyes off him, but, with a pang not to be 
 described, he saw the astonishment subside, 
 the anger fade away, and the young man said 
 meeting his gaze with tolerable firmness. 
 
 ^'And what do you think yourself, sir? 
 Do you think it is a got-up story ? " 
 
 ^^ I don't know what to think." 
 
 '*No, sir; and as to your wanting to turn 
 it against me, you've met with such a cruel 
 wrong that I should be a brute if I couldn't 
 take it patiently — only — I've met with a 
 wrong too, sir." 
 
DON JOHN. 123 
 
 ** This concerns my own son — mv only 
 son. By what you say, I am never to know 
 — never can know — whether the child I am 
 bringing up is my child or not." 
 
 '^And you've tried one way and another 
 to find out w^hether I've lied, and you have 
 a right — I know^ it cuts — but it doesn't cut 
 you only." 
 
 *'No, I am truly sorry for you, David 
 Collingwood. If this is true — " 
 
 "For she's not what I thought she was, 
 and I've only been married to her three 
 weeks." 
 
 He broke down here, and shed tears, but 
 the other had no tears ; he was extremely 
 pale, and he trembled as he sat looking at the 
 portrait on the w^all with unspeakable love 
 and almost despair. 
 
 David Collingwood sat some time trying 
 in vain to recover himself. Not a word was 
 spoken, his host knew neither what to say nor 
 what to do. How should he tell this beloved 
 wife, who had almost died to give him birth, 
 
124 DON JOHN. 
 
 that he knew not whether their one son was 
 theirs or not ? how should he bear it himself? 
 Suddenly a bright hope came into his mind. 
 The other child might prove to have no 
 likeness whatever to himself or to his other 
 children; he might prove to be specially 
 unlike them. At least there would be com- 
 fort in this if he did. 
 
 David CoUingwood spoke while he was deep 
 in this flattering hope. He rose and said 
 sullenly, '' What do you want me to do, sir ? 
 It's late — my wife — " 
 
 " Your wife will be uneasy ? " 
 
 '' Yes, sir." 
 
 ** I am afraid that on this one occasion 
 you cannot consider her feelings." 
 
 '^ What am I to do, then?" 
 
 *^ I am going to Kichmond. It is essen- 
 tial that I should see her before you do." 
 
 '^ I never said she was at Eichmond ; she 
 is in the street, waiting for me." 
 
 *« And the child with her ? " 
 
 **No, sir, she's alone." 
 
DON JOHN". 125 
 
 '' Then you stay in this room and I will 
 call her in." 
 
 ^* You may turn the lock on me, sir, if you 
 please." 
 
 Donald Johnstone put on his hat, left the 
 young husband, and, opening the front door, 
 looked keenly right and left. There was not 
 far to look : a woman in black, near at 
 hand, was dejectedly pacing on. As she 
 came absolutely to the foot of his door-steps, 
 he descended and looked straight into her 
 eyes. She stood and gazed as if fascinated, 
 the colour fading out of her face, and her 
 hands clenching themselves. 
 
 **You — you won't prosecute me?" she 
 entreated helplessly, and stammering as her 
 mother had done. 
 
 **No, you base woman," he answered, 
 *' because it w^ould be useless. Come here ! " 
 
 '^ Must I — oh, sir ! — must I come in ? " 
 
 She entered. He was even then mindful 
 of his invalid upstairs, and shut the door 
 most deliberately and gently behind him; 
 
126 DON JOHN. 
 
 then he entered the dining-room, locked the 
 door, put up the gas, and turned. She had 
 followed him hut a little way into the room, 
 and was already on her knees ; her terror 
 was far from simulated, and his quickness of 
 observation showed him in an instant that 
 no probable fault of her dead mother's could 
 ever have brought that ashen pallor and 
 deadly fright into her face. 
 
 ''Maria CoUingwood," he began, almost 
 in a whisper, as he stood leaning slightly 
 towards her and looking straight down into 
 her eyes, '' you have told lies to your husband 
 — do you hear me ? — lies 1 " 
 
 Her white lips murmured something, but 
 it hardly seemed to be a denial. She was 
 kneeling upright, and with folded hands. 
 
 *' But you may look for all mercy that is 
 possible from me, if you will now speak the 
 truth.*' 
 
 This was far from the way in which he 
 had intended to begin. Her own face had 
 brought his accusation upon her. She 
 
DON JOHN. 127 
 
 stammered out, ''He — he would hate me; 
 he — he would cast me off, if — if I did. Oh, 
 have mercy ! " Then she had deceived her 
 husband; there was no plot, the man was 
 her dupe. 
 
 " I will have mercy if you tell me all the 
 truth." 
 
 " And he shall not know ? " she moaned. 
 
 " I'll give you no time for meditation, and 
 for the inventing of fresh lies ; unless you 
 speak, and instantly, he shall know what 
 3'ou have already said; but if you speak, 
 and I feel that you speak the truth, he shall 
 not." 
 
 And then, at a sign from him, she rose, 
 took the chair he pointed to, and told all her 
 miserable story in few words. 
 
 Donald Johnstone ground his teeth to- 
 gether in the agonizing desire to keep himself 
 silent, lest he should frighten back the truth, 
 and never have a chance of hearing it more. 
 He allowed all to be told — her temptation, 
 her yielding, her illness, her intention of 
 
128 DON JOHN. 
 
 sending away the wrong child, and then her 
 doubt as to what her mother had done. All, 
 he perceived, depended on what had been the 
 mother's opinion. She had no conscience. 
 
 ^^And you incline to think this second 
 villainy was accomplished — why ? " 
 
 ^'Mother couldn't look at me, sir, when I 
 got home." 
 
 ^' And, on the other hand ? " 
 
 ** On the other hand, when I saw the 
 baby here, I seemed to think he was the 
 most like what I remembered of mine." 
 
DON JOHN. 129 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 That was a miserable night for Donald 
 Johnstone. It was twelve o'clock before the 
 guilty woman and her husband were sent 
 away — David Collingwood almost with kind- 
 ness, and his wife without one word. The 
 possible father had got what he wanted — two 
 distinct tales, differing from one another, but, 
 as he listened to the details of the second, he 
 shared in the unsolvable doubt. 
 
 He ordered David Collingwood to bring 
 the child the next morning, and, having dis- 
 missed the pair, he sat till dayhght filtered in 
 between the leaves of the shutters, and could 
 not decide what to do further. 
 
 It was the doubt that mastered him and 
 confused his mind. And what father in real 
 life, or in any true history, had gone 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 DON JOHN. 
 
 through such an experience as would be a 
 guide to him ? He was the victim of an un- 
 known crime — as truly unknown in life as 
 well known in the penny theatres. His dis- 
 tracted thoughts dragged him through all the 
 phases of feeling, even to scornful laughter 
 that left a lump in his throat. '^ Have you a 
 mole on your left arm ? " asks the supposed 
 father in Punch, ^^ No ! " *' Then come to 
 my arms, my long-lost son! " 
 
 He laughed bitterly, and could not help 
 it ; then he moaned over his wife. How 
 would she bear it, and how and when could 
 he tell it to her ? 
 
 There was tragedy indeed here, and yet 
 what a hateful, enraging- smack of the ridicu- 
 lous too ! He perceived that he could not 
 possibly let such a story come out; all 
 London would ring with it. When the chil- 
 dren were taken out with their nurses, 
 people would collect at his door on pur- 
 pose to look at them ! No, not a soul 
 must hear of it. How, then, could he do 
 
DON JOHN. 131 
 
 his duty, and satisfy his love towards his 
 son ? 
 
 He was in his room only three hours or so. 
 When he came down to breakfast, he said 
 to the footman, " I have told Mrs. Aird to 
 bring Master Donald's foster-brother here. 
 When they come, show them in." He had 
 a head-ache, and sighed bitterly as he sat 
 down; the hand trembled that poured out 
 the coffee. The moment after, there was a 
 modest knock at the door, and the little child 
 who peril cqjs had so vast a claim on him was 
 perhaps come to his rightful home. 
 
 He looked up ; David Collingwood and 
 Maria Collingwood were standing stock still 
 within the door. Maria did not lift up her 
 eyes, she was mute and pale, and she held a 
 lovely little boy in her arms. 
 
 '' Put that child down," was all Mr. John- 
 stone could say ; and he did not rise from 
 his place at the table. But, lo ! the small 
 visitor, not troubled with any doubts or fears 
 as to his welcome, no sooner found himself 
 
132 DON JOHN. 
 
 on the floor than he began to trot towards 
 the rug, on which was lying the old setter, 
 with a puppy as usual. This one was about 
 two months old. She seized him as the baby 
 advanced, and slunk under the table. Then 
 the pretty little fellow laughed, and showed a 
 mouthful of pearls, pointing with his finger 
 under the table. 
 
 ^^Boy did see doggy,'' he said, fearlessly 
 addressing the strange gentleman; then, 
 coming straight up to him, he laid his dim- 
 pled hand on Mr. Johnstone's knee, and 
 stooped the better to see the dog. 
 
 '^ Up, up ! " he next said in an entreating 
 tone. Mr. Johnstone took him up on his 
 knee with perfect gravity and gentleness, and 
 looked at the man and woman who were 
 standing motionless within the door. The 
 man was trembling ; the woman, white and 
 frightened, held herself absolutely still. 
 " You may go," he said. 
 
 "One — for — Lancy," lisped the child, 
 pointing to some strawberries on a plate. 
 
DON JOHN. 133 
 
 '' You may go," repeated Mr. Johnstone; 
 lie could not trust himself to say more. 
 
 ' ' Yes, sir ; when is she to come back for 
 him ? " 
 
 ''Never ! " 
 
 " One — for — Lancey," repeated the child 
 with sweet entreaty. 
 
 The possible father put one into his little 
 hand . 
 
 " I mean, sir, what are we to do — when is 
 she to take him back ? " 
 
 '' I know what you mean : I answer, never! ' ' 
 
 The young man whispered to his wife, and 
 she, without once looking at the child, turned 
 to the door. ''I wish you good morning, 
 sir," he said, and in another moment they 
 were gone. 
 
 David Collingwood had caused his wife to 
 spend money of his in dressing the little 
 Lancey. The child was healthy and rosy, 
 clean, well arrayed, and without the least 
 shyness. He was a more beautiful little 
 fellow than the treasure upstairs, but not 
 
134 DON JOHN. 
 
 quite so big. He talked rather better ; his 
 hair was a shade browner than that of the 
 two httle girls in the nursery. Little Donald's, 
 on the contrary, was a shade lighter; and 
 there seemed to be no special hkeness, in 
 either child, to himself or to his wife. 
 
 Left alone with the little Lancey, all the 
 pathos of the situation seemed to show 
 itself to him. He could endure it well 
 enough, he thought, for himself; but, like 
 many another sympathetic and affectionate 
 man, he had already begun to suffer for his 
 wife ; her supposed future feeling was worse 
 to him than his own present distress. If 
 he could be sure that she could bear it, he 
 thought he could bear it very well. 
 
 Of course the child's face did not help 
 him. At such an early age, children rarely 
 show strong family hkeness, unless the ap- 
 pearance of the parents is peculiar indeed. 
 
 When we see family likeness, which we 
 constantly do, we think how natural it is ; 
 but when we see family unhkeness, which 
 
DON JOHN. 135 
 
 we also constantly do, it never costs us a 
 moment's surprise, a moment's thought. In 
 life, nobody is ever surprised if, or because, 
 a brother and sister are diverse in feature, 
 complexion, or character, and yet we all have 
 a theory concerning family likeness, and 
 generally it is an exaggerated one. 
 
 A fresh series of observations, if theory 
 could be set aside, would perhaps show that 
 strong likeness is almost always founded on 
 peculiarity. 
 
 A man of average height, with no 
 exaggerated feature, with somewhat light 
 hair, grey or hazel eyes, and a certain 
 freshness of complexion (neither pale nor 
 ruddy), together with a figure rather firmly 
 built, though not stout, — this description 
 would suit many thousands of Englishmen ; 
 add a shade of auburn to the beard, and it 
 would suit many thousands of Scotchmen ; 
 add a shade of blue to the eyes, and it would 
 suit many thousands of Irishmen. These are 
 the men who transmit national Hkeness. 
 
186 DON JOHN. 
 
 But here and there you may meet a man 
 with a nose Hke an eagle's beak, stalking 
 about his fields with his young brood after 
 him. In all probability, a like nose is in 
 course of erection on their youthful faces. 
 Or you fall in with a man who has a 
 preposterously deep bass voice — too deep for 
 ordinary life — much deeper, in fact, than he is 
 himself — his children, more likely than not, 
 echo that voice, sons and daughters both. 
 Or you see a man, lanky, and so tall that, 
 when he has done getting up, you think how 
 conveniently he might be folded together like 
 a yard measure, his children rise and step 
 after him like storks. Ten to one his very 
 baby is taller than it ought to be. Such men 
 as these transmit family likeness. 
 
 The little Lancey soon slipped off Mr. 
 Johnstone's knee, and began to talk and 
 scold at the puppy, because he would not 
 come and be friendly — in other words, to be 
 tormented. 
 
 The old mother knew better than to leave 
 
DON JOHN. 137 
 
 him to the tender mercies of a baby-hoy. 
 She rose, and, taking him in her mouth, 
 walked slowly away round and round the 
 table, the child following, and just not over- 
 taking her* This game was going on when 
 Mr. Johnstone caught sight of a parcel 
 lying on a chair close to the door. He had 
 told David Collingwood to ask his wife 
 w^hether she had any photograph in her 
 possession of her first husband — if so, to 
 bring it. 
 
 He now cut open the little package, but 
 there were no photographs in it, only two 
 letters — one from a lady, giving an excellent 
 character to Maria Jane Pearson as a house- 
 maid, setting forth that she was honest, 
 sober, and steady. It seemed to have been 
 preserved as a gratifying testimony of 
 approval, but did not bear on the present 
 case. The other letter was from David 
 Collingwood, and was as follows : — 
 
 " Sir, — As it ain't in my power to say 
 what I meant to say when I see you, along of 
 
138 DON JOHN. 
 
 my feeling so badly about this matter, I 
 write this to inform you that my wife has 
 no portraits of her first husband, for he was 
 very badly marked with small-pox, and 
 never would be taken, and she says he had 
 no brothers nor sisters, and his parents are 
 not living. Herewith you will find her 
 marriage lines. She has always kept herself 
 respectable, and do assure me she never did 
 wrong in her life but in the one thing you 
 know of. And she humbly begs your pardon. 
 " I am, your obedient humble servant, 
 ^' David Collingwood." 
 
 A baby hand was on his knee again. He 
 looked down ; tears were on the little flushed 
 cheeks ; the long slow chase had been 
 useless. 
 
 ^^Boy did want doggy," he sobbed. Mr. 
 Johnstone felt a sudden yearning, and a 
 catch in his throat that almost overcame 
 him. He took up the child, and pressed 
 him to his breast. For a moment or two 
 the child and the man wept together.. He 
 
DOKT JOHN. ]39 
 
 Foon recovered himself; it was a waste of 
 emotion to suffer it to get the mastery now ; 
 there would come a day when he and his 
 wife would weep together — that was the time 
 to dread. He must save his courage, all his 
 powers of consoling, flattering, encouraging, 
 for that ; the present was only his own dis- 
 tress — it was nothing. 
 
 There was rejoicing in the nursery 
 upstairs that morning ; the baby Aird, as he 
 was called, had come to spend the day. He 
 made himself perfectly at home; the little 
 Johnstones produced all their toys for him. 
 '^ What a credit he is to his mother ! " said 
 the nurse. ^' His clothes quite new, and 
 almost as handsome as our children's." 
 
 David Collingwood, as he led his wife to 
 the omnibus which was to take them home, 
 could hardly believe his own good fortune. 
 The child, ''the encumbrance" that he had 
 perforce taken with her, and had meant to 
 do his duty by, had, contrary to all sober 
 hope, been received into another man's 
 
140 DOI!^ JOHN. 
 
 house, and there he had been told to leave 
 him. His wife, though confused and 
 frightened, did not seem to feel any distress 
 at parting with him. 
 
 " Is this all ? " he repeated many times to 
 himself as they went on. '^ Is this over ? " 
 ** Is she truly going to get off scot-free ? " 
 
 If so, the sooner he took her away the 
 better. At the other side of the world he 
 felt that he should have more chance of 
 forgetting that which, while he remembered 
 it, made his love for his young wife more 
 bitter than sweet to him. 
 
 ^' Is it over ? " No, it was not quite over. 
 They got out of the omnibus at their own 
 cottage door. A hansom cab stood there, 
 and Mr. Johnstone was paying the cabman. 
 He followed them in. Maria CoUingwood 
 sank into a chair. Mr. Johnstone, not 
 unnaturally, declined one ; he stood with a 
 note-book in his hand. ^^ If you've — you've 
 altered your mind," Maria began, ''I'm 
 willing, as is my duty, to take back the child." 
 
DON JOHN. 141 
 
 David Collingwood darted au indignant 
 look at her, but Mr. Johnstone took no 
 notice of the speech. Various questions were 
 asked her, and answered; the husband 
 weighed the effect of her answers as each 
 was given : "He can make nothing of that ;" 
 '* He can make httle of that ;" "He sees she 
 speaks the truth there;" "He'll not give 
 the boy back for that ! " 
 
 He^was mean, as he had said, but not base. 
 
 The little sister — Mr. Johnstone wanted 
 her address. She was in a place : the 
 address was given. 
 
 "Where was she when your mother 
 came home with the child ? " 
 
 " She was in a place then, and till a 
 month after." 
 
 " Can you prove that ? " 
 
 The matter was gone into. Donald John- 
 stone hoped then for a few moments, and 
 David Collingwood feared ; but their respec- 
 tive feelings were soon reversed, for Maria 
 did prove it. The sister was in a place as 
 
142 DON JOHN". 
 
 kitchen-girl at a school, and did not come 
 home till it broke up for the hohdays ; con- 
 sequently, she never saw the child till after her 
 mother had brought liim home to Kensington. 
 
 '^ Where did Mrs. Leach live ? " Her address 
 was given. It was asserted that she had 
 never known there was more than one child 
 under her roof; consequently, that she could 
 not have harboured any sort of suspicion 
 bearing on the case. *^ Where was the girl 
 who had carried one of the children out ?" 
 David Collingwood had ascertained that she 
 was dead. Mr. Johnstone stood long ponder- 
 ing on this matter ; finally he took David 
 Collingwood with him to the cottage of Mrs. 
 Leach, and asked a few questions, which abun- 
 dantly proved the truth of what Mrs. Aird 
 had declared. He therefore said nothing to 
 excite her astonishment ; but gave her a 
 present of money and withdrew. 
 
 Donald Johnstone came back to London in 
 the course of the morning, and found the nurse 
 who had lived in his family when the little 
 
DON JOHN. 143 
 
 Donald was born. She was very comfortably 
 married, and he agreed with her to take 
 Master Donald's foster-brother under her 
 charge for a little while. Mrs. Aird, he in- 
 formed her, had married again, and he 
 intended to be good to the child. Less could 
 hardly be said ; and what his own servants 
 might think of this story, he considered it 
 best to leave to themselves. 
 
 In the course of time, Mrs. Johnstone 
 perfectly recovered, the London season was 
 just over, and the quietest time of year w^as 
 coming on. 
 
 The worst, though he did not know it, had 
 already been endured. His anxiety as to 
 its effect on her had so wrought on him 
 that she had discovered it, and a heavy 
 portion of it was already weighing on her 
 own heart. It was necessary that she should 
 now be told, and she was so fully conscious 
 that a certain something — she knew not what 
 —was the matter, that when he said she 
 had something to hear which would disturb 
 
144 DON JOHN. 
 
 her, she was quite reheved to find that he 
 now thought her strong enough to know the 
 worst. 
 
 She soon brought him to the point. It 
 was not his health ; it was nothing in his 
 profession ; it was no pecuniary loss : but 
 when she saw his distress, she was sure that 
 more than half of it was for her, and she did 
 her very best to bear it well for his sake. 
 And yet, when the blow fell, it was almost too 
 much for her. She had all a woman's 
 horror of doubt. Let her have anything to 
 endure but doubt ; yet doubt had come into 
 her house, and, perhaps, for ever was to 
 reign over her. She, however, took the 
 misfortune very sweetly and bravely. In 
 general, the woman bears the small mis- 
 fortunes and continued disappointments of life 
 best, and the man bears best the great ones. 
 Here the case was reversed : the woman bore 
 it best, but that was mainly because of the 
 supreme comfort of her husband's love and 
 sympathy. 
 
DON JOHN. 145 
 
 If we consider women whose lot it is to 
 inspire deep affection, we shall sometimes find 
 them, not those who can most generously 
 hestow, hut those who can most graciously 
 receive. All is offered ; they accept all without 
 haggling about its possible endurance ; their 
 trust in affection helps to make it lasting, and 
 their own comfort in it is so evident as to 
 call it forth and make it show itself at its 
 best. 
 
 Donald Johnstone's wife had a disposition 
 that longed to repose itself on another. 
 Her peculiar and almost unconscious tact 
 made her seem generally in harmony with 
 her surroundings. 
 
 All she said and did, and wore, appeared 
 to be a part of herself; there was a sweet 
 directness, a placid oneness about her, which 
 inspired belief and caused contentment. 
 
 '* Why am I so calm, so satisfied, so well 
 pleased with myself in this woman's pres- 
 ence ?" men might have asked themselves; 
 but they seldom did, perhaps because her 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 DON JOHN. 
 
 loving, placid nature was seasoned in a very 
 small degree with the love of admiration. 
 She had a gracious insight into the feehngs 
 of others, and used it not to show off her own 
 beauties, but to console them for defects in 
 themselves. 
 
 Many people show us our deficiencies by 
 the light of their own advantages, but Donald 
 Johnstone's wife showed rather how in- 
 significant those deficiencies must be since 
 she who was so complete had never 
 noticed them, 
 
 A sincere and admired woman, her firm 
 and open preference for her own made her 
 own for ever satisfied ; yet she always gave 
 others a notion that she felt she had reason 
 to trust them, sense to acknowledge their 
 fine qualities, and leisure to delight in them. 
 
 Keverent in mind, and, on the whole, sub- 
 missive, she yet was in the somewhat unusual 
 position of a wife who knows that her hus- 
 band's rehgious life is more developed and 
 more satisfying than her own. 
 
DON JOHN. 147 
 
 Master Donald's foster-brother was now 
 sent for to dine in the nursery again, and 
 dehghted the nurse and her subordinate by 
 the way in which he made himself at home, 
 tyrannizing over the httle Donald, picking 
 the grapes out of his fat little hand, and 
 trotting off with them while he sat on the 
 floor and helplessly gazed at his nurse. 
 
 ^'Run after the little boy, then, Master 
 Donny," cried the nursery-maid; "why, he 
 ain't near so big as you are ! " But the 
 little Donald placidly smiled ; either he had 
 not pluck yet, or he had not sense for con- 
 tention ; and, in the meantime, the little 
 Lancy took from him and collected for him- 
 self most of the toys, specially the animals 
 from a Noah's ark, which he carried off in 
 his frock, retiring into a corner to examine 
 them at his leisure. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone came upstairs soon after 
 
 the nursery- dinner, and said the little Lancey 
 
 might come with him and see Mrs. Johnstone ; 
 
 so the child's pinafore was taken off, and, with 
 
 L 2 
 
148 DON JOHN. 
 
 characteristic fearlessness, he put his hand 
 in '^gentleman's" hand and was taken down. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone was in the dressing-room ; 
 her husband, having considered the matter, 
 had decided to spare her all waiting for the 
 child, all expectation. He opened the door 
 quietly ; she did not know this little guest 
 was in the house ; she should guess his 
 name, or he should tell it her. 
 
 She had just sent the nurse down to her 
 dinner, and was lying on a couch asleep — 
 the baby in her bassinet beside her. 
 
 Fast asleep as it seemed ; yet, the moment 
 her husband came in with the child in his 
 arms, she started as if the thought in his 
 mind had power over her, and, opening her 
 eyes, she looked at them with quiet, un- 
 troubled gaze. The time she had been 
 waiting for was manifestly came. She rose, 
 and slowly, as if drawn on, came to meet 
 her husland, with her eyes on the little 
 child, who was occupied with the toys which 
 he still held in his hand. Neither the hus- 
 
DON JOIIX. 149 
 
 band nor the wife spoke ; she came close, 
 laid her hand on the child's little bright 
 head, and her cheek against his. 
 
 '' Lady did kiss Lancey," said the child; 
 then, looking attentively at her, and perhaps 
 approvingly, he pursed up his rosy mouth 
 and proffered a kiss in his turn. 
 
 '^ Lady must not cry," he next said, almost 
 with indifference ; then, as if to account for 
 her tears, he continued, ^' Lady dot a mummy 
 gone in ship — gone all away." 
 
 ^^ Does Lancey cry for his mummy ? " she 
 asked the child, who was still embraced 
 between them. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 *'Why not? — I feel easier, love, now I 
 have seen him," she murmured; ''our 
 children are not hke him. — Why not, sweet 
 baby-boy ? " she repeated. 
 
 " 'Cause boy dot a horse and two doggy." 
 He opened his hand and displayed this 
 property. Nothing more likely than that 
 this infantile account of himself was true. 
 
L50 DON JOHN. 
 
 The animals from the ark had driven all the 
 mother he knew of clean out of his baby- 
 heart. 
 
 '^ He talks remarkably well for tv/o years 
 and a quarter," she said, and that was 
 almost an assertion of her opinion, for the 
 little Donald had only reached the age of 
 two years, two months and a fortnight. 
 Mr. Johnstone heard it almost with dismay ; 
 his own opinion was drifting in the other 
 direction. 
 
 She dried her eyes and held out her arms. 
 ^' Will Lancey come to lady ? " Of course 
 he would ; she took him, and sat down with 
 him in her lap on the couch. 
 
 *'I know how this will end," she 
 exclaimed, holding him to her bosom with 
 yearning unutterable. Then she burst into 
 a passion of tears, kissing the little hands and 
 face, and bemoaning herself and him with 
 nncontrollable grief. * ' Donald ! how 
 shall I bear it?" 
 
 She was bearing it much better than he 
 
DON JOHN. 151 
 
 could have expected. He was almost over- 
 come himself, thinking how cruelly she had 
 been treated, but he had nothing to say. 
 He could only be near, standing at the end 
 of the couch, leaning over her, to feel with 
 her, and for her. 
 
 Then the child spoke, putting his arms 
 round her neck — '^ Lancey loves lady." He 
 seemed to have some intention of comforting 
 her in his little mind. 
 
 ** Estelle ! " remonstrated her husband. 
 
 "But I shall know," she exclaimed, "I 
 shall know in the end. You are making all 
 possible inquiry ? " 
 
 ** My bright, particular star ! " was all he 
 answered ; the tone was full of pity. 
 
 "And is nothing found out, Donald, 
 nothing ?" 
 
 " It is early days yet. If anything more 
 can be done, I am on the look-out to do 
 it." 
 
 " And you find nothing to do at present?" 
 
 "No." 
 
152 DON JOHN. 
 
 "I know how this will end," she repeated. 
 *' I never will love 7ny oivn less; he is so 
 dear to every fibre of my heart." 
 
 ^* He is most dear to us both." 
 
 * * But this one has come so near to me 
 already, and the nearness is such a bitter 
 pain — such pain. (Oh, you poor little 
 one !) I know it will end in my so loving 
 him, from anxiety and doubt, that I shall not 
 be able to bear him long out of my sight." 
 
 '^All shall be as you wish, my Stella," 
 said the husband ; but he thought, '' You are 
 far happier than I, for it will end — I know^ it 
 will — in your loving both the boys as if they 
 were your own ; whilst I feel already that, 
 if the shadow of a doubt remains, I shall 
 not deeply love either." 
 
DUN JOHN. 153 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The time was a little past the middle of the 
 century; the "Great Exhibition" had not 
 long been over ; the Metropolitan Railway 
 had not yet begun to burrow under London, 
 encouraging the builders to plant swarms of 
 suburban villas far out into the fields ; Lon- 
 doners paid turnpikes then before they could 
 drive out for fresh air, and they commonly 
 contented themselves with a sojourn in the 
 autumn at the sea-side, or in Scotland, 
 instead of, as a rule, rushing over and dis- 
 persing themselves about the continent. 
 
 But Donald Johnstone decided to take his 
 wife there that autumn, baby, nurse, and all. 
 First he would establish the children at 
 Dover ; then he would propose to their mother 
 that the little Lancey — "boy," as he more 
 
154 DON JOHN. 
 
 frequently called himself — should be sent to 
 them, and have also the benefit of the 
 change ; then he would take her away and 
 reproduce for her their v/edding tour. 
 
 This had been to Normandy and Brittany, 
 where they had seen quaint, sweet fashions, 
 even then on the wane ; beautiful clothes, 
 which those who have not already seen 
 never will see ; and peaked and pointed 
 habitations, so strange and so picturesque, 
 that nothing but a sojourn in them can make 
 one believe them to be as convenient as those 
 of ugly make. 
 
 Estelle should see again the apple-gather- 
 ing, the great melons, and the purple grapes 
 drawn into market with homely pomp ; the 
 brown-faced girls gossiping beside their 
 beautiful roofed wells, dressed in garments 
 such as no lady in the finest drawing-room 
 puts on at present ; creatures like countri- 
 fied queens, stepping after their solitary cows, 
 each one with the spindle in her hand. 
 He would take her to Coutances, and then 
 
DO^ JOHN. 155 
 
 on to Avranches, and there he T\'onld un- 
 fold to her a certain plan. 
 
 She fretted much over the doubt, which 
 at present no investigation availed to solve. 
 Time had not befriended her : the more she 
 thought, the more uncertain she became. 
 
 Yet he hoped that time might bring them 
 enlightenment in the end. He would take 
 her to Avranches, where lived his only sister, 
 the widow of a general officer, who, from 
 motives of economy, had settled there, and 
 did not often come to England. 
 
 In his opinion she was one of the most 
 sensible women to be met with anywhere — 
 just the kind of creature to be trusted with 
 a secret— a little too full of theories, per- 
 haps, almost oppressively intelligent, active 
 in mind and body, but a very fast friend, and 
 fond of his wife. 
 
 He felt that, if the two boys could be 
 parted from Estelle for three or four years, 
 and be under the charge of his sister, it 
 would be more easy, at the end of that time, 
 
156 DON JOHN. 
 
 to decide which of them had really the best 
 claim to be brought up with his name and 
 with all the prospects of a son. It was 
 quite probable that, in the course of three 
 or four years, such a likeness might appear 
 in one of the boys to some member of 
 his family as would all but set the matter at 
 rest. 
 
 Nothing could be done if they remained in 
 London, brought up among his own friends, 
 and known by name and person to every 
 servant about him. But if he left them at 
 Avranches with his sister, among French 
 servants, who knew nothing about them — 
 each known by his pet name, and not 
 addressed by any surname — and if they them- 
 selves knew nothing about their parentage, 
 there could be no injustice to either in the 
 choice the parents might eventually make, 
 even though they should decide not to take 
 the child first sent home to them. 
 
 He was desirous, for his own sake as well 
 as for theirs, that they should hear of no 
 
DON JOHN. 157 
 
 doubt ; that would be cruelty to the one not 
 chosen, causing him almost inevitable dis- 
 content and envy, while the one chosen might 
 himself become the victim of doubt, and 
 never be able to enjoy the love of his parents, 
 or any other of his advantages in peace. 
 
 *' We must be their earthly providence," 
 he said to his wife, wdien he had unfolded 
 this plan to her; "we must absolutely and 
 irrevocably decide for them. We must try 
 fully to make up our minds, and then, which- 
 ever we eventually take, w^e must treat alto- 
 gether as a son." 
 
 " And the other, Donald ? " 
 
 '' The other ? I think one's best chance 
 of peace in any doubtful matter is not to do 
 the least we can, but the most ; we must 
 give them both the same advantages in all 
 respects, and so care for, and advance, and 
 provide for, and love the other — so completely 
 adopt him, that if we should ever have the 
 misfortune to find that, after all, we have 
 made a mistake, we may still feel that there 
 
9 
 158 DON JOHN. 
 
 was but one thing more we could have given 
 him, and that was our name." 
 
 "Then, even in that case, the choice 
 having once been made, you would keep to 
 it?" 
 
 " What do you think, my star ? " 
 
 " It would be a cruel thing on the one 
 we had taken for our own to dispossess 
 him." 
 
 " Yes ; but if we allowed things to stand, 
 the loss and pain would all be our own ; they 
 would be nothing to the other. Some wrongs 
 are done in spite of a great longing after the 
 right, and such I hold to be irrevocable." 
 
 '' I see no promise of rest in any plan. 
 Perhaps my best chance will be to leave it 
 altogether to you ; you often talk of casting 
 our cares upon God. I have tried, but it does 
 not seem to relieve me of the burden. I 
 can — I often do cast them upon you, only I 
 hope—" 
 
 "What, Estelle?'^ 
 
 " I hope your sister will not say, as your 
 
DON JOHN. 159 
 
 mother did when our Httle Irene died, that 
 it was one of those troubles which was or- 
 dained to work for my good." 
 
 *' She was only quoting Scripture." 
 
 ' ' When she used to come and pray with 
 me, and read with me, I felt at last able to 
 submit ; and I found, as she had said, that 
 submission could take the worst sting of that 
 anguish out of my heart. But no one must 
 talk so to me now. I have not fallen into 
 the hands of God, but into those of a wicked 
 woman. This is different." 
 
 ^'Isit, my wife?'' 
 
 " Your sister may say it is a rebuke to me 
 for having loved this present life, and my 
 husband, and my children too much, or she 
 may say it is a warning to me that these 
 blessings can — oh, how easily ! — be with- 
 drawn. I will try to bear it as a discipline, 
 as a punishment ; let her teach me, if she 
 can, to submit ; but I cannot bear to hear 
 about blessings in disguise. . My own little 
 son ; he was the pride of my heart ; and now, 
 
9 
 160 DON JOHN. 
 
 when I liolcl him in my arms, and see the 
 other playing at my feet, I wonder which 
 has the best right to me. I know that 
 nothing can make up to me for the doubt. 
 I shall never be so happy any more ! " 
 
 So she thought ; but she was utterly de- 
 void of morbid feelings, and quite willing to 
 let time do all for her that it could. She 
 had a sincere desire to be well and happy. 
 A woman, with any insight into man's nature, 
 generally knows better than to believe that, 
 in the long-run, delicacy can be interesting, 
 and low spirits and sorrow attractive. 
 
 She did not aggravate herself with anger 
 against the nurse. She knew she was to 
 part with both the boys for years, while a 
 doubtful experiment was tried. Yet she let 
 herself be refreshed by the sweet weather, 
 the rural signs of peace and homely abun- 
 dance ; and when she drove up to the quaint 
 abode her sister-in-law had made a home of, 
 she could be amused with its oddness ; the 
 tiled floors, numerous clocks, clumsy furni- 
 
DON JOHN. 161 
 
 ture, thick crockery ; the charming kitchen, 
 full of bright pots and pans, so much lighter 
 and more roomy than the drawing-room ; 
 the laundry in the roof; its orchard that 
 stood it instead of a flower-garden, almost 
 every tree hoary with lichen, and feathery 
 with mistletoe ; its little fish-pond and foun- 
 tain, with a pipe like a quill, and its wooden 
 arbours, with all their great creaking weather- 
 cocks. 
 
 And there was one little child, a girl, in 
 the house — a small, dimpled thing, about six 
 months younger than the two boys. 
 
 That first evening passed ofi*, and both 
 husband and wife shrank from entering on 
 the subject of their thoughts. Mrs. O'Grady, 
 Charlotte by Christian name, was full of talk 
 and interest about all manner of things. 
 She had the disadvantage of being very short- 
 sighted, and so missed the flashing messages 
 and expressive communications that passed 
 between other eyes. 
 
 This defect makes many people more in- 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 DON JOHN. 
 
 tellectual than they otherwise would be, and 
 less inteUigent, throwing them more on 
 thought and less on observation. But in 
 her case it was only a question of wearing 
 or not wearing her spectacles. When she 
 had them on, "all the world was print to 
 her ;" when they were off, her remarks were 
 frequently more sensible in themselves than 
 suitable to the occasion. 
 
 Politics, church parties, family affairs, the 
 newest books, the last scientific theories — 
 nothing came amiss to her, every scrap of 
 information was welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone looked on rather listlessly, 
 and soon it was evident that her husband 
 could not make an opening for the matter 
 that was in their thoughts. He was letting 
 himself be amused and interested while 
 waiting for a more convenient season. 
 
 When they had retired, she said,— 
 
 '* I shall be so much more easy, Donald, 
 when you have managed to tell her our 
 story." 
 
DON JOHN. 163 
 
 " But what was I to do ? " he answered. 
 ' ' I could not suddenly dash into her sentence 
 with a ' by-the-bye,' as she does herself. 
 ' By-the-bye, Charlotte, we don't know 
 w^hether one of our children is, in fact^ ours 
 or not ! ' " 
 
 " That would at least astonish her into 
 silence for a time." 
 
 The next morning just the same difficulty ! 
 They were in the midst of a discussion before 
 they knew that it had begun. 
 
 The baby was taken out after breakfast, 
 by her nurse, into the apple orchard. 
 
 '' You hare no servants who speak 
 English, have you, Charlotte ? " asked Mr. 
 Johnstone, thinking to open the matter. 
 
 "No," she answered; ''and I prefer the 
 French as servants, on the whole, to the 
 English. But I like that young Irish 
 woman, Estelle, that you have brought 
 with your baby. There is something sweet 
 about her that one does not meet with 
 here. Do you know, I have long noticed 
 M 2 
 
164 DON JOHN. 
 
 that, of alL modern people, the Irish suffer 
 least, and the French most, from the misery 
 of envy?" 
 
 ''Do you think so?" said her brother, 
 only half listening. 
 
 "Yes, and hence the Irish chivalry 
 towards the women of ' the quality,' and the 
 total absence of any such feeling in a 
 Frenchman. He, frugal and accumulative, 
 thinks, ' I am down because you are up.' 
 The poor Frenchman would rather all were 
 down than that any should have what he 
 has not ; but it is the material advantages 
 of those well off that he envies them ; but 
 the poor Irishman, wasteful and not covetous, 
 could not do without something to admire. 
 One of these two takes in anguish through 
 his eyes, whenever he casts them on beauty 
 or riches not his ; the other takes in con- 
 solation through his eyes. He is not wholly 
 bereaved of grandeur or loveliness if he may 
 look on them, and he troubles himself little 
 that they are not his own." 
 
DON JOHN. 165 
 
 ^'When demagogues leave him alone!" 
 her brother put in. 
 
 '' It is singular, though," she continued, 
 ghding on with scarcely any pause, ''that 
 though the Irish can do best without educa- 
 tion and culture, they repay it least, they 
 are least changed by it. Now the English, 
 of all people, can least do without culture 
 and education, and repay them most. What 
 a brute and what a dolt a low Englishman 
 frequently is ! but a low Irishman is often a 
 wit, and full of fine feelings." 
 
 ''Marry an Irishman," said the brother j 
 with a smile, " and speak well of the Irish 
 ever after." 
 
 ' ' Of course ! I always used to say, ' Give 
 me an Irish lover and a Scotch cousin/ " 
 
 " Why an Irish lover ? " 
 
 " Because he is sure to marry me as 
 soon as he can, just as a Scotch cousin, if 
 he gets in anywhere, is sure to do his best to 
 get me in too." 
 
 " You want nothing EngHsh, then ? " 
 
166 DON JOHN. 
 
 ** Yes, certainl}^ give me an English 
 housemaid. Let a French woman nurse me 
 when I am ill, let an English woman clean 
 me my house, and an Englishman write me 
 my poetry ! For it is a curious thing," she 
 went on, ** that sentiment and poetic power 
 never go together. The French are rich in 
 sentiment and very poor in poets. How 
 rich in sentiment the Irish are, and how poor 
 the Enghsh ! We call the Irish talk poetical, 
 yet Ireland has never produced a poet even 
 as high as the second order. How far more 
 than the lion's share England has of all the 
 poetry written in the Enghsh tongue— or, if 
 you speak of current poetry, you might add, 
 ' and in all other tongues.' " Here she 
 chanced to put on her spectacles, and im- 
 mediately came to a full-stop. 
 
 '' Well ? " said her brother; but she was 
 no more to be lured on, when she could see, 
 than stopped when she could not. His 
 chance had come. 
 
 '' If you will puton your bonnet, Charlotte," 
 
DON JOHX. 167 
 
 he said, '^ we will go out about the place. 
 I have something important — to us — to say 
 to you." 
 
 She rose instantly with the strange sense 
 of defect and discomfiture that she often felt 
 when her spectacles showed her other people's 
 eyes, and thus that she had been at fault 
 because her own were not better. 
 
 It was a difficult story to tell, and at first 
 she could not be made to believe that all 
 had been done w4iich could be done. 
 
 An unsolvable doubt seemed just as un- 
 bearable to her as it had done to the mother. 
 She sat down on a bench in the apple 
 orchard with nothing to say and nothing to 
 propose. 
 
 ''I do not believe this thing ever was 
 done," she said hesitatingly at last. ''I 
 think the nurse's baseness began and ended 
 when she planted this horrid doubt in your 
 hearts. She foresaw that it would rid her 
 of her own child. What could you do but 
 take him ? " 
 
168 I>ON JOHN. 
 
 ''But you have told me this," she pre- 
 sently said, '' because you think I can help 
 you?" 
 
 '' Yes, you can help us — what we want 
 is to gain time." 
 
 He then unfolded his plan. Each of the 
 little fellows called himself by a pet name. 
 One went in the nursery by the name of 
 <' Middy," so called after a favourite sailor- 
 ioU they had ; the other generally called 
 himself ''Boy." 
 
 If they could be taken charge of till they 
 were five or six years old, and the parents 
 denied themselves all intercourse with them 
 during those years, it was not in nature that 
 the one truly theirs should not show some 
 strong likeness either to one of his parents 
 or to some of his brothers and sisters — for 
 there might well be both by that time — or a 
 hkeness as to voice or even disposition might 
 show itself ; and, failing that, there was the 
 other child. He might begin to betray his 
 parentage ; the Johnstones had no like- 
 
DON JOHN. 169 
 
 ness of Aird, but could never forget his 
 wife. 
 
 An irrevocable choice must be made at the 
 end of that time ; and when the father and 
 mother came over to make it, neither child 
 would have heard anything about his story. 
 The one selected would soon return their love 
 and subside into his place with the unques- 
 tioning composure of childhood, and the 
 other would be equally contented with his 
 position, having long forgotten all about his 
 native country and his earliest friends. 
 
 Little more than a week after this, Mr. 
 Johnstone was sitting on the sands of a 
 small French bathing-place, his sister with 
 him. He had brought over the two tiny 
 boys, and they were playing at their feet, 
 while Mrs. 'Grady scanned them eagerly. 
 
 ' ' Yours — I mean the one you call ' Middy ' 
 — is the most like our family, and like you in 
 particular," she observed. 
 
 *' Yes, we think so.'' 
 
 ''And he is the one whom you brought 
 
170 DON JOHN. 
 
 up till the nurse herself put it into your 
 heads that he might not be yours ? " 
 
 '* Even so." 
 
 *' The other has slightly darker eyelashes 
 and browner hair than either yours or 
 Estelle's." 
 
 *' Of course we have noticed that." 
 
 ^' And yet you doubt?" 
 
 '' We fancy that ' Boy ' is a little like our 
 dear child Irene." 
 
 *' Estelle says she wants me to dress them 
 precisely alike, and treat them absolutely 
 alike." 
 
 *' Yes, we have decided on that. We 
 shall leave photographs behind us. When 
 they see these in your book, they can be told 
 to call them father and mother. And we 
 shall never take these names from either, 
 but only teach one of them to understand 
 that he is an adopted child." 
 
 The parting with the boys was very bitter 
 to Mrs. Johnstone. She held each to her 
 heart with yearnings unutterable, though, as 
 
DON JOHN. 171 
 
 was but natural, only one fretted after her 
 at all, and that for a very little while. 
 
 And when they were brought into the 
 quaint house near Avranches, it was doubtful 
 whether either had the intelligence to be 
 surprised. One was perfectly fearless, and 
 found out directly that the '' 'tupid mans 
 and wonians could not talk to ' Boy;' " the 
 other listened to the babble about him with 
 infantile scorn, and sometimes, baby as he 
 was, showed himself a true-born Briton by 
 laughing at it. 
 
 But that stage of their life was soon over ; 
 their French nurse made them understand 
 her very shortly ; and before they had dis- 
 covered that little Charlotte's Enghsh was 
 worse than their French, she was taken away 
 — gone to Ireland to her grandmother, as 
 they were told. They thought this was a 
 pity ; her mother, with a touch of bitterness, 
 thought so too ; but the grandmother had 
 long urged it, promising to provide for the 
 Httle Charlotte, and but that the Johnstones 
 
172 DON JOHN. 
 
 had known of lier intended absence, they 
 would not have proposed their plan. 
 
 The poor must do — not what they would, 
 hut — what they can. 
 
 Even if her little Charlotte was left un- 
 provided for at the grandmother's death, the 
 mother felt that here was a chance of saving 
 several hundred pounds for her. Donald 
 Johnstone's payment was to be liberal in 
 proportion to the importance of the interest 
 at stake. And, in the meantime, the little 
 Charlotte cost her mother nothing, and the 
 two boys were just as happy together when 
 she was gone. 
 
 They had not been a year in France before 
 they spoke French as well as French children, 
 which is not saying much. In less than 
 another year they spoke their EngHsh with 
 a French accent j loved their nurse more 
 than any living creature, excepting one 
 another, and had altogether lost the air of 
 English children, for their clothes were worn 
 out, and they wore instead the frilled aprons 
 
DON JOHN. 173 
 
 and baggy trousers of the country ; their hair 
 was cropped perfectly short, as is there the 
 mode, and every article they had about them 
 was equally tasteless and unbecoming. 
 
 But their toys were charming. 
 
 Their aunt, as they both called her, was 
 careful to awaken in their infant minds a 
 certain enthusiasm for England ; they had 
 many pictures of English scenes in their 
 nursery. The nurse also did her part ; she 
 frequently talked to them about the dear 
 papa and mamma, caused them to kiss the 
 portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone every 
 night before they went to bed, and instilled 
 into them something of the peculiar French 
 tenderness and sentiment towards a mother. 
 
 They both loved this pretty mother, and 
 they grew on in health and peace till they 
 were nearly five years old, about which time 
 it became evident that the Johnstones could 
 not make up their minds to be absent much 
 longer. 
 
 Mrs. 0' Grady had not, for some time past, 
 
174 DON JOHN. 
 
 founcl it possible to doubt which was her 
 brother's child, but she loyally forbore to 
 make the least difference in her treatment of 
 them, or to convey any hint to her brother. 
 And now the children w^ere told that dear 
 father and mother were coming, and this 
 important news was a good deal connected 
 in their minds with the growth of their own 
 hair. It was much too long now, their 
 nurse said, but English boys wore it so. 
 They thought it would have been impossible 
 for father and mother to come and see them 
 while it had been cropped so short. Their 
 aunt also had sent to London for complete 
 suits of children's dress for them. Their 
 nurse was very gracious as regarded these. 
 Melanie, the cook, came up to see them 
 dressed a V Anglais ; she agreed with her that 
 there was much to be said in favour of the 
 Enghsh style. Certainly, but for these clothes, 
 the dear father and mother would never have 
 taken the trouble to come ; it w^as to be 
 hoped they would like them. 
 
DON JOHN. 175 
 
 How slight was the feehng of the children 
 as to this expected interview I how intense 
 were the feelings of the parents ! 
 
 A door opened, and a pretty little boy, who 
 knew notliing of their arrival, came dancing 
 into a room where were seated a lady and a 
 gentleman close together. 
 
 In an instant he knew them, and stood 
 blushing. Then that lady said, — 
 
 ** Come on, sweet boy ! '' and he advanced 
 and kissed her hand, and that gentleman 
 looked at him — oh, so earnestly ! 
 
 This was the dear mother ; she had tears 
 in her eyes, and she took him on her knee, 
 and kissed his little face and head, and 
 stroked his hair. So did the dear father. 
 
 '' Did he know them?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, and he and Middy had wanted 
 them to come for a long while. The dear 
 mother was quite as pretty as he had expected," 
 he continued looking up at her. He spoke 
 in French, and paid her a little French com- 
 phment as naturally as possible. Then he 
 
176 DON JOHN. 
 
 blushed again with pleasure as she caressed 
 him, and was glad he had all his best things on. 
 
 After a time, his aunt came in, and 
 quietly took him out of the room. 
 
 '^ I should not have known him, he is so 
 much grown and altered," sighed Mrs. John- 
 stone ; '' but he has made it evident that it 
 is Middy whom we have not seen." 
 
 " This is a most lovable, pretty little fel- 
 low," said the husband. 
 
 ^^ And not at all unlike our little Irene," 
 she answered. 
 
 But, in a minute or two, another child, 
 equally unconscious of what awaited him, 
 opened the same door, and marched boldly 
 in. A sudden thrill shook the hearts of both. 
 The child paused, drew back, and trembled ; 
 then he put up his arm before his face, and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 What it was that he felt or feared, it would 
 have been quite past his power to express ; 
 but the dear mamma was there ; she had 
 tears in her eyes ; was she going to kiss 
 
DON JOHN. 177 
 
 Lini ? He did not know what to say ; what 
 should he do ? 
 
 He could not look, he was crying so ; and 
 somebody carried him to her, and put his 
 arms round her neck, and called him his 
 dear little son. 
 
 ** Mamma, I never meant to cry," he pl'e- 
 sently said, with all naivete — and mother 
 was crying too, and so was father — well ! it 
 was very extraordinary, when he thought he 
 should have been so glad. i\.nd presently he 
 ivas very glad because they were so kind. 
 
 They said they had wanted him so much 
 for such a long time, and he should go to 
 England — go home and see his dear little 
 sisters. They said he was just Hke the 
 others, and there was a baby brother at 
 home ; he must teach him to play. So Middy 
 was very happy indeed, as in a child's 
 paradise he nestled close to the long-lost 
 mother, and admired his father, and thought 
 how nice it would be to go to England with 
 them. 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 DON JOHN. 
 
 It would have been hard to doubt any 
 more ; the little flaxen-haired fellow was so 
 like the children at home ; they were so vastly 
 more drawn to him than to the other, and 
 yet he too was greatly altered. He was not 
 such a fine child for his years as when they 
 had left him. But if they could have doubted, 
 his own love and agitation would have set- 
 tled all. The shy and yet delighted gaze, 
 his contentment in their arms, the manner in 
 which he seemed to have thought of them, — 
 all helped them to a thankful certainty. The 
 mother had not been without her sorrows. 
 Since the parting she had lost two more little 
 girls in infancy, and had longed inexpressibly 
 to have her boy back again. 
 
 Charlotte came in at last ; she still had 
 him in her arms. There was no mistaking 
 the father's look of contentment. Charlotte 
 had her spectacles on, and saw the state of 
 the case at once. 
 
 *' Of course," she exclaimed ; '' how could 
 it be otherwise ? I am afraid, Middy, father 
 
DON JOHN. 179 
 
 and mother will be rather shocked when I 
 tell them that you have forgotten your other 
 name." 
 
 " I thought I was Middy," answered the 
 child. 
 
 Of course he did ! Great pains had been 
 taken to prevent his thinking anything else. 
 
 '* But that is a baby-name, my sweet boy ! 
 Don't you know what your father's name 
 is?" 
 
 '^Yes, Donald." 
 
 '• Well, then, you are Donald too." 
 
 N 2 
 
180 DON JOHN. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 *' I NEVER had any doubt which of the chil- 
 dren was yours," observed Mrs. 0' Grady 
 the next day. 
 
 ''It was the more good of you to say 
 nothing, then," repHed the mother. 
 
 ''But now I hope you really feel at peace ? " 
 
 " Yes, at peace ; but, in order to do so, I 
 must adopt your theory, and believe that 
 Maria Aird or her second husband invented 
 the story of the changing of the children,— 
 that supposes baseness enough — but how far 
 easier to do than to effect a real change ! " 
 
 " And you, Donald ? " asked his sister. 
 
 "My dear, I suppose myself to be quite 
 satisfied which is my child ; but I am not 
 satisfied to leave the other out of my care 
 and influence for an hour." 
 
DON JOHN. 181 
 
 *' It is certainly time Donald was taken 
 home," observed his sister; '' he is a com- 
 plete little Frenchman. And you would not 
 like to leave Lancy, then, in my charge a 
 little longer ? " 
 
 *' If I had no other reason I should still 
 think it his right to be brought up as an 
 Enghshman also/' 
 
 '' Then he must not breathe this air and eat 
 this diet much longer. Race has not half 
 so much to do with national character as 
 people think ! Why, some of the English 
 families brought up here by English parents 
 talk like the French, and cannot produce 
 the peculiarly soft sound of the English ' r,' 
 they either ring it or slur it over." 
 
 ^' Companionship, my dear, nothing 
 more." 
 
 " But Charlotte would not deny herself 
 the society of her one child, unless she felt 
 what she has been saying very strongly," 
 said Mr^. Johnstone. 
 
 Ponald Johnstone looked at his wife. 
 
182 DON JOHN. 
 
 Tallj placid, fair, she was at work on a piece 
 of knitting, and took her time about it. All 
 her movements spoke of tranquillity, and she 
 observed what was going on about her. 
 Then he looked at his sister, who was net- 
 ting. Even the movements of her small ivory- 
 shuttle had an energetic jerk which seemed 
 to suit the somewhat eager flash and sparkle 
 of her clear hazel eyes ; her thoughts were 
 swift, her words were urgent for release, she 
 longed to spread her theories, and scarcely 
 noticed how they were received if she could 
 but produce them. 
 
 *^No, Estelle, companionship is not all ; 
 your boys have hardly any companions, Eng- 
 lish or French, but they do not play half so 
 boisterously, and they are not half so full of 
 mischief as they would be if they had been 
 brought up in equal seclusion on English 
 soil. The French child is more tame in 
 early childhood than the English. It is 
 France that does this, not his race." 
 
 *' You really think so?" 
 
DON JOHN. 183 
 
 " Of course I do ; the world is fall of facts 
 that bear on this point. In many parts of 
 Germany, the men have a most unfair ad- 
 vantage over the women. They are better 
 made, taller in proportion ; they are far 
 more intellectual, and you must admit, 
 Donald, that they are handsomer. All this 
 mainly results from the superior diet of the 
 men, specially in the towns. Many of them 
 regularly dine out excellently well, leaving 
 their women-folk at home to cabbage-soup 
 and cheap sausages." 
 
 "Mean hounds ! " exclaimed Donald John- 
 stone, laughing. 
 
 ** Yes, but unless the climate of Germany 
 had already caused an inferiority in the 
 women, they would not allow themselves to 
 be so * put upon.' It is the intense cold 
 of their winter, together with poor diet, 
 which dwarfs and deteriorates the women ; 
 the same cold, with good foad, braces the 
 men. There is no nation in Europe where 
 the height, strength, and wits of the sexes 
 
184 DON JOHN. 
 
 are so equal as in France. In fact, I think 
 the French woman has the best of it ! It 
 is partly the excellent cHmate — not hot 
 enough to enervate, not damp to induce 
 them to drink — and partly it is the excellent 
 food. Soil influences air — air influences 
 food : these together influence manners, and 
 are more, on the whole, than descent." 
 
 '' I shall always feel, Charlotte, that you 
 have a right to preach to us, and to put 
 forth as many theories as you please," said 
 Donald Johnstone, when at last she came to 
 a pause. 
 
 *^ Because you feel that there is a great 
 deal in what I say ?" she inquired. 
 
 Then she put on her spectacles, and 
 caught a smile, half amused, half tender, 
 flitting over * her sister-in-law's face. Her 
 brother was openly laughing at her. 
 
 "Not at all," he replied, "but because 
 you are, as you always have been, the best of 
 sisters and the most staunch of friends. You 
 can understand people ; you are willing, and 
 
DON JOHX. 185 
 
 able too, to help them in their own way." 
 Then, observing that she was a little touchy 
 and not at all pleased, he quietly stepped out 
 over the low window, and left her to his 
 wife, for he knew that it would be difficult 
 for him to set matters straight again. 
 
 The two little fellows were very docile 
 children, and less independent than English 
 boys of their age. 
 
 ^'Donald," as Mrs. 0' Grady w^as now care- 
 ful to call him, ''Donald has fewest faults, 
 but he is the least interesting. Lancy is 
 a very endearing child." 
 
 " Has he any special fault ? " asked Mrs. 
 Johnstone. 
 
 ''Well," she answered, "I hardly know 
 what to say about that." 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone looked up a little sur- 
 prised ; her sister-in-law appeared to speak 
 with a certain caution. "He is a very en- 
 dearing little fellow," she repeated. 
 
 ' ' But if he has any special childish fault, 
 I ought to know it, Charlotte." 
 
186 DON JOHN. 
 
 * * Yes, my dear. Well, I must be very care- 
 ful not to make a mountain of a mole-hill, 
 and you must try, if I tell you what has 
 occurred, not to think too much of it. He 
 was but a baby, Estelle, when he first did it." 
 
 '' Did what, Charlotte ? " 
 
 '*But I have taken great pains not to 
 make light of it, and also, I could not let 
 you know, because it is a fault so rare in our 
 rank of life, that it would have appeared to 
 be a telling piece of evidence against him in 
 your mind. It would have diminished his 
 chance." 
 
 Estelle coloured with anxiety. 
 
 ^^ The fact is, he has several times taken 
 little articles that were not his own, and ap- 
 propriated them. They were things of no 
 great value. Can this be hereditary ? Were 
 the father and mother honest ? " 
 
 *^ I cannot tell. But what a fault, Char- 
 lotte ! Does little Donald know ? " 
 
 " Yes, but you need not be afraid for him. 
 Lancey was scarcely more than three years 
 
DON JOHN. 187 
 
 old when, walking home from the town one day 
 with his honne, a minute toy was found in his 
 hand that he could give no account of. They 
 had been into several shops, but I never sup- 
 posed that he had taken it. I thought some 
 child must have dropped it, and that he had 
 picked it up on the road. But, a few weeks 
 after, I was in the market, bargaining for 
 some oranges. I saw Lancey, who was with 
 me, looking red and roguish, and was very 
 much vexed when I found that he had 
 snatched up an orange, and evidently meant 
 to carry it off. The woman, with nods and 
 winks, pointed this out to me ; she evidently 
 regarded it as a joke. I told her how 
 wrong she was to laugh at him, made 
 him give it back, and for several days, in 
 order to impress his fault on his little mind, 
 I deprived him of his usual dessert, though 
 the oranges were always on the table." 
 
 '^ This was two years ago ? " 
 
 *^Yes." 
 
 '' Then I am afraid it is not all." 
 
188 DON JOHN. 
 
 " It was nearly all that I know of till 
 last Christmas, when Donald sent over a box 
 with some English school-books, and a 
 number of little presents for the boys ; among 
 these were two silver medals. Middy lost his 
 almost at once, and there were great search- 
 ings for it. Lancey helped to look, but it could 
 not be found ; then, one night after they were 
 both asleep, la bonne was turning out the 
 pockets of their little coats for the wash, and 
 the two medals rolled out of Lancey' s coat. 
 One had been tucked into the lining. Poor 
 little fellow ! when I took him alone into my 
 room the next morning, and showed them to 
 him without saying a word, he wept piteously. 
 And, Estelle, I believe he is cured. It was 
 very touching to see the distress of both the 
 little fellows when I made Lancy give back 
 the medal and confess to Donald that he had 
 taken it. Donald is much the most affec- 
 tionate of the two, and when Lancey saw how 
 much he was shocked and how sorry he was 
 for him, he seemed to think all the more of 
 
DON JOHxV. 189 
 
 his fault himself. I did all I could to deepen 
 the impression, to show them the sin of 
 stealing, and the punishment too. For 
 several days they were both very triste. 
 Then Lancey said to me, ' When Middy says 
 his prayers to-night, he's going to ask God 
 to forgive me.' I could do no less than say 
 I was sure God would forgive him. But I 
 have not let the matter drop ; and you 
 must be on the watch, Estelle, to help the 
 poor little fellow against himself." And so, 
 with all tenderness, the childish fault was 
 told, everything that watchful love could 
 do being extended to Lancy afterwards, and 
 to all appearance he was cured, and as a 
 rule, was a better boy than his foster-brother. 
 The two little Frenchmen were brought 
 back to their native isle. At first, they took 
 it amiss that there was no soup at the 
 nursery breakfast, but then the nurse never 
 expected to have liold of their hands when 
 they walked out. And the dogs did not 
 understand them; they thought this must 
 
190 DON JOHN. 
 
 be on purpose ; but, on the other hand, they 
 were allowed — indeed, they were encouraged 
 — to chmb the trees, and the cher jyere had 
 given them some spades and a wheelbarrow. 
 There were no drums, swords, and shrill 
 French pipes to parade the garden with, but 
 these spades were better than nothing. The 
 cher pere said they might dig as deep as they 
 liked with them. 
 
 ^' But the clay would stain their new coats." 
 '' Oh, that could not be helped ! " 
 *' Might they dig down to the middle of 
 the V7orld, then ? " 
 
 '^ Certainly, if they could." 
 They began to think England was a nice 
 place to live in, and after a short sojourn in 
 it contrived to make as much noise, and do 
 as much mischief as any other two little 
 urchins breathing, for they were in the 
 country now. The cher pere had a rambling, 
 homely old house in the country, and there 
 'they gradually mastered English, learning it 
 from the little sisters, though they continued. 
 
DON JOHN. 191 
 
 to the great scandal of the servants, to 
 jabber French, and tutoi/er one another when 
 they were together. 
 
 Childhood is long to the child, and his 
 growth is slow, though to his parents he 
 appears to " shoot up." 
 
 Donald and Lancey shot up, and neither 
 of them show^ing the slightest taste for any 
 branch of learning whatever, they gave their 
 governess a great deal of trouble. 
 
 The nurse said there never were two such 
 young Turks. That was partly because, 
 being of the same age and size, whatever 
 piece of mischief attracted one, the other 
 was always ready to help him in. Then the 
 little girls were always trying to imitate 
 them. It made them so rude ''as never 
 was." As to the nursery children, specially 
 Master Freddy, who would have been as good 
 as gold but for them, they took delight in 
 leading him astray, and had taught him to 
 speak French too, on purpose that she might 
 not understand what they said to him. 
 
192 DON JOHN. 
 
 Master Freddy kept his seventh birth- 
 day without having had any broken bones 
 to rue, which was wonderful considering 
 the dihgence with which he had studied 
 the manners and actions of his two brothers, 
 as they were always called. But, about this 
 time, they were sent off rather suddenly to 
 school, it being at last allowed by governess, 
 nurse, and even mother, that they were past 
 feminine management. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone was excessively fond of 
 them both. 
 
 None of the anguish of doubt remained. 
 Her boy was her own, and he was intensely 
 fond of her ; yet towards Lancey she felt a 
 never- satisfied yearning. She was rather 
 more indulgent to him than to Donald, as 
 if she could never forget her period of un- 
 certainty ; and if there was a soft place in 
 Lancey' s heart— which is doubtful, for little 
 boys are often hard-hearted mortals — it was 
 probably reserved for her. It was certainly 
 to her that he always complained when he 
 
DON JOHX. 193 
 
 had any grievance against the nurse, and in 
 her arms that he cried when the governess 
 punished him for any grave deHnquency by 
 making him stop in doors on a half-hoHday. 
 
 Lancey remembered long after he went to 
 school (that is to say for nearly six weeks) 
 how dear mother had talked to him when he 
 was in his little bed the night before he 
 went. She kissed him a great many times, 
 and she cried, and he promised he would be 
 so good, and never make her unhappy by 
 doing naughty things. And then she talked 
 to Donald. And Donald declared that he 
 was never going to get into any mischief 
 any more ; he would promise her that he 
 never would, and he would always say his 
 prayers ; and he would never fight with the 
 other boys — at least he wouldn't if he could 
 help it ; and certainly he would never tell a 
 lie whether he could help it or not. 
 
 The house in Upper Harley Street was a 
 far more comfortable abode when they were 
 gone, and they saw very httle of it for 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 DON JOHX. 
 
 several years to come, their holidays always 
 taking place when the family was in the 
 comitry. 
 
 As to their entrance on school life it was 
 much like that of other little boys. It 
 was rather a large preparatory school to 
 which Mr. Johnstone took his son and his 
 adopted son, both the little fellows chubby, 
 brave, according to their years, truthful, and 
 idle. They had a box of cakes and other 
 prog with them. He knew better than they 
 did what would become of it. They had also 
 plenty of money. He did not, of course, 
 expect that they could have much to do with 
 the spending of it, but he found out two of 
 the bigger boys, whose fathers he was ac- 
 quainted with, gave each a handsome tip, 
 turned his fledgelings over to them, and left 
 them, feeling the parting, on the whole, more 
 than they did. 
 
 Under the auspices of these their new- 
 friends, the two little boys, when their own 
 prog had been consumed, were privileged to 
 
DOX JOHN. 195 
 
 put their money into a common purse, which 
 happened just then to he nearly empty ; a 
 great deal more prog, some of it very un- 
 wholesome, was then bought and consumed, 
 after which the school sat in judgment on 
 the new boys, kicked some of their caps 
 round the playground, and ordered them 
 never to wear them any more ; tore up some 
 of their books as being only fit for the 
 nursery, and then decided that such a name 
 as Donald Johnstone was not to be borne. 
 There had been another boy whose name was 
 so spelt, but he called it Johnson, why 
 couldn't this fellow do the same. Yes, it 
 was a troublesome name to pronounce — not 
 really long, of course — but it sounded long. 
 It was an uppish name ; they were sure he 
 was proud of it. Half of it was quite enough 
 for any fellow ; from henceforth he should be 
 called Don John. 
 
 Don John accepted the verdict, and took 
 it in good part. His father had impressed 
 on both the boys that they must never be 
 2 
 
196 BON JOHN. 
 
 '' cheeky," or it would be the worse for them. 
 He thought when they next decreed that 
 Lancey should be called Sir Lancelot, that 
 they were rather inconsistent, but he did not 
 take the liberty to say so, and the two little 
 fellows made their way pretty well on the 
 whole, seldom getting into trouble, except by 
 a too ardent championship of one another. 
 To learn how to disguise this, their only deep 
 affection, was their first lesson in duplicity. 
 
 Always to take one another's part, right 
 or wrong, when they dared, was their natural 
 instinct ; their fealty and devotion was far 
 stronger than that felt by most true brothers, 
 they were never known to quarrel. They 
 were always side by side in their class, be- 
 cause Lancey would not learn as fast as he 
 might have done, lest he should outstrip 
 Don John, and get into a higher form ; and 
 they Vere always together in their play, be- 
 cause Don John did not care to outdo 
 Lancey, and have to be with stronger boys 
 instead"%f with him. 
 
DON JOHN. 197 
 
 But the longing for companionship, a 
 certain camaraderie as they would have 
 called it, was not Don John's only reason 
 for keeping close to Lancey. For a long 
 while the childish fault had been almost for- 
 gotten ; if ever alluded to, it was by Lancey 
 himself ; but when the boys were twelve years 
 old, and had just returned to school after the 
 Easter holidays, Don John showed symp- 
 toms of illness, and was seized upon and sent 
 home again forthwith. 
 
 He had the measles, and was away for 
 nearly six weeks. There never was much the 
 matter with him, and he returned ; but in a 
 day or two a very slight something, he hardly 
 knew what it was, seemed to let him know 
 that Lancey was watched, and that he knew 
 it. 
 
 Lancey did not meet his eye ; that alone 
 was strange. 
 
 An opinion seemed to be floating in the 
 air that it was better not to leave things 
 about. It was hardly expressed, but it was 
 
198 DON JOHN. 
 
 acted on, and the first hint he saw of such 
 action drove the blood to Don John's heart ; 
 he remembered the medal. 
 
 The next day the two boys were alone 
 together in a class-room -for one minute. 
 Don John looked at Lancey, and putting 
 his head down on the high desk, whispered 
 with a long sigh that was almost a sob, — 
 
 '^ They don't /(;7zon' anything against you, 
 do they, Lancey ? " 
 
 " No," answered the other little fellow in 
 a frightened whisper, and feigning to be busy 
 with his dictionary. ''Don't seem to be 
 talking to me. They only suspect." 
 
 Lancey's guilt was thus taken for granted, 
 and confessed at once. 
 
 A boy, dashing into the class-room, called 
 them out to cricket. 
 
 ''Where are the tfimgs, then?" sobbed 
 Don John again. " Can't they be found ? " 
 
 " I've buried them," replied Lancey, and 
 they darted out together, pretending to be 
 eager for the game. 
 
DOx\ joij>f. 199 
 
 As the two passing one another were for 
 an instant apart from the rest, Don John 
 cried out, — 
 
 ''Where?" 
 
 " You can't get them out," rephecl Lan- 
 cey, as after an interval they passed each 
 other again. '' I buried them in the garden, 
 and you know the door is ahnost always 
 locked." 
 
 " Say whereabouts it was," answered 
 Don John ? But the two did not meet any 
 more till the game was over. 
 
 *' What do you want to get them out for ? " 
 asked Lancey, as crest-fallen and sad they 
 left the cricket -field together. 
 
 ** Because I know one of them is Mars- 
 den's W'atch. You always said last half 
 that it was a far better watch than either of 
 ours. He never will rest till he gets it, or 
 till they find you out." 
 
 He spoke in French, using the familiar 
 *'tu." He was not angry with him, and 
 the other was less ashamed than afraid. 
 
200 DON JOHN. 
 
 *' He only suspects," repeated Lancey, 
 sick at heart, and already feeling the truth 
 of those words. *^ The wages of sin are 
 hard." 
 
 ** And I took some money too — Oh, Don, 
 how could I do it ? " 
 
 " You might have known I should have 
 plenty when I came back. Why couldn't 
 you wait ? " 
 
 *' I don't know. I took two sovereigns, 
 one was an Australian sovereign. He left 
 them on his locker, and when he was telling 
 the boys that it was gone, he said he knew 
 that was not a safe place to have put it on, 
 and he looked at me. 
 
 ^ * Then we must get back that very sovereign, ' ' 
 said Don John ; '^ one of mine will not do." 
 
 Lancey said no, they only suspected him, 
 and now he knew the misery that came of 
 taking things he should never do it any 
 more. He then explained exactly where he 
 had buried the watch and the two sove- 
 reigns. On the head- master's birthday they 
 
DON JOHN. 201 
 
 always had a holiday, and were allowed to 
 range all over the place. While he was 
 walking about in the garden on that day, 
 miserable on account of what Marsden had 
 just said, he found that the other boys had 
 fallen back from him, and then dispersed 
 themselves ; he was quite alone. He hastily 
 pushed a hole in some loose earth, close to 
 a melon-frame, by which he was standing, 
 dropped in the watch and the money, and 
 with his foot covered them just as some boys 
 drew near. It was five days since this had 
 occurred, and the first shower would pro- 
 bably uncover this property again. In the 
 evening of that very day Don John had 
 come back with lots of prog, lots of money. 
 "And then," said Lancey, ''I wished I 
 hadn't done it." 
 
 Don John burst out with, — 
 
 " If you were found out, you would be — " 
 he stopped awe -struck. 
 
 "I know," said Lancey, ''and father 
 
202 DON JOHN. 
 
 would be sent for — what shall I do — 
 and mother would know too." 
 
 *^ It was wicked," answered Don John 
 ** I won't go to sleep all night thinking what 
 we can do. It was wicked ; it ivas luorse 
 than being a cad." 
 
 Yes, Lancey felt that it was worse than 
 being a cad. Human language could go no 
 further; they had both, as it were, made their 
 confession, and their minds for the moment 
 were a little relieved. 
 
DON JOHN. 203 
 
 CIIAPTEK IX. 
 
 The morning after this conversation two 
 remarkable things occurred. 
 
 There were four other boys in the dormi- 
 tory where Don John slept ; these were 
 Lancey, Marsden, and two younger fellows. 
 
 When they began to get up, Don John 
 complained that his left arm hurt him hor- 
 ribly. It was very much swollen, and he 
 could not dress himself. 
 
 The w^eather w^as hot, the boys had been 
 out rather late the previous evening in the 
 playing-field. Don John was a great climber, 
 he confessed to having had a fall ; he must 
 have sprained it then, Marsden said. He 
 seemed to have no opinion to give on the 
 matter. 
 
 His room-mates gave him a good deal of 
 
204 DON JOHN. 
 
 awkward help, which hurt him very much ; 
 but when they found that his jacket could 
 not be put on, they went and fetched their 
 Dame, and she took him away. 
 
 Don John asked if Lancey might come 
 too. 
 
 ^* Oh, not by no means; he was better 
 by half by himself." 
 
 So she bore him off to a little study set 
 apart for such contingencies as hurts and 
 accidents which were distinct from illness, 
 and there she much consoled him for his 
 pain by giving him a little pot of hot tea all 
 to himself, two eggs, and a plate of buttered 
 toast. He felt much better after this, but he 
 wanted Lancey. 
 
 Presently the head-master came in, and 
 with him a surgeon. 
 
 '^ How had he managed to hurt himself 
 so much ? " 
 
 ^' He had been climbing a tree, and he 
 could not get down, so he sprang from the 
 end of a bough, and fell on his arm." 
 
DON JOHN. 205 
 
 " Then it did not hurt him much at 
 first ? " 
 
 " No, it felt quite numb." 
 
 Neither asked when this had taken place ; 
 that it had been just before going to bed the 
 night before was taken for granted. 
 
 Yet the surgeon did testify a little sur- 
 prise. 
 
 '^ It's extraordinary what boys will sleep 
 through," he remarked. 
 
 *' You should have mentioned it last night ; 
 my boy," said the master kindly. " Why 
 didn't you?" 
 
 Don John said nothing, but he turned 
 pale. 
 
 ^^ It gives you a good deal of pain, doesn't 
 it ? " he proceeded. 
 
 '* It didn't, sir, until I began to talk about 
 it," answered the boy. 
 
 In fact he could not bear the pain and the 
 fear of detection together; he began to 
 tremble visibly. 
 
 But he had much worse pain to bear 
 
206 DON JOHN. 
 
 before the surgeon had done with him, for it 
 was found that his wrist was badly sprained, 
 and that the small bone of the upper arm 
 was broken. 
 
 Soon after this the other remarkable thing- 
 occurred. 
 
 At twelve o'clock, when the boys came out 
 of school, their Dame asked to see Marsden. 
 
 ^* Master Marsden, you're mighty care- 
 less of your things," she exclaimed, when he 
 and some of the other boys came running 
 up. ^^Iwa^just a having your dormitory 
 cleaned out, and when we moved the box 
 atop of your locker, look here — if there wasn't 
 your watch and the two sovereigns behind it 
 that you've been making a work about." 
 
 Marsden took these things and blushed as 
 he had never blushed in his life before ; 
 what to do he did not know ; but Lancey 
 just then passing by and looking as usual 
 crestfallen and miserable, he obeyed a good 
 impulse, — 
 
 **, I say, Sir Lancelot," he exclaimed. 
 
DON JOHX. 207 
 
 ''look here, I must be an uncommon stupid 
 ass ! " 
 
 Lancey looked with all his might, there 
 was the Australian sovereign, and there ^^ as 
 the watch and the other sovereign. 
 
 '' Thev were found at the back of my 
 box ! " proceeded Marsden. '^ I could have 
 declared I had looked there, but it seems I 
 didn't." 
 
 A friendly boy at that instant stepped up, 
 and stared him full in the face. 
 
 *' Hold your tongue," he whispered, "we 
 were mistaken; don't /c'^ 02(^ that we suspected 
 him." 
 
 " They were found at the back of my box," 
 repeated Marsden. 
 
 "Oh, were they," said Lancey, ''well 
 I'm glad you've got them again," moderate 
 and quiet words, but his gratitude was deep ; 
 he was reprieved. 
 
 " Of course it's nothing to you," said the 
 blundering Marsden, *' but I thought you'd 
 like to know." 
 
208 DOX JOHN. 
 
 Several other boys in an equally blunder- 
 ing spirit betrayed their former suspicions 
 by making like speeches, and showing a 
 sudden desire to play with Lancey. 
 
 Nobody but Don John, he was sure, could 
 have done this — ^but how ? 
 
 This was how ; but Lancey did not know 
 it till some time afterwards. 
 
 The boys went to bed as usual, and the 
 others — even poor Lancey — soon fell asleep. 
 Don John then began to carry out the 
 hardest part of his projected task; this was 
 to keep himself awake till the dead time of 
 the night, for he well knew that if he once 
 went to sleep he should not wake till he 
 was called in the morning. 
 
 He sat upright in his little bed and cogi- 
 tated. There were three ways of getting 
 into the garden ; and once in there were 
 several ways out, but they were all difficult. 
 
 It was well-known that to get in otherwise 
 than by the door, you must go through the 
 kitchen, which involved a long tramp down 
 
DUN JOHN. 209 
 
 dark passages, and a great risk of making a 
 noise. Or if you did not go that way you 
 must descend the principal staircase (which 
 had a nasty trick of creaking), and go past 
 the head-master's own bedroom door; or, 
 finally, you might creep along the corridor 
 and descend by the washhouse roof. This, 
 in hot weather, when the corridor window 
 was wide open, was by far the shortest and 
 easiest way, but then, unless the garden-door, 
 which was always locked inside had the key 
 in it, how should he get out and get back 
 again ? He could not come through the 
 kitchen, the bar would be up ; and that he 
 could only remove on the other side. He 
 couldjump down from the washhouse roof, but 
 he could not get up to it again without a short 
 ladder, which would betray him. Even if he 
 could surmount that difficulty it was doubt- 
 ful whether he should not make more clatter 
 in creeping up the tiles than in creeping down. 
 Therefore, if the garden door was locked, 
 he would have to chmb to the top of the 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 DON JOHN. 
 
 high garden wall, by the branches of the 
 trained fruit-trees upon it, and creep along 
 the top of the wall till he reached a certain 
 tree whose branches hung out over it, from 
 one of these he must spring, or drop himself 
 down as well as he could. He would then 
 be in the playground. To break a pane of 
 glass, and so undo the fastening of a window, 
 push up the sash, get in, shut it down again, 
 and softly come upstairs to his little chamber ; 
 all these things had to be done successfully, 
 if Lancey was to be saved. 
 
 And if he himself was found out, what 
 would happen ? 
 
 '* Why, if he had the watch and the two 
 sovereigns upon him, it would appear that he 
 was the thief, and, moreover, that he had 
 committed the high misdemeanour of getting 
 out at night, perhaps to perpetrate more 
 thefts. Certainly for no possible good pur- 
 pose. Perhaps it would end in his being 
 expelled; and mother — " Here Don John 
 choked a little. 
 
DON JOHN. 211 
 
 ^' But then if he did not do it, Lancey in 
 the end was sure to be found out, then lie 
 would be expelled. And father — " Here he 
 choked again. ^' Well it's no use fuuMug 
 or arguing," said Don John to himself, ^' be- 
 cause you know it's going to be done, and 
 you're going to do it." 
 
 It was almost like a nightmare when he 
 thought of it afterwards, but he certainly en- 
 joyed the deed while it was adoing. 
 
 To slip out of bed, listen all breathless, 
 and watch his room-mates, while the clock 
 in the corridor, the wheezing old clock, swung 
 its clumsy pendulum, this was the only dif- 
 ficult thing he really had to do. It was the 
 beginning ; his own assurance to himself 
 that the daring thing was to be attempted. 
 
 But a stealthy exultation in the strange- 
 ness of the adventure was damped by that ob- 
 trusive tick. The old clock was disagreeably 
 wide awake ; it seemed quite vicious enough 
 to run down just at the decisive moment, and 
 wake the second master, who might — who 
 p 2 
 
212 DON JOHN. 
 
 naturally would think a boy must be at that 
 moment climbing down by the washhouse 
 roof into the garden. 
 
 It seemed equally natural that he should 
 look out, and catch the boy. 
 
 No, that clock must be stopped at all risks. 
 He stole out of the open door and along the 
 bare corridor, full of dim moonlight and con- 
 fused sounds of snoring. 
 
 A childish figure in a long white night 
 gown ; he stopped before the clock, and 
 gently opening its door, seized the great 
 pendulum in his hand, and with one long 
 gasping click the clock stopped. Then was 
 his real danger ; the cessation of a noise so 
 often wakes people, yet nobody did wake, 
 not even the master. 
 
 What a wicked boy he was ! he felt as if 
 he had choked off the incorruptible witness. 
 He held the pendulum squeezed hard in his 
 hand for two or three minutes, then stole 
 back to his room and put on his clothes. 
 
 Often in his dreams it all came back to 
 
DON JOHX. 213 
 
 him afterwards ; how he had tied his sHppers 
 together, and slung them round his neck, and 
 how, as he got out, there was a white cat on 
 the washhouse roof. In the dim hght, her 
 eyes gleamed on him strangely. He all but 
 slipped — yet no — he reached the eave, and 
 jumped down safely into the soft mould un- 
 derneath. Then he stooped and put on his 
 slippers, and effaced the marks of his feet in 
 the mould. 
 
 The cat had jumped down after him, and 
 was looking on. Here he was in the garden 
 at one o'clock in the morning, and the moon 
 was fast going down. 
 
 How beautiful those tall white lilies were. 
 They enjoyed themselves in secret all through 
 the night, gave out their scent, drank in the 
 dew, and never let men and women find out 
 that the night-time w^as their life and their 
 day. The great evening primroses, too, white 
 and yellow, were in their glory, and it seemed 
 as if they also were keeping it secret, and 
 still. The cat was very jealous of his being 
 
214 DON JOHN. 
 
 out to see it all. It would be very unlucky 
 for cats if people in a body should discover 
 how much more jolly it was to be out in the 
 warm golden mist of moonlight, when all 
 was so fresh and sweet, than tucked up in 
 their heated bedrooms under the low ceiling 
 that shut out the stars. 
 
 Don John shared in the still stealthy 
 delight of the flowers ; he knew all was easy 
 till he had to get into the house again, and 
 he put off thinking about that till the last 
 moment. But the moon was fast southing ; 
 it behoved him to be quick, unless he meant 
 to stay out till day dawned. So with a beat- 
 ing heart he went softly across the dewy lawn 
 among the wet flowers, the cat following him 
 every step of the way, and looking on, while 
 he secured the plunder, while he eff'aced the 
 traces of his search, while he climbed the 
 wall by means of the spread- out branches of 
 a fig-tree, and while he softly crept along 
 the top. 
 
 Oh, to be a cat for two minutes then ; for 
 
DON JOHN. 215 
 
 cats never slip, and cats can see even under 
 the branches in the dimness of a summer 
 night ! 
 
 Don John sprang into the tree successfully, 
 but whether he mistook a branch for a 
 shadow, or whether the white cat, springing 
 after, startled him, he never knew, but the 
 next instant he was on the grass at the foot 
 of this tree, and his arm was under him. 
 
 He was on the right side of the wall, in 
 the playground, that was his first thought. 
 
 He felt as if he had no arm, it was so per- 
 fectly numb. He was very cold, but pre- 
 sently thinking of himself, far more as a 
 sneak than a hero, he got up and crept slowly 
 towards the house. 
 
 ' ' I'm glad I'm not obliged to be a burglar, 
 too," he said to himself, as he drew near, 
 for a window was partly open, and he could 
 get in without breaking a pane. 
 
 He had got the watch and the two 
 sovereigns, but now the deed was done there 
 seemed to be no glory in it, that was perhaps 
 
2IG DON joiix. 
 
 because he had hurt himself. He stole up 
 to his little bed, thinking what a bad boy 
 he had been to have thought the first part 
 of the adventure such rare fun. But now 
 neither he nor Lancey would be expelled, 
 that was something. It was as much as they 
 could expect, and they must make the best 
 of it. 
 
 It always seemed to him afterwards as if 
 the cat understood the whole matter better 
 than Lancey did. Have cats a natural sym- 
 pathy with wickedness ? probably they have, 
 for the cat was the fast friend of Don John 
 from that day forward ; and when his * ^ dame " 
 came in would march in after her, gravely 
 inspect his sling, and smell at his nice 
 savoury dinner. 
 
 And Lancey ? Why, Lancey at first was 
 very much relieved, and also very sorry that 
 Don John was hurt, but both the boys felt, — 
 one as much as the other, that to have a 
 broken arm, was as nothing compared with 
 being expelled, and it did not signify to 
 
DON JOHN. 217 
 
 either, which had the broken arm so much 
 as it should have done. Father and mother 
 now would never know. What real gratitude 
 Lancey felt was mainly on that account. 
 Don John loved them far more keenly than 
 Lancey did, and this was but natural, but 
 Lancey loved no one better. They were his 
 all, and Don John's brothers and sisters and 
 home were his too. The boys never set 
 themselves one above the other, everything 
 about them appeared to point plainly to their 
 being equals, and Httle as Lancey had been 
 told about his parentage, it satisfied him, 
 and he asked no questions. 
 
 He had always known that he was a 
 dear adopted son, that his father's name 
 was the same as his own, that he had died 
 before his child's birth, and that his mother 
 had married again and gone to Australia. 
 
 It was Don John who asked awkward 
 questions, Lancey did not care ; what did it 
 signify who gave him all he wanted so long 
 as it was given ? No such thought had 
 
218 DON JOHN. 
 
 shaped itself distinctly in his young mind, 
 thought was lying dormant as yet, and the 
 love that cherished him and the well-being 
 in which he lived kept it from expansion. 
 
 Once Don John asked his mother why 
 Lancey's mother never wrote to him, and 
 she answered that mothers did not all love 
 their children as much as she did. The boy 
 looked up at her with clear blue eyes full of 
 surprise. It had seemed as natural that a 
 mother should love as that a flame should 
 burn. 
 
 His arm was just well when she said this 
 unexpected thing. She had a very long 
 string of amber beads round her neck; he 
 loved to rub the larger ones against the sleeve 
 of his jacket, and make little bits of paper 
 stick to them. He always remembered 
 afterwards how she looked down upon him 
 as he sat by her, when he asked what was 
 the use to any fellow of having a mother if 
 she did not love him, and she moved his thick 
 flaxen hair from his forehead while he made 
 
DON JOHN. 219- 
 
 another little bit of paper leap to the beads, 
 and then he put his arm round her waist 
 and leaned his head against her shoulder to 
 cogitate. She was never in a hurry, this sweet 
 comfortable mother. She always had time 
 to listen to every grievance about hard 
 lessons, and childish scrapes. She even 
 sympathized when tops would not spin. 
 She generally knew when her children 
 wanted to say something to her, and would 
 wait till it came. She was expecting some- 
 thing about Lancey now, and hoped the 
 question might be easy to answer, but though 
 Don John was thinking about Lancey, it 
 concerned what he himself had lately done 
 for him, and when he spoke at last she was 
 a good deal surprised. 
 
 " Oh, mother," he said, '' you don't know 
 how wicked I often feel." 
 
 She looked down on him, but said no- 
 thing, and he went on. 
 
 *'And I think Mr. Viser is a very odd 
 man — particularly for a clergyman." 
 
220 DON JOHN. 
 
 ''What have those two things to do with 
 one another, my dear boy," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 ** Oh, a great deal," answered Don John. 
 '' But you know, mother, you are the soul of 
 honour." 
 
 ''Yes," she repeated, without smiling, 
 " I am the soul of honour." 
 
 She meant that when things were confided 
 to her by her children she always kept them 
 strictly to herself. Sometimes the con- 
 fidence related to quarrels, and then she 
 generally managed to persuade the penitent 
 to make them up, or they concerned mis- 
 doings, were in the nature of confessions, and 
 she was to tell their father, and persuade 
 him to forgive. They all had a very whole- 
 some fear of their father. 
 
 " And you never think of telling." 
 
 " Of course not ! " 
 
 " I listened to his sermon yesterday — I 
 never used to listen, but I did, and — well, 
 if it's of no use punishing one's self, what is of 
 
DON JOHN. 221 
 
 use, you know fathers, and mothers, and 
 masters are always punishing boys." 
 
 '' Yes, they are." 
 
 *^ To make them better." 
 
 ** Yes." 
 
 ^' But if I had done something horrid — 
 tokl a good many Hes, for instance — and 
 invented a story, which coukl not be con- 
 fessed to father so that he could punish me, 
 I think it extremely mean of Mr. Yiser to 
 make out that it's of no use my punishing 
 myself instead." 
 
 The mother did not startle her penitent 
 by asking, '' Have you told a great many 
 lies?" She only said, '^And have you 
 punished yourself, my boy ? " 
 
 "Yes, mother," he answered, "and here 
 is the punishment. I did it up more than a 
 week ago, when first we came home for the 
 holidays. It almost choked me when father 
 and you were so pleased with my papers. 
 And you know you talked about trusting 
 me when I was out of your sight, and 
 
222 DON JOHN. 
 
 feeling sure I should be a good honourable 
 boy. Oh, you know what you said." He 
 produced a small brown-paper parcel. *' I 
 meant — meant at first to dig a very deep 
 hole and bury it — but I am afraid I might 
 afterwards not be able to help digging 
 it up again, for that mouse really is such 
 a—" 
 
 He paused, and still she did not smile or 
 hurry the penitent, whose hand trembled a 
 little, and who looked rather red and irate, 
 and he presently went on, — 
 
 *' So whatever Mr. Viser says, you are to 
 take the parcel, mother, and lock it up— and 
 mind, I am never to have it any more." 
 
 <«Yery well, my boy," she answered, not 
 at all as if she was surprised, and asked 
 calmlv, " What is there in it ? " 
 
 *« There's all my money that grandmother 
 sent, and my mechanical mouse that runs 
 round and round when it is wound up, and 
 several other things that I like. Now I 
 have punished myself! " 
 
DON JOHN. 223 
 
 *^ Yes. Can you repeat Mr. Yiser's text 
 tome?" 
 
 ^^No, not all of it.'' 
 
 *' Get me a Bible." 
 
 Don John fetched a Bible, his wrong 
 against the vicar did not seem less present 
 to him when he had read the verses in 
 question, the beautiful and well-known verses 
 beginning ^^ Wherewith shall I come before 
 the Lord," and ending, '^Hear ye the Eod, 
 and who hath appointed it." 
 
 **You see it is all in the Bible," she 
 observed ; ^' and what did he say it meant, 
 but that we must not think we can please 
 or propitiate God by depriving ourselves of 
 our goods, or even of any earthly thing, 
 though we love it best. Not to punish your- 
 self, but to confess your sin and forsake it, is 
 the way to obtain forgiveness." 
 
 *^ Yes, but I did say that I could not confess 
 this ; that would be worse than doing it. 
 cannot tell the real thing, the thing of con- 
 sequence, but I can tell you a Httle more, 
 and you will be sorry." 
 
224 DON JOHN. 
 
 '* Yes, I shall — tell me as much as you 
 can." 
 
 '^What I said to father when he ques- 
 tioned me about how I broke my arm, and 
 when I did it, was all a lie — all my own in- 
 vention. I made it up — I am in such a rage 
 sometimes after I go to bed and think about 
 it, that I can hardly help crying. I wish 
 father could punish me for it, and then for- 
 give me, and I should be all right then." 
 
 *^ But that cannot be unless you confess 
 your fault to him." 
 
 ^' Oh, mother, I did tell you I could not 
 confess it. So if punishing myself won't 
 do, I suppose it's my duty to be miserable 
 about it, when I don't forget it," he added 
 with boyish naivete. 
 
 *^I dare say Lancey knows," she next 
 said, and when he made no answer, *' Don't 
 you think he would be glad if you con- 
 fessed ? " she asked. 
 
 *^Why, of course not, mother," the boy 
 exclaimed, and then she never doubted that 
 
DON JOHN. 225 
 
 she should hear the whole ; but no, Don 
 John was very loving, very penitent, yet he 
 stuck to it, that he must not tell her any- 
 thing more, though when she asked him after- 
 wards whether he had at least confessed his 
 fault to God, he answered, *' Oh, yes," with 
 a fearlessness that surprised her. She was 
 surprised both that he should have done so^ 
 and that he should think nothing of telling 
 her that he had. Like most other boys 
 he was in general extremely shy of all such 
 subjects. 
 
 She urged him again to confess his fault 
 to her, and he paused, as if considering the 
 matter. *'As God knows everything," he 
 began, and then broke off. 
 
 *' Yes, my dear boy ? " 
 
 *^ And Mr. Viser doesn't, I shall not take' 
 back my mouse." Here being hard put to 
 it not to smile, she held her peace. 
 
 *'When boys are at school," he w^ent on 
 with a certain quaint simplicity that was 
 natural to him. '' When boys are at school, 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 BON JOHN. 
 
 it's not at all easy to think about God. But 
 He knows what I mean. Boys are not so 
 good, mother, as you suppose. If you knew 
 everything just as God does, without my 
 telling you, I should be very glad." 
 
 This was all his confidence — childhood 
 was nearly over, not precisely even in that 
 fashion could he ever talk to her again. 
 
 It was only Lancey who seemed never to 
 have anything to hide. Seemed — he was 
 such a sweet little fellow, so ready to confess 
 a fault, so apparently open ; Donald John- 
 stone and his wife always felt themselves 
 repaid for the kindness and the love they 
 had shown him, and the family circle ap- 
 peared to be incomplete unless he was in it. 
 But of course Mrs. Johnstone never asked 
 him anything about Don John, how he broke 
 his arm, and why he was obliged to tell lies 
 to his father about it. She would not have 
 been **the soul of honour" if she had done 
 such a thing as that. 
 
DON JOHN. 227 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The family circle, as has been explained, 
 never seemed perfect unless Lancey was in 
 it, and this was more true than ever when, 
 after another year, the two boys came home 
 healthy, cheerful, and well-grown. 
 
 Lancey had not got himself into a scrape 
 since the memorable stealing of the watch, 
 and consequently both the boys were happier. 
 
 A somewhat singular circle it was. The 
 house in Upper Harley Street had been let. 
 The long rambling homestead in the country 
 suited the mistress and the children far 
 better. Her easy household ways often sur- 
 prised Mr. Viser, her children inherited her 
 placid temper and her unruffled ease. 
 
 They were all ^' characters " already, 
 observed with amusement by the neighbours, 
 Q 2 
 
228 DON JOHN. 
 
 both rich and poor; at home everywhere, 
 and perfectly independent. 
 
 Mr. Yiser and his wife, Lady Louisa, had 
 a large, young family, but none of their chil- 
 dren, though taken great care of, showed half 
 the strength and spirit of the Johnstones. 
 
 Sometimes Lady Louisa came to call on 
 Mrs. Johnstone, and made quiet observations 
 on the manners and fashions of that gentle- 
 woman, but it did not occur to her that these 
 had anything to do with the sparkhng eyes 
 and high health of the children. 
 
 Once she had known Mrs. Johnstone to 
 take up a parasol, when a very great noise of 
 shouting and laughter almost deafened them, 
 as they sat in the drawing-room. She went 
 out into the garden. Lady Louisa accompanied 
 her ; the boys and girls were easily found by 
 the said noise. 
 
 Were they told to make less ? not at all ; 
 they were merely admonished to go a little 
 further off. 
 
 The little Visers never shouted ; they never 
 
DON JOHN. 229 
 
 went out of doors without a nurse or a 
 governess ; they wore gloves, and generally 
 had parasols. 
 
 A buttoned glove ! handcuffs are hardly 
 more powerful to restrain. Such an article 
 was never put on to the little John- 
 stone girls, unless when they went out 
 in the close carriage to pay calls with 
 their mother, then they had also the regu- 
 lation quantity of ribbon and feathers, and 
 behaved accordingly. 
 
 The groom in that establishment acted as 
 an under-gardener ; he also went out on 
 errands occasionally, but when Mrs. John- 
 stone ordered the pony-carriage, she never 
 troubled herself to inquire whether he was at 
 home or not. Why ? The boys of course 
 could bring the pony up from the meadow, 
 run out the little carriage, and harness the 
 docile beast as well as he could. And, to 
 be plain with the reader (at the same time 
 hoping not to shock or displease), the girls 
 could too. 
 
230 DON JOHN. 
 
 When Mrs. Johnstone heard the wheels of 
 the pony- carriage, as it was brought round to 
 the front door, she would step forth equipped 
 for the occasion, and serene as usual. In 
 hohday time she always found one of the 
 two boys ready to drive her ; he would have 
 brushed himself up a little, and put on a 
 tolerably good hat. 
 
 . The carriage had a moderately comfortable 
 seat in front, the back of it was somewhat 
 like an open square box. There was a move- 
 able bench-like seat in it, under which old 
 Die was generally lying, for she liked the air.' 
 The white cat was not unfrequently there 
 also (she had followed Don John from 
 school). 
 
 '* So long as you keep yourself to your- 
 self," Don John would say, ** there's no ob- 
 jection to your seeing the country." A third 
 passenger would be Peterkin — old Die's 
 grandson. She knew why he was brought. 
 He was not to be trusted at home by himself. 
 It was all very well to bark at tramps, '' but 
 
DON JOHN. 231 
 
 Peterkin was such a cad, that he would bark 
 at the honest poor." 
 
 The mother and son would then set forth 
 in homely state ; but if their errand was to 
 the town they would be sure to overtake 
 Lancey and the elder girls, perhaps Mary 
 and Freddy also, about a mile down the 
 hill. These young people, as a rule, would 
 be arrayed in flapping sun-bonnets and 
 ** over-all" garden pinafores, but you per- 
 ceive ^^ that there would not have been time 
 to ' dress up,' and mother did not mind." 
 
 They also had errands to the town, which 
 was about four miles off. A couple would 
 get in behind, when mother told Don John to 
 drive slowly, at the same time nests, and 
 ferns, and flowers would be put in. Some 
 did not attain to the town, but lingered in 
 the lane picking up property till the return 
 journey, then they would perhaps all get on 
 board the somewhat clumsy craft, pulling out 
 the dogs to follow on foot. Sometimes on a 
 sudden they would all get down, excepting 
 
232 DON JOHN. 
 
 the boy who was driving, and scurry into 
 the Httle wood on either side, turning in 
 hke rabbits. 
 
 This was when a farmer's smart phaeton, 
 with the farmer's lady in it, appeared at the 
 top of the hill, or when Mr. Yiser and 
 Lady Louisa drove into the lane in their 
 landau. 
 
 Such a feeling as shyness was quite alien 
 to their natures, but they felt that their 
 garden pinafores rather disgraced mother, 
 filled as they would be with cowslips, 
 blackberries, or nuts, as the case might be. 
 It was as well, therefore, to make themselves 
 scarce. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone never took any notice of 
 these proceedings. Occasionally Mr. Yiser 
 could see flitting figures and bright eyes 
 peeping through the hedge, while the placid 
 and admired mother exchanged civilities with 
 her neighbours ; but, of course, he took no 
 notice, and never looked back ; while the 
 children stole out again, and quietly got into 
 
DON JOHX. 233 
 
 the carriage without stopping it, as the pony 
 laboured slowly up the hill. 
 
 Their purchases were as strange as them- 
 selves. 
 
 Once he saw a gawky girl, the eldest of 
 the brood, dart into the wood with a good- 
 sized tin kettle in her hand. That kettle, 
 which had cost two and eightpence had, 
 together with a cuckoo clock, exhausted 
 the whole resources of the family, the clock 
 had cost eleven shillings, two shillings of 
 which had been borrowed of mother as an 
 advance upon next week's allowance. 
 
 Mother was not fond of advancing money, 
 but this was for a great occasion. These 
 were birthday presents for a particular 
 friend. 
 
 Here it is really needful to give some 
 account of the friend, together with certain 
 other friends, their place, and their surround- 
 ings. 
 
 Within thirty miles of London there is 
 a good deal of rural scenery. If any doubt 
 
234 DON JOHN. 
 
 this, let them go and look about them — not 
 south of the metropolis, of course, and not 
 west. There are some little towns also with 
 a general air of being old-fashioned and 
 altogether behindhand with the world. 
 
 One of these was the little town beyond 
 that long hill that the pony hated and the 
 children liked ; because his natural pace as 
 he climbed it enabled them to fling their 
 wildings into the back of the carriage with- 
 out asking to have it stopped. They gene- 
 i-ally got out when they came to the steep 
 part, and often, in a chivalrous spirit, gave 
 the lumbering machine an unanimous push 
 behind, while mother took the reins. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone had a ** clarence," but this 
 carriage was mainly used for taking him five 
 days in the week to and from the station, 
 which was more than four miles off. His 
 expenses were large, and he had three sons 
 to educate and to provide for, when there 
 should have been but two. But his wife 
 had persuaded him to let ^their town house ^ 
 
DON JOHN. 235 
 
 for a term of years, so that it became a 
 som'ce of revenue instead of an expense to 
 him ; and when he found that she enjoyed 
 her quiet hfe in the country, where there 
 was next to no *^ neighbourhood," that she 
 looked more charming and fresh in her 
 country attire than she had done when they 
 mainly lived in London, where her milliner's 
 bill was six times as high, and that all her 
 children were healthy and happy, he fell 
 back on his old thought that he was the 
 luckiest husband going, and let himself take 
 the same cheerful view of things that she 
 did. 
 
 His abode was called 'Uhe house," and 
 about two fields off, with no means of reach- 
 ing them but a footpath, which led, without 
 any compromise, through his stable-yard, 
 were six cottages called " the houses." Each 
 of these had a nice plot of vegetable 
 garden at the back, but in front it had 
 scarcely six feet of flower-border, divided from 
 the field by a simple wooden railing, and 
 
236 DON JOHN. 
 
 having no outlet to any road or lane, and 
 yet this field, a charming field in its way, 
 might almost itself have been thought of as 
 a lane, for it was very long and very narrow, 
 and was divided from its neighbour field 
 by a running brook, edged with hawthorn 
 and maple, and a wasteful tangle of bram- 
 bles and whitethorn. Very bad farming 
 prevailed in those parts. 
 
 In the first of the tenements, dignified 
 by this name ^*the houses," lived the very 
 particular friends for one of whom the tin 
 kettle and the cuckoo clock had been pur- 
 chased. Her cottage consisted of a very 
 neat and rather roomy front kitchen, 
 a little washhouse behind, and upstairs 
 two tolerably comfortable bedrooms. By 
 calling, she was a humble dressmaker ; she 
 and her sister worked for Lady Louisa's 
 children and servants, made the Httle 
 Johnstone's common clothes, worked for the 
 farmers' ladies, and did odd jobs generally. 
 
 In the next cottage (they were all de- 
 
DON JOHN. 237 
 
 taclied) lived the cobbler. His name was 
 Salisbury. The particular friend's name 
 was Clarboy — Mrs. Clarboy, and she was 
 aunt to the nurse up at the house. The 
 houses were supposed to be Mrs. Johnstone's 
 district ; if the people there were ill, it was 
 her special business to look after them ; she 
 also lent them books and tracts, and per- 
 suaded them to join the parish coal club 
 and go to church. 
 
 So far as the young Johnstone's were con- 
 cerned, these cottages constituted ^^ the neigh- 
 bourhood ;" they frequently went on their own 
 invitation to drink tea with Mrs. Clarboy, 
 who was a widow, and her sister Jenny. 
 They generally trundled the loaf, the cake, 
 the butter, and the tea, they proposed to 
 consume, through the fields in a child's 
 wheelbarrow ; frequently they added radishes 
 out of their own little gardens, or some 
 fruit. 
 
 If the sisters confessed that their coal was 
 low, the wheelbarrow, after having been duly 
 
238 DON JOHN. 
 
 emptied, was trundled on to the last cottage, 
 which was called the shop, where there was 
 often as much as a whole sack of potatoes on 
 sale, a matter of three or four *^ hundred " 
 of coal, gilt images made of gingerbread in 
 the window, bull's-eyes and yellow butter, to- 
 gether with a jar of treacle, with other like 
 dainties, and a moderate allowance of bacon, 
 all of inferior quality and somewhat the 
 w^orse for keeping. A quarter of a hundred 
 of coals would be purchased, and if the 
 young Johnstones had not the requisite 
 cash to pay at the time, they brought it 
 the next day, but if it was at the begin- 
 ning of the week, and they had plenty of 
 money, they bought half a hundred and 
 wheeled it to its destination at twice. They 
 then made up a good fire. The sisters 
 had a capital pair of bellows, presented to 
 Miss Jenny by the same young friends on 
 a previous birthday. 
 
 They used them liberally. Mrs. Clarboy 
 and Miss Jenny, proud and pleased, looked 
 
DON JOHN. 239 
 
 on, at the same time continuing to stitch ; 
 they never thought of interfering with the 
 preparations. 
 
 A great deal of toast was made, sally-lun 
 cakes were buttered, tea set on the hob to 
 **brew," then radishes were washed, and the 
 cloth was laid. 
 
 Some of the company sat on Windsor 
 chairs, others on tall stools or boxes set on 
 end, which they had imported from their 
 home. 
 
 The hostesses enjoyed their meal to the 
 full as much as their guests. Nothing ever 
 interfered, the sisters never had any other 
 engagements. If they were very busy, the 
 girls helped to hem frills, or were trusted 
 to run seams afterwards, or at least they 
 threaded needles, while the boys made them- 
 selves popguns, or disported themselves in 
 or beside the brook, catching caddis-worms, 
 or sailing boats. 
 
 Mrs. Johnstone knew all about this ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
240 DON JOHN. 
 
 What a singular woman Mrs. Johnstone 
 must have been ! 
 
 There was a sweet gentleness about all 
 these children, and an untroubled air of 
 quaint independence. 
 
 Where, indeed, was their governess ? 
 
 Why, she was at her lodgings in the 
 nearest farm-house, where she spent her 
 evenings, and where she slept. 
 
 It was as much to her enfranchisement as 
 theirs; but very few mothers would have 
 deliberately banished her, and undertaken 
 herself all the supervision required between 
 five o'clock one day and nine o'clock the 
 next. 
 
 It made the governess — a very good 
 woman — extremely happy ; it gave an early 
 sense of responsibility to the children, for if 
 they got into any scrape, or perpetrated any 
 mischief, they were expected to go and tell, 
 which they did. 
 
 Lady Louisa called one evening when they 
 were present. She only stayed a minute. 
 
DON JOHN. 241 
 
 '* We've come to tea," the company told 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Clarboy, rising, coloured and curt- 
 seyed. 
 
 Lady Louisa did not look or express 
 the least surprise. She had several small 
 books nicely bound in her basket, and she 
 said, — 
 
 ^* Mrs. Clarboy, the Kector has had his 
 course of Easter sermons published, and he 
 wishes me to present you with a copy." 
 
 Miss Jenny was a Methodist, so to her 
 Lady Louisa merely bowed. 
 
 She then took her leave and went on to 
 the next cottage. 
 
 Mrs. Clarboy, a shrewd, industrious 
 woman, more than sixty years of age, was 
 rather silent after Lady Louisa's visit. She 
 was in the habit of going out to work as 
 well as of taking work in. She hoped her 
 entertainment of the party would not stand 
 in her light as regarded work at the rectory. 
 
 Could Lady Louisa disapprove ? Well, 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
242 DO^ JOHN. 
 
 though it might be a liberty to think it, what 
 business was it of hers ? 
 
 Mrs. Clarboy took up her needle again 
 with great vigour the moment tea was over, 
 the Methodist sister having first said a long 
 grace, expressive of fervent thanks for the 
 meal. She said just the same grace when 
 the two sisters had only partaken of stale 
 bread and the weakest of tea with no milk 
 in it, but she imparted to the words on these 
 occasions an unconscious fervour. 
 
 ''You had need not overdo yourself to- 
 night," she remarked, '^ for you're going to 
 the Hall Farm to work to-morrow." 
 
 *'Yes, I had need," answered Mrs. Clar- 
 boy; "for they look to it there that they 
 get their money's worth out of me." 
 
 *' Isn't it very amusing, Mrs. Clarboy, dear, 
 going to so many different houses ? " asked 
 Lancey. 
 
 Lancey was waxing Mrs. Clarboy's thread. 
 
 *' Well, Master Lancey, yes, I may say it 
 is. Not but what two shilUngs a day is 
 
DON JOHN. 243 
 
 harder earned working out than working in ; 
 but you must count in, the exper'ence you 
 get of hfe. You see the world. As I often 
 say to Jenny, * Jenny,' I say, * what should 
 I be now if I had never seen the world, and 
 what would you be either ; not that you go 
 out, my pore girl ! you hav'n't the nerve for 
 it.' " 
 
 Miss Jenny assented by rather a foolish 
 simper. 
 
 ^' Nobody can never be dull," she remarked, 
 '^ with such an one as sister to talk to, as 
 we sit and sew. She's better by half than 
 any printed book that / ever had the reading 
 of." 
 
 Don John, sitting cross-legged on the 
 floor, was laboriously threading needles. It 
 took him nearly as much time to perform 
 this operation as it did the two sisters to work 
 up the thread. The little girls were elabo- 
 rately hemming the frills for the sleeve of a 
 kitchen-maid's new gown, which was to be 
 finished and taken home that night. 
 R 2 
 
244 DON JOHN. 
 
 ** But I look for no thanks — let the fit be 
 as good as it may — from that sort of cus- 
 tomer," observed Mrs. Clarboy. ^^ It's your 
 ma that's the lady to say she's pleased or 
 she's satisfied. To be sure that best — bed 
 furniture I put up for her after it had been 
 calendered was the intricatest thing I ever 
 got the better of." 
 
 " But then you had your reward," said 
 Miss Jenny, simpering; '* the head house- 
 maid showed you the drawing-room while 
 the family was at dinner." 
 
 ^' She did, Jenny; and I've wished times 
 and again you could see it, so frequently 
 as you complain that you can't make a pic- 
 ture to yourself of what heaven's like. But 
 you hav'n't the nerve to go up to the house. 
 You'll have to wait. It might be an advan- 
 tage to you though, if you could see it." 
 
 ^' Do you think it so very pretty, then, Mrs. 
 Clarboy, dear ? " 
 
 *^ Pretty ain't the word. Miss Majorie. It 
 fairly made the tears start, so full of great 
 
DOX JOHN. 245 
 
 looking-glasses, and gilding, and silk hang- 
 ings. I felt quite solemn. I said at the 
 time, * It makes me think of heaven ;' so 
 clean, too, and so cheerful." 
 
 ''I know heaven's not a bit like that," 
 observed Don John, with conviction, at the 
 same time handing up another needle, 
 the thread of which, from much handling, 
 was not quite so clean as it should have 
 been. 
 
 *^Well, and you may be right, sir," 
 answered Mrs. Clarboy, with due gravity ; 
 ^^ and the Scripture says, as we all know, 
 * eye hath not seen.' And yet it stands to 
 reason that very beautiful things and places 
 must be more like than such as are not 
 beautiful at all." 
 
 The company were not able to give an 
 opinion here ; but they were not much sur- 
 prised at what they had heard, being already 
 accustomed to look at things through other 
 eyes, and different points of view from those 
 of their own class. 
 
246 DON JOHN. 
 
 '^There's not much to see at the Hall 
 Farm," said Miss Jenny. 
 
 ^^But to them that can take notice," 
 observed Mrs. Clarboy, *^ it's all interesting ; 
 it shows one people's ways. I know what it 
 is to have two candles as good as whole ones 
 all to myself, and I know what it is to 
 have to share the end of a dip with two others 
 working by me." 
 
 </ You like as well as anything working 
 at the Eed Farm," observed Miss Jenny, 
 ** where you sit in the kitchen with the mis- 
 tress. There's plenty to hear there, if there 
 isn't much to see." 
 
 *^ Ay, I've worked for three generations of 
 the Holly oakes." 
 
 '' He was one to argue, was the old Mr. 
 Hollyoake," proceeded Miss Jenny; '^you 
 always said so. Why, he would argue even 
 with a ghost ! " 
 
 '* Ay, but you've no call to talk of ghosts 
 now," said Mrs. Clarboy. *' You've not an 
 ounce of discretion in your whole body, 
 Jenny.' 
 
DOX JOHN. 247 
 
 *^ You mean because of us/' said Marjorie ; 
 *' but we often play at ghosts at home, Mrs. 
 Clarboy, and father and mother don't 
 mind." 
 
 ** Are you sure, miss ? " 
 
 ** Oh, yes ! and we often go to the Poly- 
 technic and see the ghosts — real ones, you 
 know." 
 
 ** Oh, well, miss, I was not aware. Well, 
 as Jenny was saying, old Jem Hollyoake was 
 so given up to arguing, that he would argue 
 even with a ghost. He had brought up his 
 brother's son. The lad died, and his ghost 
 rose, got into the kitchen, and pointed his 
 long finger at his uncle. 
 
 ^' * Uncle Jem,' said the ghost, * as you 
 brought me up — ' 
 
 ** ' Bring you up, did I ? ' interrupted old 
 Hollyoake, beginning at once. * Bring you 
 up, did I ? Little enough of that you needed ; 
 it was impossible to keep you down ! ' 
 
 ^^ * I mean,' said the ghost, obliged to ex- 
 plain himself, * as you've brought me up to 
 speak with you out of the silent tomb.' 
 
248 DON JOHN. 
 
 ''^Idid nothing of the sort,' says Mr. 
 Hollyoake, very much frightened. 
 
 '* * You did,' said the ghost. 
 
 '* The family was gone to bed, but I dare 
 say old Jem had drunk enough to keep his 
 courage up, and argue he would. 
 
 '^ ' How dare you tell such a falsehood,' said 
 he. ^ I wish nothing more heartily than 
 that you would keep in your proper place. 
 Isn't your headstone to your mind ? ' 
 
 '* * Yes,' said the ghost, ' it's a real hand- 
 some one. But, Uncle Jem, you've brought 
 me up by for ever thinking and thinking about 
 those seven silver spoons you've lost. I 
 took them ! * 
 
 '^ Mr. Hollyoake said he was sorry, and 
 the ghost went on, — 
 
 a i They're at the bottom of the least 
 of the two old hair trunks in the garret, 
 hid under my velveteen coat.' Then he 
 vanished." 
 
 ^' Are you sure the ghost said all that ? " 
 
 ** Yes, Master Lancey. But you'll think 
 it strange that when, the next morning, old 
 
DON JOHX. 249 
 
 Hollyoake related all this, and got some of 
 the neighbours to go with him into the garret, 
 they found the trunk and the old coat in it ; 
 but the spoons were not there." 
 
 ^' Not there?" 
 
 *'No." 
 
 '' Then I don't believe the story ! " 
 
 " Why not, sir? Oh, you may depend 
 it's true. It was a story against himself, 
 and how disrespectful he'd been arguing with 
 the ghost." 
 
 *' You said he was alone when the ghost 
 rose ? " 
 
 ** Yes, sir, smoking his pipe in his own 
 kitchen." 
 
 *^ He must have been dreaming ! " 
 
 ^^ Oh no, sir, not he, the kitchen is 
 tiled. Why, he has shown me many a time 
 the very tile the ghost stood upon. It was 
 a yellow one — all the others are red. The 
 tile is there to this day ! " 
 
 ** Well, ghosts are mere bubbles," ob- 
 served Don John, repeating something that 
 he bad heard at the Polytechnic. 
 
250 BON JOHN. 
 
 ** No, sir, the man was most like a bubble 
 here," said Mrs. Clarboy, *' for he broke, and 
 never paid but two and eleven-pence in the 
 pound, whereby we got no more than that 
 for making the mourning his wife stood up- 
 right in when she cried at the ghost's 
 funeral." 
 
 Here the story ended. The young John- 
 stones pondered over it with deep interest 
 and attention, as something that would do 
 capitally to act. They were fond of play- 
 room theatricals, but thanks to the Poly- 
 technic they were, so far as ghosts went, per- 
 fectly fear-proof. 
 
 ** Oh, mother," said Lancey, when they 
 got home, *^ Mrs. Clarboy told us such a jolly 
 ghost story. Will you come into the play- 
 room to tea to-morrow and see us act it ? " 
 
 *^ You should not have asked mother in 
 that unconventional way," said Naomi, 
 *' when you know we planned to send a 
 proper note on pink paper, and paint a 
 monogram for it." 
 
DON JOHN. 251 
 
 " Oh well, I think it had better be con- 
 sidered then that I know nothing about the 
 tea at present/' said the mother. 
 
 Naomi was molHfied. 
 
 ''And, mother," said Don John, ''may we 
 have two more 'chairs for the play-room ? 
 I told you last week that we had got a 
 Fetch." 
 
 "And I did not know what you meant, 
 Don John." 
 
 " Why, mother, you must have noticed 
 that when droll or ridiculous anecdotes are 
 invented for the papers, or told in books, they 
 are often palmed off on people who had 
 nothing to do with them. Well we have 
 invented two characters. We act them. 
 And we palm off our funny things that we 
 say upon them. They are Fetches of our 
 own imagination, mother." 
 
 " What do they want with chairs, then ? " 
 
 " Now, mother, it's not fair to laugh. Why, 
 we have a seance twice a week ; we keep 
 minutes of it. Our Fetch is frequently called 
 
252 DON JOHN. 
 
 to the chair, so we want one, to pretend that 
 he is in it." 
 
 *^Ah, I see." 
 
 ^'Kobert Fetch Fetch, Esq.; that's his 
 name. We have pretended a large house for 
 him in the rectory glebe. It seems quite odd 
 to go there and find nothing in it. And 
 Fanny Fetch is his old cousin, who lives with 
 him." 
 
 ^' And you want a chair for her, too ? " 
 
 *' Oh, yes, that we may know where she is 
 sitting. Of course their chairs will not appear 
 to us to be empty. When we act them and 
 do their voices, you cannot think how real 
 they seem." 
 
 *' You'll come and hear the seance some- 
 times, won't you, mother ? " asked Naomi. 
 
 ^^ Certainly/' 
 
 *^ You'll like them much better than our 
 charades; for sometimes, you know, you think 
 those are rather long." 
 
 ** I have thought so once or twice when 
 they lasted more than an hour." 
 
DON JOHN. 253 
 
 *^ Well, it takes a long time to dress up ; 
 but mayn't we have the two chairs ? It's 
 very awkward for our Fetches to have to sit 
 upon stools." 
 
 '' You may take two chairs out of the blue 
 bedroom." 
 
 *^ Oh, thank you, mother; and you shall 
 see every bit of the ghost acted before tea," 
 cried Lancey, with effusive gratitude. 
 
 He wagged his longest finger. 
 
 *'It's a jolly one. * Uncle Jem, as you've 
 hrought me up ' — mind I'm to do the ghost, 
 Naomi. * Uncle Jem, as you've brought me 
 up,'" 
 
 Here Lancey, delighted at the prospect, 
 turned head over heels, and the young people 
 shortly departed together. 
 
254 DON JOHN. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Shortly before the boys were sent off again 
 to school, Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone went over 
 to Normandy to be present on an interesting 
 occasion. Mrs. O'Grady married again. She 
 married a somewhat impecunious mihtary 
 man, and forthwith proceeded with him to 
 India. 
 
 Her one httle girl, Charlotte by name, had 
 been brought up near Dublin, but had lately 
 come home to her mother ; her paternal 
 grandmother, who had taken charge of her, 
 having died. She was pretty, very clever, 
 very awkward, and extremely shy. Quite 
 different from most girls of her age, and 
 keenly conscious of it. 
 
 She had never been accustomed to the 
 society of boys and girls of her own age, 
 
DON JOHN-. 255 
 
 and when she heard that she was to go back 
 with her uncle and aunt, and be educated 
 with her cousins, she wept wdth shyness and 
 a sense of disadvantage. 
 
 Her behaviour when first she appeared in 
 the play-room was so stiff, her discomfort 
 was so evident, that she made the young 
 Johnstones feel almost as ill at ease as 
 herself. 
 
 As for Don John, at first he almost hated 
 her. Boys are extremely intolerant of awk- 
 wardness and causeless fear. But in a short 
 time what kindness he had in his heart was 
 touched for Charlotte, and while he scolded 
 he roughly encouraged her. 
 
 ** Now then, Charlotte, holdup your head. 
 What are you so shy about ? " 
 
 " I can't help it, indeed; it won't go off, 
 Don John." 
 
 *' Won't it? Well we can't stand this 
 much longer. Do you think it would go off 
 
 I gave you a good shaking ? " 
 
 *^No-o." 
 
266 DON JOHN. 
 
 ^* Suppose I try?" 
 
 He advanced ; they were in the garden. 
 Charlotte, taking all for sober earnest, 
 turned, and, fleet of foot as a fawn, darted 
 along the grass walk and across the first 
 field, he after her whooping, and with all 
 the Johnstones at his heels. 
 
 She reached the brook ; he was gaining on 
 her, he was close behind. She checked 
 herself for an instant on the edge, gave a 
 shriek, made a spring, and instead of clearing 
 it, splashed into its very midst. 
 
 Astonishment, and the water bubbling 
 about her, brought her instantly to a dead 
 pause. Then she heard s-houts of laughter 
 behind her. She turned cautiously round, 
 and when she saw Don John gaping at her 
 in dismay on the bank, and all the others 
 laughing, she could not help laughing too. 
 
 ** Keep as still as ever you can ! " shouted 
 Lancey, as he came up breathless. *^ Well, 
 I don't know whether this was most furikij 
 or most 'plucky I " 
 
DON JOHN. 2o7 
 
 Cliarlotte by no means wanted courage, 
 and shyness could not stand against 
 sucli an adventure as this. The water 
 was almost up to her shoulders, and it was 
 not without some difficulty, and the help 
 of the cobbler's — Mr. Salisbury's, — bench 
 that she was extricated, for she was stand- 
 ing on a little shoal, and the water was 
 deep on either side of her. 
 
 Breathless was the interest of the folk 
 from " the houses," while Charlotte, drip- 
 ping and blushing, was taken to Mrs. 
 Clarboy's house. Marjorie having rushed 
 home for the nurse, that functionary soon 
 appeared with dry clothing, and Charlotte 
 was arrayed in it. 
 
 When she appeared outside, Don John 
 met her looking very sheepish, but instead 
 of apologizing, he said bluntly, — 
 
 " You're not to do that again ; it's more 
 horrid of you even than being shy. I was 
 only in fun." 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 DON JOHN. 
 
 " I shall not do that again, unless you do 
 that again," said Charlotte, not without a 
 certain audacity ; for she was still excited 
 and her shyness for the moment was 
 gone. 
 
 She shook back her thick black hair. 
 She was a pretty little girl ; but Don John 
 cared not for her good looks, for the 
 lustre of her dark blue eyes, and the soft 
 carnation flush which had spread itself 
 over her small oval face. 
 
 " Well, let's be friends," said Don John 
 bluntly; '' you know it was hateful of you 
 to be so shy." 
 
 ''Yes," said Charlotte, '*! know it was." 
 
 " If you'll be nice to us," he continued, 
 with a sudden burst of generosity, '' I'll 
 let you write the minutes of our society, 
 and tell you all about our Fetches." 
 
 Hints of the Fetches had reached Char- 
 lotte. She was devoured with curiosity 
 about them. 
 
Dox jjjix. 259 
 
 " Come ! I don't like writing, and you 
 can write so fast." 
 
 He lield out his hand as a token of for- 
 giveness. She was the culprit, of course. 
 Charlotte looked at matters in the same 
 light. 
 
 The minutes of our societij. These were 
 fine words ; they meant the meagre and 
 badly-spelt notes, written in ruled copy- 
 books, of these children's fantastic doings. 
 
 Charlotte held out her hand, and amity 
 was proclaimed then and there. 
 
 The little girl was now at her ease with 
 this especial company, and did not know 
 that the desired state of things had not 
 come about by any resolution of her own, 
 but only through accidental circumstances. 
 
 Poor little Charlotte ! She was more 
 utterly at home and at ease than most 
 people with those whom she did fully know 
 and love ; but she had a fresh access of 
 shyness with every stranger, every visitor, 
 s 2 
 
260 DON JOHN. 
 
 and even every new housemaid tliat ap- 
 peared on the narrow scene of her life. If 
 she went to drink tea with the young Yisers, 
 she made herself ridiculous by her stammer- 
 ing and her blushes ; if a farmer's lady made 
 a polite remark on meeting her in a lane, 
 she left the Johnstones to answer it and re- 
 treated behind them, flushing furiously. 
 
 Sometimes, as time went on, and she 
 was more shy than ever, she would say it 
 was hard when her cousins laughed at her. 
 
 " Then you shouldn't write verses, Char- 
 lotte Only think of a girl of your age 
 writing verses," observed Marjorie on one 
 such occasion. 
 
 "It can't be that," answered the poor 
 little victim, drying her eyes. 
 
 " Oh yes, it is," said Don John, with 
 youthful certainty and inconsequence. 
 '' Father says it's the poetical tempera- 
 ment that makes you so shy." 
 
 " But I've tried to leave off writing my 
 
DON JOHN. 261 
 
 poetry, and it makes no difiference/' said 
 Charlotte, clioking a sob ; " I haven't writ- 
 ten any for a fortnight." 
 
 "And those verses she did for poor 
 Peterkin's epitaph were perfectly stun- 
 ning," observed Lancey. 
 
 Charlotte was consoled. 
 
 " And mother says she thinks it's ex- 
 tremely interesting to have the poetical 
 temperament," remarked Naomi, the second 
 girl. 
 
 '' So now, Charlotte, don'tbemooney; set 
 off ! — proceed ! — go it ! — and finish the 
 minutes. Don't you know that Fetch is 
 coming to tea — and mother," exclaimed 
 Don John. 
 
 Don John and Lancey were now four- 
 teen years old, Marjorie was nearly sixteen, 
 and Naomi fifteen. But the two boys were 
 quite at the head of the family — bigger, 
 stronger, cleverer, and bolder than the 
 sisters, they reigned over all, especially 
 
262 DON JOHN. 
 
 over Charlotte, though she alone had the 
 touch of genius, which guided their fancies 
 and suggested their most amusing plaj. 
 
 The boys were just come home for the 
 midsummer holidays, and had been to pay 
 a short call at the houses. 
 
 There was poor Mrs. Appleby, who was a 
 cripple, and lived with her daughter; to 
 these patient women they took some tea, and 
 a little shawl, bought with their own money. 
 Then they paid their respects to Mr. 
 Salisbury and his wife, and were astonished 
 to find the cobbler at work in his little 
 back kitchen, and the front room with a 
 new square of carpet spread over its brick 
 floor, a sofa with a soft puffy seat, some 
 new chairs, smartly covered with rep, and 
 a good-size looking-glass ; while, standing 
 on a small wicker-table, was a lady's work- 
 basket lined with quilted satin, and filled 
 with odds and ends of coloured threads. 
 
 Mrs. Salisbury answered the door when 
 
DOy JOHN. 263 
 
 they knocked. She had on a clean gown 
 and a white apron. 
 
 " Glad to see you, young ladies, and you, 
 Master Lancey, and you. Master Don John. 
 Salisbury and me we have promoted our- 
 selves into the wash' us." 
 
 Mrs. Salisbury looked a little confused. 
 
 "We've got a lodger," she continued, 
 " that is out at the present time." 
 
 " But who might be coming back," said 
 Marjorie instantly, feeling that to come in 
 might be to intrude. So the boys, having 
 been assured by Mrs. Salisbury that they 
 " were so growed as never was," proceeded 
 with their sisters and Charlotte to Mrs. 
 Clarboy's cottage. 
 
 " Fine doings, young ladies, and gentle- 
 men, at Salisbury's," exclaimed Mrs. Clar- 
 boy, when the usual greetings had been 
 exchanged. *' You've heard of the lady, 
 no doubt." 
 
 "What lady, Mrs. Clarboy ?" 
 
264 DON JOHN. 
 
 " It's a very 'sterious thing," began Miss 
 Jenny, quite solemnly. 
 
 " All ! you may say that, my pore 
 girl ! Jenny has had a shaking of the 
 nerves lately, pore thing ; but a truer 
 word she never said, Mr. Don John, than 
 that as has just passed her lips. There's 
 a lady come to lodge here ! She have our 
 front bedroom all to herself (and put in 
 the best of new furniture) ; and eight shil- 
 lings and sixpence a week paid regular 
 she has promised us for it. And she has 
 Salisbury's front room for her parlour. 
 And it's a 'sterious thing." 
 
 " She came in yesterday was a week," 
 observed Jenny. 
 
 " And," said Mrs. Clarboy, " I told her 
 truly when first she walked up to the door, 
 and asked if we had lodgings to let, ' I^o, 
 ma'am,' said I, ' not for a lady like you.' 
 ' It's not what I've been used to, I'll 
 allow,' she said, rather high, 'but I feel as 
 
DON JOHN. 265 
 
 if I should take to tliis quiet place ; and 
 I've seen the world, so I can make allow- 
 ance.' Slie was all in silks and satins, 
 and had a long gold chain, and a gold 
 watch 1 'Why, ma'am,' said I, 'just look 
 round. There's not so much as a high 
 road to look out of the window at, and see 
 the carts, and carriages, and what not 
 pass, when you're dull. A narrow field and 
 a few bramble bushes are all very well for 
 poor folks, such as we, to have for a pros- 
 pect. But you, that I make no doubt might 
 lodge in the best street of the town ! Be- 
 sides,' said I, ' we've no accommodation.' 
 She didn't seem convinced, but she went 
 on to Salisbury's, and there they said the 
 same thing." 
 
 " But I think I would rather be in these 
 houses than in the town," said Marjorie. 
 
 '' There now 1 "* cried Miss Jenny, and 
 shook her head as much as to say ' they none 
 of them have any sense these gentlefolk.' 
 
266 . DON JOHN. 
 
 A great deal of folding and measuring of 
 flounces followed ; the girls lent their aid ; 
 but when all was set in order, and the sis- 
 ters could take up their needles again, Mrs. 
 Clarboy resumed the subject so much in 
 her thoughts. 
 
 "Jenny, pore girl, has seen little of life, to 
 be sure, and her nerves are not strong, so 
 she is not to be judged (she pronounced 
 this word jedged) like other folks that 
 have had exper'ence. I went out to work 
 next day. "When I came home she said — 
 you did, didn't you, Jenny ? — she said, 
 ' Often do I pray against the fear of the 
 world, but I'm afraid the love of the world 
 and the handsome things in it has got the 
 better of me this day. Elizabeth,' she said, 
 ' the lady has been here again, and I was 
 that dazzled with her beautiful gown, made 
 of the best corded silk, and her things in 
 general (and the picture of a gentleman 
 hung round her neck) ; but though you 
 
DON JOHN. 267 
 
 bad said our place was too humble for such 
 as she, I took her upstairs wheu she told 
 me, and showed her our front bedroom.' " 
 
 " Yes, that was what I said," Miss 
 Jenny answered. " Only I didn't lay it all 
 out so straight on end as you can, sister, 
 and I went on to her, as was my duty ; I 
 said, ' It's a poor place, ma'am, for such as 
 you.' ' I think, Miss Jenny,' she says, ' if 
 you and your sister was to sleep in the 
 back room, and put some new furniture 
 in here, it would do for me very well.' " 
 
 " And here she is," said Mrs. Clarboy, 
 cutting the story short, for she observed 
 that it did not much interest her young 
 visitors. 
 
 *' But I hope it's not wronging her to 
 take the eight shillings and sixpence a 
 week," continued Miss Jenny, who for the 
 moment was irrepressible, " being as it is 
 so much more than our whole rent. And 
 it's strange and worldly to come down of a 
 
268 DON JOHN. 
 
 weekday morning as she does in a silk and 
 caslimere costume almost as good as new." 
 
 " That's nothing to us," said Mrs. Clar- 
 hoj, austerely, and the young people took 
 their leave. They could not stay to tea, 
 they said, their mother was going to drink 
 tea with them in the playroom, and they 
 must go back at once to receive her. 
 
 But Don John had spent the morning at 
 the town, and had not come home in time 
 for the early dinner ; his noontide refection 
 had been limited to two buns, he was 
 therefore about to have a '' meat tea," with 
 the addition of gooseberry pie and beer. 
 
 "You here?" exclaimed Lancey, when 
 he and Don John entered the playroom, 
 and he saw Mary and Freddy seated in a 
 corner with all humility. 
 
 " 1^0, you can't stay, you must slope ! " 
 proceeded the other young despot. " Didn't 
 we tell you, you might make the raspberry 
 wine in the nursery ? " 
 
DON JOHN. 269 
 
 ** But we don't see any fun in that." 
 
 " Oh, you don't ! Well, now, I wish you 
 would do something really useful for me." 
 
 "Yes, we will, Don John." 
 
 *' Take two or tln^ee matches out into 
 the garden, and strike a light, that you 
 may see whether the sunshine's of the 
 right sort. If it is, bring me word." 
 
 "We wanted to hear you do Sam 
 Weller." 
 
 " Don't sniff," proceeded Lancey. 
 
 " And the cake smells so good," con- 
 tinued Mary, in a piteous tone, and twink- 
 ling away a tear. 
 
 " Oh, the cake ! " exclaimed Don John. 
 "Yes, my young friends, that's fair. Now 
 then, ' share and share alike,' as the tiger 
 said to the washerwoman ; ' you shall 
 mangle the skirts and I the bodies.' " 
 
 " That's meant for Sam Weller," Lancey 
 exclaimed. " Now you've heard him ! " 
 
 " Pass a knife,' proceeded Don John. 
 
270 DON JOHN. 
 
 The little sister handed him a handsome 
 ivory paper-knife. Don John was wroth. 
 
 '' What ! mj prize — my carved knife 
 that father gave me ? Well," he con- 
 tinued, falling into thought, '* ' I don't see 
 that it can be put to a better use,' as the 
 Queen said in the kitchen at Balmoral, 
 when she stirred up the porridge with her 
 sceptre." 
 
 "And there's no other knife," said 
 Freddy humbly. 
 
 *' And," Mary put in, "we've often seen 
 you cut with this one yourself." 
 
 Don John was feeling the edge of the 
 knife. 
 
 " That's nothing," he answered uttering 
 a great truth without perceiving its impor- 
 tance, " things are perfectly different, and 
 are always reckoned so according to the 
 person who does them." 
 
 He dug the knife into the cake, and 
 carved out a handsome quarter. But just 
 
DON JOHN. 27 L 
 
 as tlie operation seemed about to terminate 
 successfully, a hard piece of citron got in 
 the way. A portentous crack was heard, 
 and the heft broke off short in his hand. 
 
 The little brother and sister seized their 
 share and immediately took themselves off. 
 Under the circumstances, how could they 
 hope to be tolerated in the playroom any 
 longer ? The company set chairs, Lancey 
 nicked out more portions of cake with his 
 pocket-knife, and then they bethought 
 themselves of ringing for what they wanted. 
 
 When Mrs. Johnstone made her appear- 
 ance, the paper-knife had been put away 
 and forgotten. Don John was pouring 
 out a glass of beer, and saying, — 
 
 " ' I like my drink frothed, and plenty of 
 it,' as the porpoise said in the storm." 
 
 Then, when the foam disappeared with 
 mortifying rapidity, he went on in more 
 natural fashion, — 
 
 " Oh, mother, don't you think father 
 
272 DON JOHN. 
 
 might let us have the beer a little less 
 jpoiverfully weak? It really reminds me 
 of the old story he told me himself, that the 
 proper way to make small beer was to tie 
 an ear of barley to a duck's tail, whip it 
 round the pond with a bunch of hops, and 
 serve out the liquor. No, mother, you are 
 to sit at the head of the table opposite to 
 me. That chair is Fetch's seat." 
 
 " Is he here ? " asked Mrs. Johnstone. 
 
 '' Not yet, mother ; he was here yester- 
 day," said Lancey, " and Fanny drove over 
 in the pony chaise to convey him home. 
 ' Oh, Eob,' she said — his Christian name 
 is Robert — (here Lancey fell into a soft, 
 foolish tone), ' I left your boots at Salis- 
 bury's to be patched. He certainly is an 
 ugly fellow ; I little expected ever to see 
 him, though I have heard of Salisbury 
 plain all my life. And I have yet to learn, 
 my dears, why they call him Salisbury 
 plain, instead of plain Salisbury.' " 
 
DON JOHN. 273 
 
 '' And then," said Charlotte, " Fetch told 
 us this anecdote, and said we were to enter 
 it on the minutes. Three men, after a hot 
 day's work in the hay-fields, got very 
 drunk ; their names were Miller, Wright, 
 and Watt. When their wives came to 
 fetch them home they had tumbled down in 
 a heap, and were fast asleep on the hay. 
 Wright's wife said, ' Wright's wrong/ 
 Miller's wife said, ' My man's so jumbled 
 up with the others, that I don't know which 
 is which,' and Watt's wife said, ' I don't 
 mind which is which, all I care for is what's 
 Watt.'" 
 
 " After that," observed Marjorie, we had 
 great fun, Lancey did Fetch, and Don John 
 was Sam Weller! He's generally Sam 
 Weller now." 
 
 " Rather ambitious," remarked Mrs, 
 Johnstone. 
 
 "Yes — we read Charlotte's epitaph on 
 poor Peterkin, and Sam Weller said, ' Yery 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 DON JOHN. 
 
 affecting, " I incline to blubber," as the 
 whale said when he was half seas over.' 
 There you see, mother laughed at that quite 
 naturally, and without trying ! " exclaimed 
 J^aomi. " I told you I was sure it was 
 funny. And then Fanny Fetch interrupted 
 — the stupid thing continually says what 
 has nothing to do with the subject. ' My 
 pretty Rob,' " Naomi simpered, " ' if you 
 were to steal a joke, would that be burglary 
 or petty larceny ? ' There ! mother 
 laughed again." 
 
 " But I wish Fetch to come," said Mrs. 
 Johnstone ; "I like him to be present." 
 
 '' We can't always make him be here," 
 Lancey explained ; '^ sometimes we have 
 nothing for him to say. But he told some 
 more anecdotes yesterday. He said a man 
 met one Mr. Tooth, and a lady supposed 
 to be his mother. The man said, ' Is that 
 your own tooth, or a false one ? ' She 
 answered, * He's both.' " 
 
DOX JOHN. 275 
 
 " If it's not a breach of confidence, I 
 should like to know who made Fetch say 
 that ? " 
 
 " Well, mother, it would be a breach of 
 confidence to tell you her name ; but per- 
 haps I may whisper to you that her initials 
 are C. O'G. Don John was so much pleased 
 with the minutes and her anecdotes, that 
 while she was writing this morning he in- 
 vented a Sam Weller for her. * You can't 
 speak to me now, I'm composiug,' as the 
 little boy said when he was making the dirt 
 pie, and sticking it round with barberries." 
 
 " Oh, here's Fetch ! " exclaimed Don 
 John, rising up and shaking hands violently 
 with nothing. " How d'ye do ? — how d'ye 
 do ? You find us in the-midst of our sim- 
 ple meal — consomme de bread and cheese, 
 seed cake au naturel, and small beer a la 
 maitre d'hotel." 
 
 Fetch was then bowed into his seat and 
 introduced to Mrs. Johnstone. 
 T 2 
 
276 DON JOHN. 
 
 '' Having had nothing to eat for some 
 hours, my friend," said Lancey, as Fetch, 
 " I think I could enjoy a shoe of that 
 cake." 
 
 " Good," said Don John, " that's quite 
 fair." 
 
 Lancey accordingly began his meal over 
 again ; but Mrs. Johnstone proposing that 
 the cake should be served all round, stopped 
 the conversation for a few minutes. 
 
 '' And now, my friends, the minutes. 
 Charlotte get out the book," said Don John, 
 as Fetch. " I wish to have placed on 
 record an anecdote of my own family that 
 I thought of last night." 
 
 Fetch spoke in a high raised voice, and 
 . Don John and Lancey produced it equally 
 well. 
 
 " But I wish you were not so proud," said 
 Charlotte, " always boasting — about some- 
 thing — I'm tired of writing down — about 
 my property — my family." 
 
DON JOHN. 277 
 
 She spoke quite sharply. 
 
 " My old clothesman — omj Tinder taker," 
 interrupted Don John. '' Yes, it's too true 
 Charlotte, I am proud ! " 
 
 " The minutes don't seem natural with 
 so many anecdotes," persisted Charlotte. 
 
 '*Well," said Lancey, as Fetch, *' but 
 what am I to say if I can think of nothing 
 else ? Don't be so peppery ! Some people 
 are never satisfied. Come ! I'll tell an 
 anecdote about that. I invented it some 
 time ago, but I never got an opportunity 
 to bring it in. There was once a Titan 
 who had the largest hand ever seen. Jupi- 
 ter proposed to give him a ring. ' I know 
 it wont be big enough,' grumbled the Titan. 
 Jupiter was determined it should. He 
 ordered it to be made as large round as the 
 earth's orbit. And yet when it was sent 
 home, the Titan declared he couldn't wear 
 it. He pretended it was too big." 
 
 " Mr. Fetch, I consider your anecdote 
 
278 DON JOHN. 
 
 very good," said Mrs. Johnstone. '' But is 
 it true that you have ever boasted of your 
 undertaker ? *' 
 
 Lancey not being ready, Marjorie 
 answered, — 
 
 "It's true, mother, that Fetch signed a 
 paper securing his funeral to a particular 
 undertaker, and he received a small sum 
 down for doing it." 
 
 "That shows Fetch's frugal mind," said 
 Don John. 
 
 " My cousin Fanny is very saving — very 
 frugal too," said Lancey, as Fetch. " In 
 fact, I often tell her she is even mean. I 
 said to her only yesterday, ' Fanny Fetch, 
 you are so selfish, that if the whole sea was 
 yours, you'd still charge twopence a bucket 
 for salt water.' Mother," continued Lancey 
 in his own character, '^the most disagree- 
 able thing about this game is that when we 
 have invented anything funny, we can't find 
 an opportunity to bring it in. I^ow, Don 
 
DON JOHN. 279 
 
 Jolin said yesterday, when Freddy was too- 
 tletooing in the garden with his fife andpre- 
 tending to drill Mary, ' I always adored the 
 military, as the young lady-elephant said 
 when she heard her lover trumpeting in the 
 rice swamp.' But you know if we were to 
 wait for a year, nothing would happen to 
 enable us to bring that in naturally." 
 
 " I am afraid, my boy, this sorrow of 
 yours is common to all wits ; yet you see 
 you have managed to bring it in ! " 
 
280 DON JOHN. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 About that lodger. 
 
 We often think we are of great import- 
 ance to certain people ; that they must be 
 thinking of ns and onr affairs, that they 
 watch our actions and shape their course 
 accordingly. In general it is not so ; we 
 are quite mistaken. 
 
 The young Johnstones and Lancey 
 never had any such ideas as regarded the 
 lodger ; never supposed that she walked up 
 and down the little path through the fields 
 between the wood that skirted their gar- 
 den and " the houses " on purpose to catch 
 a glimpse of them ; never tliought that 
 when she was not taking this monotonous 
 exercise, she was often peeping out be- 
 
DON JOHN. 281 
 
 tween the small damask curtains of lier so- 
 called parlour, whicli had been the cobbler's 
 front kitchen, in case they should pass by ; 
 never thought anything of the kind ; and 
 they too were mistaken. She thought of 
 hardly anything else but of them and 
 their doings, specially of one of them. 
 But through the bushy tangle of the wood 
 they could always see whether she was in 
 the field, and so surely as she was they 
 kept out of the way. 
 
 What a bother that lodger is, Don 
 John would say, when he would notice 
 her trailing her fine flounces among the 
 buttercups. She was far too gay to look 
 otherwise than vulgar in such a country 
 solitude, and if there was anything pa- 
 thetic in her longing to see them, and in 
 their always thwarting her, they did not 
 know it. 
 
 Sometimes, if it was hot and she was 
 tired, she would bring out a folding camp- 
 
282 DON JOHxV. 
 
 stool, and sit upon it in the shade of the 
 wood, knitting. She was come from 
 London for the sake of country air, so 
 she said. Nobody at the house thought 
 of inquiring her name, or cared at all 
 about her excepting that the young John- 
 stones wished her out of their way. 
 
 At the houses, when they begged to 
 ask what they should call her, meaning, 
 *' What is your name, ma'am ? " she an- 
 swered, — 
 
 '^ You can call me ' the lady.' " 
 
 But they did not. 
 
 They called her " the lodger." 
 
 They all knew in spite of her shining gold 
 watch and chains, and satins, and rings, 
 her handsome silks and her fastidious ways, 
 that she was not what they were pleased 
 to consider a lady, by which they meant, 
 if they had known how to use the English 
 language correctly, a gentlewoman. 
 
 Those women who have an undoubted 
 
DON JOHN. 283 
 
 right to the title of lady, and yet are 
 without that culture, that style, that con- 
 sideration which would enable them to 
 pass muster as gentlewomen, are always 
 very unpopular among the rustic poor. The 
 lodger, of course, had no right to the title 
 of lady ; and because'she wanted to pass for 
 a gentlewoman, which she was not either, 
 they gave her even less than was her due. 
 
 She was rich, free with her money, 
 not difficult to please, moderately civil 
 to her hosts ; but they rewarded all this 
 by disparaging comments. 
 
 '^ She was not a lady born, not she ! 
 She's not like Mrs. Johnstone ; but she's 
 well enough, and she pays her way. 
 
 But an important day was approaching ; 
 a friend's birthday. 
 
 The young Johnstones collected a quan- 
 tity of excellent prog, and bought several 
 presents, among others a box-iron and a 
 Brighton reading-lamp. 
 
284 DON JOHN. 
 
 The two boys were allowed to have the 
 pony-carriage and go into the town in the 
 morning to fetch home these things. 
 "We girls," said Marjorie, half enviously, 
 " are never trusted to drive by ourselves.'* 
 
 " I should think not, indeed ! " said 
 Lancey; ''girls must always be properly 
 attended," and he ran off into the wood, 
 where the good things were being collected 
 preparatory to being carried off to Mrs. 
 Olarboy's cottage. 
 
 "How good they smell," said little 
 Mary. " Chocolate — and ! toffee — and 
 tarts, and muffins ; what lots of money 
 you and Lancey have. Oh, Don John, I 
 wish I was a boy ! " 
 
 Don John as purveyor-general was look- 
 ing on. 
 
 " It's lucky," remarked Lancey, in reply, 
 " that being a girl is not infectious. If 
 I thought I should catch it of you, Mary, 
 I would never come, near you or any other 
 girl, any more." 
 
DON JOHN. 285 
 
 " Of course you wouldn't," said Mary, 
 with conviction. 
 
 " But you two little wretches are always 
 thinking about eating," said Lancey, rather 
 contemptuously. '' It makes me feel that 
 if we did our duty by you, we should not 
 think of letting you go to these tea- 
 parties. 
 
 " Oh, Lancey ! " 
 
 '' Yes, it does ; most likely you'll 
 never be allowed to go to any one but 
 this. JN'ow be off, Button-nose, and you 
 too, Freddy, and fetch the other parcels." 
 
 '' You are always hard on the kids," 
 said Don John. " I rather like to hear 
 them talk their talk, and play their little 
 rigs in holiday-time." 
 
 " But they bother one," said Lancey. 
 "And you really did encourage them 
 yesterday, till there was no bearing their 
 
 Then Don John burst forth in these 
 noticeable words, — 
 
286 DON JOHN. 
 
 '''It's always a graceful thing to un- 
 bend,' as the goldstick-in-waiting said 
 when he balanced a peppermint-drop on 
 his nose, as he stood behind the queen's 
 chair." 
 
 " Charlotte^" shouted Lancey, " here ! 
 Don John has broken out in a fresh place ; 
 come and write this down, and stick it in 
 the minutes." 
 
 " That's a good one," said Charlotte, 
 " but I don't think the goldstick does 
 stand there. 
 
 " It doesn't signify," said Don John ; 
 " every one of you now, who reads the 
 minutes, will be obliged to think of him as 
 if he did !" 
 
 " Tell us a Sam Weller, too," said But- 
 ton-nose, otherwise Mary, coming back with 
 the parcels. 
 
 " We like Sam Weller better than Fetch," 
 observed .Freddy. 
 
 " You're not to interrupt your betters 
 
DON JOHX. 287 
 
 Charlotte liasn't done writing jet. Yes, 
 I'll tell you one presently about — " 
 
 "Yes, Don John, about?'' 
 
 " About something to eat. I am happy 
 to see, Button-nose, that you can blush. 
 When I was in the town this morning, 
 and saw all the shops, the butchers', the 
 bakers', the pastry-cooks', and the rest, 
 I sighed deeply." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " And said what should we be without 
 these. Man is made of what he eats. ' This 
 is the stuff our heroes are made of,' as the 
 Prince of Wales said when he peeped into 
 the Eton boys' ' sock' shop. Fetch, who 
 was listening, burst into tears and said, 
 'Alas!'" 
 
 "Why, Don John?" 
 
 " Because he thought it was so good of 
 the Prince of Wales to take notice that 
 we are made of what we eat, and because 
 he remembered that asses are too." 
 
288 DON JOHN. 
 
 " Is ttiat all the story ? " 
 
 " It is ; now let tlie procession be 
 formed." 
 
 Don John marched first, a somewhat 
 thickset boy, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, 
 with light eyebrows and lashes, a laartial walk, 
 and a sweet-tempered expression; Lancey 
 came next. They cut across the lodger's 
 path, so that she paused and waited a 
 moment. She looked at Lancey with all 
 her eyes. He was not so big as Don John, 
 he had fine brown hair, pleasant blue eyes, 
 a general air of roguery, and an elastic 
 walk. Lancey was brandishing the box- 
 iron, and singing at the top of his voice. 
 Then came the four girls, all small for 
 their years. Charlotte very pretty, the 
 others not pretty, but sweet and rather 
 graceful ; Freddy brought up the rear. 
 
 Lancey was rather a handsome boy, the 
 lodger saw his face well for the first time, 
 and a perfectly unreasonable pang shot 
 
PON JOHN. 289 
 
 fhrough her heart as she observed the 
 utter indifference of his manner towards 
 her. How should it be otherwise. She 
 dragged herself on to Salisbury's cottage, 
 trembling; while Mrs. Clarboj shed tears 
 of pleasure, as peeping through the blinds 
 she saw her guests coming. 
 
 She only wiped them away just in time 
 to receive their congratulations. 
 
 " Well, and I'm sure I'm obliged to 
 you, young ladies and gentlemen, more than 
 I can say ; and to think of you always 
 knowing the very things I should like to 
 buy myself, if I could afford them. You'll 
 stay to tea with Jenny and me, now won't 
 you ? It's but a loaf of bread we've 
 got in the house, and a bit of butter." 
 
 Mrs. Clarboy always offered hospitality 
 in these words, and always feigned not to 
 see the parcels of eatables till they were 
 actually presented to her. 
 
 " Well, I never did ! such a noble lot of 
 VOL. I. U 
 
290 DON JOHN. 
 
 cakes, and all so good and acceptable," 
 slie exclaimed, '' on the present occasion. 
 And there now ! I priced that very box- 
 iron yesterday was a week, when Jenny and 
 I walked into the town. You bought it of 
 poor Robinson's widow, now didn't you, 
 sir ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Lancey; " she was selling 
 off." 
 
 " ' Ah,' says I to her by way of being 
 neighbourly, for I knew she was going to 
 settle, 'I hear Gupid's been at his old tricks 
 again.' ' Yes,' says she, ' I'm going to 
 marry the butcher.' " 
 
 With talk like this the time sped till the 
 cloth was laid, and all the good things were 
 set out, and then just as the tea was 
 poured out there was a light tap at the 
 door. 
 
 Mrs. Clarboy knew it well, but vexation 
 kept her silent, and Lancey jumping up 
 went and opened the door. 
 
DON JOHN. 291 
 
 The lodger ! 
 
 " I wouldn't intrude on any account," 
 said tlie lodger, a little hurriedly. " I 
 was only just going to pass upstairs to my 
 room," and she moved a few steps forward, 
 and then came to a sudden pause, and 
 turned excessively pale. 
 
 " Ma'am," exclaimed Mrs. Clarboy, 
 " don't you feel yourself well ?" 
 
 " You're all of a tremble, ma'am," said 
 Miss Jenny. 
 
 " Oh," sighed the lodger, " let me sit 
 down just for a minute." 
 
 A chair was set for her. She was a fat 
 young woman, extremely fair, and now 
 as pale as a lily. 
 
 ''If you wouldn't mind letting me sit a 
 few minutes and taking no notice of me," 
 she began. 
 
 Marjorie in the meantime brought her 
 a cup of tea, and Lancey handed her a 
 biscuit. Even Lancey noticed her face 
 u 2 
 
292 DON JOHN. 
 
 when she looked up at him, it was full of 
 entreaty, full of love. What does she 
 want? thought the boy. What a bother 
 that she should have come to spoil our fun. 
 
 She began to sip her tea, and such a 
 l:*apture of tenderness made all her nerves 
 thrill and her pulses tingle, that she quite 
 forgot to consider her position as an un- 
 bidden guest. Don John sat full in view, 
 with his side towards her. She could look 
 at him at her ease, she felt almost repelled 
 by him, a sense of conscious dishke towards 
 him, as having been the cause — innocent 
 enough, certainly — of a great deal of misery 
 to her made her shrink from his talk, 
 tremble at the sound of his laugh, and 
 feel offended and hurt when Lancey spoke 
 to him. 
 
 How familiar Lancey was with them 
 all, commanding and admonishing the 
 two little ones, making fun of the girls, 
 arguing with Don John. " And what a 
 
DON JOHN. 293 
 
 real young gentleman lie is," slie felt with 
 tender love and pride. " 1 could never 
 liave brought him up wherever I had put 
 him to school, to talk and to look like 
 that. Oh, that I should long to kiss him, 
 and mayn't ; it's hard,'* 
 
 Just as the tea-drinking was all but over, 
 one of the girls said to Mrs. Clarboy that 
 if she had done reading a certain book, 
 which she had lent to her, her mother 
 rather wanted it, and she would take it 
 home. 
 
 Then the lodger with somewhat affected 
 flurry was shocked to think that she had 
 got it. She had quite done with it. She 
 would fetch it. 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself," said Lancey. 
 *'I can go." 
 
 *' It's on the table, sir, I think, in my 
 parlour," said the lodger. 
 
 Lancey and Don John said they were 
 going down first to the brook to look 
 
294 DON JOHN; 
 
 after a liedgeliog, and after that the book 
 should be fetched. 
 
 They departed, and went whooping to 
 the brookside, their two dogs after them; 
 and the lodger, quietly rising, went out 
 the back way into the little kitchen-garden 
 and so over the little low fence, not two 
 feet high, which divided this from Salis- 
 bury's garden. 
 
 She hardly knew what she wanted to 
 do — surely not to say anything to Lancey 
 — no, she thought not. No, it could only 
 be to look at him while he was finding 
 the book. Stop ! the Salisbury's were 
 both out, but the least little noise in her 
 parlour warned her that Lancey had al- 
 ready come in. There was a minute win- 
 dow, consisting but of two small panes 
 let into the wall, between the front and 
 back room. A thin muslin curtain was 
 hanging before it. The lodger, trembling 
 with a pleased agitation, stepped ap to it, 
 
DON JOHN. 295 
 
 and througli a narrow opening in the 
 muslin looked and saw — wliat ? 
 
 At first astonishment made her incredu- 
 lous. What was he doing ? 
 
 He was standing almost with his back 
 to her, and gazing, as if fascinated, at a 
 small desk which stood on a table under 
 the window ; her keys were dangling from 
 its lock, and it seemed as if he meant to 
 open it. 
 
 No. he turned away, took the book, and 
 with a boyish whoop sped to the door, 
 then all in a moment he turned on his 
 heels and — what a sight for her ! she saw 
 him go back to the desk, — and turn the 
 key, — and lift it, — and look in. 
 
 He dropped the book on the floor, and 
 with his now disengaged hand lifted 
 a little drawer, while he held the desk 
 open with the other. There was a small 
 canvas bag in it. She saw him shut 
 the desk, saw him slip certain gold coins 
 
296 DON JOHN. 
 
 into his palm, then in one instant return 
 them to the bag which he put in his 
 pocket, and let the desk fall to. Then 
 he darted out of the house, taking the 
 book with him, and leaving the door of her 
 parlour wide open. 
 
 She stood trembling, but not now with 
 tenderness so much as with distress. 
 
 Through the open door she saw him run 
 down again to the brook; and shocked 
 and amazed, she stepped back again 
 through the garden and into Mrs. Clarboj's 
 house. 
 
 She crept in pale as a lilj, all her joy 
 and excitement over ; she sat down in her 
 former place, and scarcely heard a word 
 that passed about her. 
 
 Presently the two boys came in again, 
 Don John had a dog under each arm, 
 Lancey had the book. She looked earnestly 
 at him, as it seemed to Lancey, ap peal- 
 in gly. For a iQoment his guilty mind 
 
DON JOHN. 297 
 
 appeared to assure him that she must 
 know, and he felt ready to sink into the 
 floor with fright and shame. Oh, to have 
 the last ten minutes over again, and put 
 that money back. 
 
 But in another moment his better sense, 
 as he falsely thought, came back to him ; 
 it was quite impossible that she could 
 know. He certainly had not been one 
 minute in her room ; and he had left her 
 door wide open, so that the inhabitants of 
 six houses had easy access to it. 
 
 He was a bad boy, guilty, and utterly 
 unprincipled; but he had not done this 
 out of mere wantonness in theft and greed 
 of gold. No, Lancey knew what it was 
 now to be in bondage to a boy who had 
 found him out, and who was always 
 threatening him with betrayal. He had 
 taken ten sovereigns. To this boy two of 
 them had to go, as the price of his silence. 
 *' And if I am suspected," thought poor 
 
298 DON JOHN. 
 
 Lancey, " but it's not likely, I'll run 
 away." 
 
 As tlie young John stones and Lancey 
 retired, ttie lodger went upstairs to her 
 bedroom, threw herself on her bed, and 
 wept. She knew the door of Salisbury's 
 cottage was wide open, that he and his 
 wife were gone to the town, and were 
 not likely to be back till dusk, and she 
 knew why he, whom she called " her dear 
 boy, her only dear, her precious Lancey," 
 had left it so. He had not only taken the 
 money, but he was more than willing that 
 some innocent person should be accused of 
 the theft. 
 
 " Do they keep him so short of money, 
 that he cannot forbear to take mine," was 
 her foolish unreasonable thought. '' Oh, I 
 must, I will speak to him now. Tell him 
 I forgive him ! Tell him it shall all be his, 
 and I have plenty for us both. Oh, my 
 Lancey, you are breaking my heart ! " 
 
DON JOHN. 299 
 
 The next morning, Mrs. Jolinstone sent 
 Lancey over to tlie town on an errand. 
 What could be more opportune ? He_^ got 
 a post-office order, and sent his young 
 tyrant the two sovereigns. She had 
 given him a shilling and told him to get 
 his lunch there, for he and Don John were 
 to meet Mr. Johnstone at the station, and 
 walk over from it with him. Lancey had 
 three or four hours therefore to spare, and 
 he wandered about in the little town and 
 amused himself as well as he could. 
 
 It was market-day; Lancey, as any 
 other boy might have done, sauntered 
 about in the market, bought a few early 
 jennetings, looked at the gingerbread 
 stall, kept his dog in order, inspected 
 some young dormice, and declined to pur- 
 chase, saying that he had not enough 
 money. Nobody looking at him would 
 liave supposed that he was a boy who 
 had anything on his mind, or that lie 
 
300 DON JOHN. 
 
 dreaded the moment when he was to go 
 home and walk with his adopted father 
 through Salisbury's field. 
 
 But that time came at last; Lancey, with 
 Don John, went at the appointed time to 
 the railway- station ; Mr. Johnstone, at the 
 expected moment stepped out of a carriage, 
 and they all proceeded home through the 
 field. 
 
 And there, just as he turned towards 
 his own house, skirting the wood, the lodger 
 saw them. 
 
 He was walking with somewhat of a mar- 
 tial uprightness, coming on steadily and 
 straitforward ; Don John walked at his 
 right side, with precisely the same car- 
 riage. The two were talking together; 
 Lancey now a step or two in front, now 
 behind, meandered about them with a 
 boyish gait. 
 
 '' Who is that person ? " said Donald 
 
DON JOHN. 301 
 
 JoliTistone, when lie caught sight of the 
 trailing skirts. 
 
 '^ Oh, that's ' the lodger,' " said Lancey. 
 
 " Humph ! " said Donald Johnstone. 
 
 " Father," exclaimed Don John, '' Salis- 
 bury's house was robbed last night, did 
 you know ? — " 
 
 *' Robbed I " said Mr. Johnstone, " why 
 I should not have thought the worthy 
 soul possessed anything worth stealing." 
 
 '* No ; but it was their lodger's things 
 that were taken. It seems she left their 
 door open last night, and I think it was 
 open all night, by what I hear." 
 
 Lancey's terror was intense ; and Don 
 John spoke so coolly that it was evident 
 he had no suspicions. 
 
 " It is to be hoped she did not accuse 
 the poor honest people," said Mr. John- 
 stone. 
 
 " Oh, no. She had left the keys dangling 
 
302 DON JOHN. 
 
 in her desk ; slae felt sure, she said, that 
 nobody in the houses was dishonest." 
 
 " That's a queer story," said Donald 
 Johnstone. " Who ever passes there in 
 the night ? " and he went marching on ; 
 while she, afraid to turn too sharply out 
 of his path, lest she should attract more 
 observation, came on, hoping he would not 
 look at her. 
 
 He would not have done so, but just as 
 they met, both the boys lifted their hats. 
 He had not been aware that they had the 
 slightest acquaintance with this person. 
 He looked up with momentary keenness of 
 attention, the boys, one on each side of 
 him, went on a step or two ; he came to a 
 dead stand, and she saw in a moment that 
 he knew her. 
 
 Twelve years' foreign travel, plenty of 
 money, fashionable clothes, had not so 
 much changed Maria Jane Collingwood 
 that she could pass the scrutiny of those 
 
DON JOHN. 303 
 
 keen eyes unknown. He gave her no 
 greeting of any sort, but after liis involun- 
 tary pause went on again, and the boys 
 lingering slightly he was soon between 
 them. 
 
 END or VOL. I. 
 
LONDON ! 
 GILBEET AND RIVINGTON, PKINTERS, 
 
 ST. John's square.