A DREAMER
 
 A DREAMER 
 
 BY 
 
 KATHARINE WYLDE 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. L 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXXX 
 
 All Rights reserved
 
 v./ 
 
 PART I. 
 
 PRELIMINARY 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 For every man has a past, some knowledge of which is 
 necessary to the understanding of his present or the forecast- 
 ing of his future.
 
 A D R E A M E R. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Rev. Arthur Temple was the most pop- 
 ular pastor in one of our large manufacturing 
 towns. His hair had early turned white, but 
 his face, even when he had become elderly, 
 remained unwrlnkled and bright, lighted by 
 kind dark eyes and a beaming smile. Mr 
 Temple belonged to the Evangelical section 
 of the Church of England, but his good nature 
 and good sense had prevented him from 
 becoming an injurious persecutor, or even a 
 rigidly intolerant dogmatist. He was a suc- 
 cessful man in his own way, for he was not 
 ambitious : if his desires had ever travelled
 
 4 A DREAMER. 
 
 in the direction of bishoprics or money-bags, 
 he had long since recalled the wanderers 
 home, and he was more than content with his 
 comfortable parsonage, his crowded church, 
 and his active and useful life. He was an 
 ideal pastor, in fact : outside his home he was 
 always benevolent, cheerful, patient, and wise. 
 
 I say outside ; for within doors a shadow oc- 
 casionally settled on his smooth forehead, and 
 the smile would disappear when he was quite 
 alone or only in his wife's company. Mr and 
 Mrs Temple had a secret anxiety that was 
 never really forgotten by them in their seren- 
 est moments. 
 
 There are people who live near a burning 
 mountain, and perhaps daily expect an erup- 
 tion therefrom ; and there are others who have 
 one particular dependent or relative to whom 
 their thoughts fly instinctively the moment 
 they hear there is a calamity abroad, or that 
 a misdemeanour is committed or feared. The 
 anxiety, the bugbear, the volcano, was Philip. 
 
 This beloved son of the good clergyman and 
 his gentle wife had never met with any serious
 
 PRELIMINARY. 5 
 
 misfortune, except once pulling a gateway 
 down and crippling himself for six months ; 
 nor had he ever been guilty of any flagrant 
 iniquity beyond sowing a crop of wild oats 
 when at college, which had grown up chiefly 
 to his own hurt, and which had been quickly 
 regretted and forsaken. But he alarmed his 
 parents. They had no confidence In him ; he 
 puzzled and offended them : they never under- 
 stood what he was doing, nor guessed what he 
 would do next ; they lived in continual dread 
 that he would some day and somehow '* come 
 to a bad end." 
 
 Philip Temple was the Ugly Duckling of 
 the fairy tale, all the more trying to his parents 
 because he was the only duckling they had. 
 It by no means follows that he was a swan, or 
 even a goose. I start with no theory on that 
 point. I do not so much as observe whether 
 he was above or below the ordinary duck ; but 
 most certainly his nature was different from 
 that of his parents. Mr and Mrs Temple 
 brought up their child in the way he should 
 go, but Philip seemed born to refute the asser-
 
 6 A DREAMER. 
 
 tiou appended to the proverbial Injunction on 
 which they had based their method of educa- 
 tion. He departed very considerably from 
 that particular '' way." 
 
 Philip Temple was a martyr to theories. 
 He had theories on all subjects, which he 
 seldom condescended to explain, and which 
 were perpetually bringing him into scrapes, 
 sometimes because he carried them out, some- 
 times because he did not 
 
 A great contrast he was to his cousin and 
 contemporary, Oliver Temple, who from his 
 birth upwards had been held before him as 
 a pattern, and whom he hated accordingly. 
 Philip, conceited enough, like most young 
 persons, considered himself quite a match for 
 his cousin. His mere love of theorising 
 placed him on a higher level at once in his 
 own estimation ; and nothing was more ridicu- 
 lous, he thought, than Oliver's shallow. Inane 
 smile, when he (Philip) chanced to advert to 
 his opinions. 
 
 In those days Philip had a pompous way of 
 saying, If his conduct were discussed, " I had
 
 PRELIMINARY. 7 
 
 a reason," that was generally provocative of 
 laughter — reasonable mortals being rare, and 
 not, one would think, in the least like Philip. 
 But he went on his way without heeding the 
 laughter, which seemed to him a crackllnor of 
 thorns under a pot ; neither did he heed repri- 
 mands, nor expostulations, nor his mother's 
 tears (which flowed rather easily), nor by 
 no means unfrequent punishments during his 
 school and college days. At the same time, 
 he was strict with himself, and found his own 
 good opinion exceedingly valuable : fear of 
 seeminor inconsistent seldom held him back 
 from change of conduct, if change of opinion 
 demanded it ; and as he never explained any- 
 thing, his behaviour not unfrequently perplexed 
 those most anxious to think well of him. 
 
 Mr Temple had designed his son for his 
 own profession : the boy had abilities, and, his 
 parents had at one time believed, " signs of 
 grace ; " but he did not develop as they had 
 expected, and Mr Temple was beginning him- 
 self to have doubts about the grace, when 
 Philip, now an undergraduate at Cambridge,
 
 8 A DREAMER. 
 
 announced that he had no intention of enter- 
 ing the ministry. Mr Temple sorrowfully re- 
 quested his son to choose another profession. 
 No such easy matter this, however. 
 
 Late one Saturday evening they were sitting 
 together talking it over. Mr Temple had 
 suggested two or three courses, all of which 
 were indignantly scouted by Philip. 
 
 *' Then there is the Bar," said the clergyman, 
 yawning. He had still his sermon for the 
 morrow to revise, and was sleepy and a little 
 tired of the conversation. Philip was very 
 tired of it. He was a lean, lanky lad, with 
 dark eyes somewhat cavernous, and a brown 
 complexion. He looked preternaturally serious, 
 and was a little cross, perhaps from sharing 
 his father's tendency to slumber. 
 
 " The Bar ! '' echoed Philip ; '' ten years of 
 idleness and thirty of imposture." 
 
 " Imposture ? " 
 
 '' Lies right and left." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Well, what do you wish your- 
 self ? " (getting Irritated) — " medicine ? " 
 
 " A very indecent profession," said Philip.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 9 
 
 Mr Temple pushed back his chair wrath- 
 fully. " Really, Philip, your folly is unbear- 
 able." 
 
 " Doctors are good, useful men," said the 
 boy, " but over-wise. If I were a doctor I 
 should be desperately afraid of knowing too 
 much. Fancy an intimate acquaintance with 
 }'our neighbour's stomach, and a consciousness 
 that charming Miss de Broke's liver is at fault, 
 when other people think she has been crossed 
 in love. A doctor labours under great social 
 disadvantages.'^ 
 
 " I suppose what you really mean by social 
 disadvantaofes is loss of caste. Doctorinor is 
 not an aristocratic profession." . 
 
 '' Pooh, my dear father ! there is nothing 
 aristocratic about us ; we belong, I consider, to 
 the middle class. I like the middle class ; I 
 intend to stay in it. But nevertheless I don't 
 feel drawn to medicine. I will trouble you for 
 another suoforestion." 
 
 " You might make one yourself. Pray, 
 Phil, have you never considered the sub- 
 ject ■
 
 10 A DREAMER. 
 
 The boy shrugged his shoulders. 
 "If you chose to exert yourself," pursued 
 Mr Temple, " I believe you could secure a 
 fellowship." 
 
 '' I don't want a fellowship. I hate sine- 
 cures and idleness." 
 
 " There is no need to be idle." 
 " I should be idle. I need steady work." 
 '' You might devote yourself to science." 
 " And be a learner all my life. There is an 
 eternity about science that appals me. Be- 
 sides, I should get unspeakably tired of being 
 hemmed in by impassable facts. I want more 
 room for my genius than I can get in astro- 
 nomy or physics. Metaphysics are more in 
 my line. You can wander ingeniously into 
 Fancy there, while you say you are strictly 
 within Reason. A geologist ? No, I will 
 sooner sit down among the clouds, and call 
 myself a philosopher." 
 
 " A pretty philosopher you would make," 
 muttered Mr Temple. 
 
 '' My dear father," said Philip, with much 
 seriousness, " I wish you would not be angry
 
 PRELIMINARY. II 
 
 with me. You think I am only disputing. I 
 am really saying what I believe." 
 
 " I confess, Philip, I am vexed that after all 
 this time, and all the money spent on your 
 education, you do not yet seem capable of 
 doinof one single useful thine." 
 
 '' I hope I am capable^' said Philip, offend- 
 ed. " I suppose I could do any of the things 
 you have mentioned. I only said I did not 
 wish to." 
 
 " Then what do you wish ? You say you 
 don't want to be idle : finding objections to 
 every profession under the sun looks uncom- 
 monly like idleness. Do you want to emi- 
 grate ? or have you authorship In the back- 
 ground of your thoughts?" 
 
 " To emigrate ? Certainly not. And I 
 should not like to sell my thoughts for 
 bread." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! The question is whether 
 you have any thoughts." 
 
 " Precisely," said Philip. 
 
 " Well, I suppose the decision must be 
 postponed. It is a great mistake. A man
 
 12 A DREAMER. 
 
 should have a distinct object in view through 
 the whole of his college course, as I had." 
 
 '' My dear father, have a little patience. 
 You know I always intended to follow your 
 profession. You should feel for a fellow sud- 
 denly robbed of his object in life." 
 
 " It is a great disappointment to me, Philip." 
 
 " I know it is. I am very sorry. I am 
 disappointed myself — in a way." 
 
 " I have consented to your giving up the 
 Church," said Mr Temple, rising, and prepar- 
 ing to extinguish the lamp, '' because I feel 
 that, in your present unconverted and unbe- 
 lieving state — it gives me great pain to say 
 such things, Philip — you are not fit for it. I 
 trust you to find some other useful profession 
 to which I can consign you, not indeed with 
 the same gladness, but at least with satisfac- 
 tion." This was a well-rounded period, calcu- 
 lated to awe the provoking youth. 
 
 " It is a pity," said Philip, " to force a round 
 man into a square hole, as somebody has said. 
 The man gets squeezed, and the hole isn't 
 filled."
 
 PRELIMINARY. 1 3 
 
 " Pooh ! Who wants to force you into a 
 square hole ? Get Into a round one, for pity's 
 sake." 
 
 '' Can't find one." 
 
 " There are plenty of round holes if you 
 will only use your eyes. There is no need for 
 all this hesitation," said Mr Temple, a prac- 
 tical man, with plenty of common-sense, who 
 never hesitated about anything. 
 
 "*The time is out of joint,'" muttered 
 Philip. " ' O cursed spite, that ever I was 
 born to set it riorht ! ' " 
 
 o 
 
 *' The time out of joint, did you say ? " 
 called Mr Temple after him, as Philip moved 
 to the door ; " not a bit of it. It is you who 
 are out of joint, my dear fellow." 
 
 Philip went to his room, and sat down 
 solemnly to consider whether he were out of 
 joint or not ; also whether he could not gravi- 
 tate towards any of the professions mentioned. 
 
 " I will be a doctor," he said to himself. " I 
 will learn that strange word diagnosis ; I 
 will be patient with hypochondriacal, nervous, 
 and dyspeptic patients ; I will be sympathetic
 
 14 A DREAMER. 
 
 about a charming woman's first baby, and 
 all the troubles connected therewith, by the 
 mysterious arrangements of Providence. I 
 think I could do all that in process of time, if 
 I didn't hang myself first. By Jove, could I 
 though ? I suspect I wasn't born a doctor. 
 I am much too healthy myself" He yawned 
 and surveyed his lean nervous fingers with a 
 grim satisfaction. " Til be a lawyer, and sit 
 still in a web till a fly drops in. Then I will 
 take a great interest in dissecting the fly's 
 grievances before I devour it. That is what 
 I will do ; but I will gang my own gait a bit 
 first." He walked to the bookshelf, and, tak- 
 ing down a small volume, copied a sentence 
 into his pocket-book. 
 
 " ' O my brother ' (viz., myself), ' be not thou 
 a Quack. Die rather. It is but dying once, 
 and thou art quit of it for ever. Cursed is 
 that trade; and bears curses, thou knowest not 
 how, long ages after thou art departed, and 
 the wages thou hadst are all consumed ; nay, 
 as the ancient wise have written, — through 
 Eternity itself, and is verily marked in the
 
 PRELIMINARY. 15 
 
 Doom-book of a God.' " Philip replaced the 
 book, re-read the extract, then went back to 
 his father. Mr Temple's sermon was pushed 
 aside. He was not thinking of It ; he was 
 thinking of his son. Philip knelt down by 
 his father's side, and laid his hand in the one 
 extended to him. 
 
 " What is It, my boy ? '' said Mr Temple. 
 
 " I am come to bid you good night, father. 
 I don't like being sent to bed in disgrace." 
 
 Mr Temple smiled. He drew the boy to 
 his fatherly breast. Then he preached him a 
 sermon. 
 
 " It never enters into your head that you 
 may be wrong, I suppose ? " questioned 
 Philip. 
 
 " God's Word is never wrong," said Mr 
 Temple conclusively, laying his hand on the 
 Bible. Philip rose to his feet, chilled and 
 disappointed. 
 
 " There is no use In arguing," he said 
 gloomily, and went to bed. 
 
 Philip returned to Cambridge, the question 
 of a profession still undecided, and continued
 
 l6 A DREAMER. 
 
 to theorise and experiment upon many things 
 — not much upon prescribed study, but a good 
 deal, as I have said, on the culture of the dan- 
 gerous plant called wild oats. It was chiefly 
 a matter of experiment with him ; he did not 
 exactly know what he was about ; his prin- 
 ciples were shaken on many subjects ; he had 
 no decided aim in view ; and he was ganging 
 his own gait a bit before he began to seek for 
 a definite aim. He told himself he could and 
 would turn round the moment he wished it, 
 and he was revelling in the first sense of 
 freedom and power. In a word, he had fallen 
 a victim to what has been termed an attack of 
 moral measles. 
 
 Philip went further than he had intended, 
 of course — people who begin to run down-hill 
 generally do ; and he did a good deal of mis- 
 chief not only to himself, but to his followers. 
 He had many followers, his nature being of a 
 kind to attract or repel vigorously. The per- 
 son most harmed was one Henry Mortimer, 
 a gentle, brilliant, lovable creature, who had 
 never made a theory nor fixed a principle in
 
 PRELIMINARY. 17 
 
 his life, and who, once started on the down- 
 ward course, had no power to stop himself. 
 
 Philip left Cambridge in something very 
 much akin to disgrace, and without having 
 taken the brilliant degree expected of him. 
 He was in a secretly mortified and regretful 
 condition of mind, which gradually turned into 
 an honest though silent repentance. But his 
 parents were as much perplexed and distressed 
 by him as usual. Philip had come home with- 
 out the meekness of the returning prodigal, 
 was cold and silent, would explain nothing, 
 promise nothing. He met his father's religion 
 with a stiff incredulity, and his mother's plead- 
 ing with a frown. Suddenly, without consult- 
 ing any one, he accepted a subordinate post 
 offered to him In a Government mission to 
 Paris, and left home, greatly to the displeasure 
 of his parents, — for they thought, like many of 
 their countrymen, that everything French was 
 wrong ; and when Philip crossed the Channel, 
 they felt as If they were consigning him to 
 perdition. 
 
 Philip had lost sight of Henry Mortimer 
 VOL. I. B
 
 l8 A DREAMER. 
 
 for the time being, a coldness having sprung 
 up between them before the former left Cam- 
 bridge. Henry had suddenly assailed him 
 with bitter reproaches and accusations not 
 wholly undeserved, which had pained Philip 
 deeply. Then Henry had turned away from 
 him, and Philip had seen him no more. Mr 
 Temple wished his son to forget Henry Mor- 
 timer, and all other similar persons : Philip 
 was not apt to forget 
 
 Oliver Temple, of course, passed through 
 his university career highly creditably, and 
 took a satisfactory degree. So also did 
 Ralph Lindsay, Henry's cousin — I had al- 
 most said brother, for they had been brought 
 up together from their childhood. Ralph 
 Lindsay, whose home was a chilly one, had 
 concentrated all the affection and protectlve- 
 ness of his nature on Henry, and he mourned 
 over him now. His acquaintance with Philip 
 was slight, though they had been specially 
 commended to one another by their respec- 
 tive fathers, old friends themselves. Ralph
 
 PRELIMINARY. 19 
 
 Lindsay had avoided Philip, for the praise- 
 worthy reason that he was fascinated by 
 him. 
 
 These four contemporaries left Cambridge 
 in the course of the same year, and they all 
 started to travel through the world on dif- 
 ferent roads. Unquestionably Oliver Temple 
 made the fairest start : he was universally 
 commended ; he was clever, handsome, and 
 sufficiently rich, Henry disappeared from 
 civilised society ; '' he was following in his 
 father's footsteps," said the world. Ralph 
 Lindsay was not brilliant, nor important in 
 any way. Somewhat sadly, he acceded to his 
 father's wish for him, and went into a mer- 
 chant's office in London. 
 
 And Philip Temple ? 
 
 Well, he drew a prize in the lottery of the 
 year following. One day there came a letter 
 from him to the quiet English parsonage, 
 that took the good clergyman's breath away. 
 Philip announced that he was going to marry, 
 and that the bride-elect was Miss Mortimer,
 
 20 A DREAMER. 
 
 only child of Mr Mortimer, of Hawkton 
 Manor, close to the town where the Tem- 
 ples lived, and of Salehurst in the county of 
 Kent; who for many years had resided in 
 the French capital.
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was not in the least strange that Philip 
 Temple should fall in love with Agnes Morti- 
 mer; every second young man of her acquaint- 
 ance may be said to have done the same, 
 more or less seriously. Several had reached 
 the point of a proposal, for Miss Mortimer 
 was encouraging to young men : she was not 
 a coquette, but she took a kindly interest in 
 their ways and doings. Agnes was a grand, 
 dignified creature, whose beauty was rather 
 that of a goddess than of a nymph : such a 
 woman is sure to number among her ad- 
 mirers some very young men, for boys are 
 easily attracted by what is superior and ap- 
 parently unattainable. Your first love is very 
 often older than you are yourself; often be- 
 longs to a sphere above your own — is dropped
 
 22 A DREAMER. 
 
 from the skies, you think. When you find 
 this heavenly creature invites homage not 
 entirely transcendental in its character ; reads 
 your favourite books, sings your favourite 
 songs, shares all your " noblest aspirations " 
 and " poetic visions ; " but sheds by the light 
 of her diviner soul an ethereal glow over 
 everything, book, song, poem, thought, ay, 
 even over your foolish young self; — then 
 naturally you lose your head altogether ; 
 and deeming yourself some strangely-blessed 
 favourite of heaven, you have the presump- 
 tion to think of winning this glorious being. 
 You fling yourself, your possessions, your 
 soul and body, at her feet; and are recalled 
 to daylight and reality by a refusal — non 
 sans phrases. 
 
 Why did not Philip Temple, who was 
 young and poor and unsuccessful, and, it 
 must be confessed, somewhat disagreeable, 
 meet with this salutary rebuff from Agnes 
 Mortimer the goddess ? No one knew — un- 
 less it were that she liked him ; but as every 
 one knows, that is a very old-fashioned and
 
 PRELIMINARY. 23 
 
 unsatisfactory reason for accepting a man's 
 proposal. People began to think that this 
 unamiable, unimportant boy was the prime 
 favourite of heaven that each one of them 
 had faintly suspected he was himself. They 
 even had unjust thoughts about heaven itself: 
 if it was determined to select an unlikely 
 person, it might much better have chosen 
 nie^ who am at least handsome ; or me, who 
 am an English peer ; or me, who have 
 studied all the dead languages ; or me, who 
 have been to the Andaman Islands. It was 
 most unaccountable. That obnoxious, con- 
 ceited, cross - grained young Temple ! who 
 was only a sort of clerk ; who had not even 
 a settled profession ; whose father was only 
 a parson, and his grandfather only a stupid 
 old general, with a tumble - down old house 
 in an eastern county, which he was too poor 
 to keep in proper repair ; who had done so 
 badly at the university ; and who had such 
 a very brown complexion — most un-English ; 
 and such very unconciliatory manners — most 
 un-French.
 
 24 A DREAMER. 
 
 Mr Temple wrote to his son and expos- 
 tulated : he was too young, too unsteady, 
 too unsuitable in every way. Philip replied 
 that he was coming home for Christmas, and 
 he wished his mother to write to Agnes, in- 
 viting her to accompany him. What could 
 parents do under such circumstances ? And 
 the boy had been so wild, — if she were a 
 good girl ? if she did him good ? 
 
 But Mr Temple knew the Mortimers by 
 report, and misliked them. " Mr Mortimer 
 Is an essentially worldly man," he said ; *' and 
 his brother, that William Mortimer, father of 
 the unhappy young man Phil was connected 
 
 with at Cambridge, Is " he shook his head 
 
 significantly. 
 
 '' But, Arthur," pleaded gentle Mrs Temple, 
 ''Philip says Mr Mortimer Is not on good terms 
 with his brother. I should hope our dear boy 
 will not be mixed up with that family at all." 
 
 *' I hope not Indeed," said the clergyman. 
 " My dear," he added, presently, '' It Is best 
 to do as Phil says. Ask the young lady to 
 come and pay us a visit."
 
 PRELIMINARY. 25 
 
 Mrs Temple sighed. As yet she had rather 
 taken her boy's side against his father. Now 
 she quailed as she thought of the fashionable 
 heiress invading her quiet home. Neverthe- 
 less the invitation was written. 
 
 Did Mr Mortimer regard this young Tem- 
 ple in a favourable light ? He did not trouble 
 himself to regard him in any particular light. 
 He was a blasd, indifferent man, who con- 
 sidered life a disappointment. He was fond 
 of smoking, and spent much time in lying 
 on sofas and in collecting china. He knew 
 very little of Philip Temple : young people 
 did not interest him. Agnes was quite cold 
 and sensible enough to look after her own 
 interests. Mr Mortimer had never disputed 
 a wish of his daughter's in his life, and he 
 allowed her to take her own way now. 
 
 So they were betrothed, — Philip Temple, 
 who was nobody in particular, and had made 
 rather a mess of his life so far ; and Agnes 
 Mortimer, the beautiful, rich girl, who was as 
 old as he was himself, and who was a little 
 condescending to her young lover. Philip,
 
 26 A DREAMER. 
 
 who had always writhed under patronage 
 before, thought her perfection: he was vio- 
 lently in love with her, and he did not know 
 her very well. The young man bore his good 
 fortune with meekness enough. It did not 
 alter him materially. At this time he had 
 become very industrious and steady. Though 
 somewhat old and serious for his age, his 
 general mien was more cheerful and propitious 
 than it had been a year or two before ; his 
 eyes were less cavernous, and his smile was 
 more frequent. Agnes liked to make him 
 smile, and above all things she liked to make 
 him talk. Philip's talk was not quite the 
 same as most men's, and it amused Miss 
 Mortimer. 
 
 One day Philip, on leaving the presence of 
 his bride-elect, encountered two persons. One 
 was a shabby-looking man who stared at him 
 with considerable amusement as he closed the 
 hall -door behind him and walked along the 
 sunny street. The second was his cousin 
 Oliver, who greeted him with smiles and con- 
 gratulations, and annoyed him by the reminder
 
 PRELIMINARY. 27 
 
 that he had known Miss Mortimer for years. 
 Oliver, who always knew everything, told him 
 also the name of the shabby man who had 
 stared at him a few minutes before. 
 
 '' That is William Mortimer, the squire's 
 unfortunate brother," said Oliver. 
 
 Philip flushed suddenly, as was his wont 
 when suddenly agitated. He was thinking of 
 Henry.
 
 28 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " William Mortimer, the squire's unfortunate 
 brother/' was living in Paris just at present, 
 in rather mean lodgings over a baker's shop. 
 He knew a good deal of the ups and downs of 
 fortune; and not two months before, his habita- 
 tion had been a comparative palace. William 
 Mortimer by no means always considered it 
 necessary to take apartments proportionate in 
 grandeur to the money he had in hand ; he 
 thoroughly understood the art of living in 
 splendour and letting some one else pay for 
 his luxuries. But there were reasons why he 
 did not wish to adopt this system at present, 
 and he made a great show of humility, calling 
 attention to his poverty, and the economy 
 necessary to promote his little daughter's pro- 
 fessional education.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 29 
 
 There was no one in the world whom the 
 squire detested more than his brother. A 
 man who Hved ostensibly by painting bad 
 pictures, and really by gambling ; a man who 
 Intended his daughter to be a public singer ; 
 who wore a greasy coat, and lived over a 
 baker's shop, — was not a respectable relation, 
 and had no business to come into his pros- 
 perous brother's vicinity. Yet Mr Mortimer 
 did not completely disown him, and was even 
 outwardly civil in speaking to him. Possibly 
 it was because of some past scenes in his life 
 which he could never forget ; possibly because 
 he liked the children, — the gracious, captivat- 
 ing Henry, and the pale, pretty child, whom 
 Agnes " wished she might send to school." 
 
 This little girl — Henry's step-sister — was 
 now thirteen, but small and young for her age. 
 Her face was pale and pinched; and her sad, 
 unchlldish eyes, in which tears often stood, 
 were accustomed to rest with a bewildered, 
 questioning gaze on persons and things who 
 never answered what she souofht to know. 
 Her voice, perfect in its delicacy and musical
 
 30 A DREAMER. 
 
 ring, was mournful and weary, seldom rising 
 into vehemence without a quiver that ended 
 in a sob. She was a neglected, tired, lonely 
 child, whose guardian angel was never visible 
 to herself. As yet life had been all a puzzle 
 to her, and she had never known that uncon- 
 scious happiness which makes childhood the 
 golden age for most of us. 
 
 A gleam of brightness had, however, fallen 
 on the child's pathway since she had been in 
 Paris. She had seen her cousin Agnes twice, 
 and had fallen in love with her with all the 
 force of an impulsive nature. And again, 
 Philip Temple found her out, and took a 
 brotherly interest in her, *'for Henry's sake." 
 
 Whether the child liked him or not I cannot 
 say. She was not used to liking people ; but 
 it was wonderful to her to know any one who 
 regarded her as a little human child, and not 
 as a piece of goods being prepared for the 
 market. 
 
 '' What a naughty child you are, Griselda ! " 
 exclaimed Philip one day, in reply to certain 
 observations she had made. It was four
 
 PRELIMINARY. 3 1 
 
 o'clock on a wintry afternoon : the artist was 
 out, and Philip and the child were alone In the 
 bare uncomfortable room, In which was no con- 
 spicuous object save a piano, now open, with 
 some music on Its desk, other sheets being 
 scattered over the floor near It. The young 
 man leaned carelessly against the window, 
 playing with the blind-cord, his foot rubbing 
 his large black dog, asleep with nose stretched 
 out on his fore-paws. Philip was frowning 
 down upon the child, who stood before him, 
 her hands clasped behind her, and her head 
 thrown back that she might look up in his 
 face. She was afraid of him ; but she was 
 afraid of so many people 1 She could not 
 afford to turn from him on that account. 
 Griselda wore a shabby dark frock, and an 
 immense enveloping French pinafore of black 
 alpaca. Her neck and arms were uncovered, 
 and abundant golden hair fell back from her 
 forehead and curled loosely over her shoulders. 
 There were unshed tears In the large dark 
 eyes, and the little mouth trembled. 
 
 " Why do you say I am naughty ? " she'
 
 32 A DREAMER. 
 
 cried. '' I didn't mean any harm. I only 
 want to do what I Hke when I am grown 
 up." 
 
 "It Is not right to do what we Hke, If we 
 Hke wrong things," said PhlHp, with great 
 severity. 
 
 '' I don't Hke wronof things." 
 
 PhiHp looked very stern, and the child 
 began to cry. 
 
 " I don't always know what Is bad. How 
 can I ? Papa doesn't care whether things are 
 wrong or not, and no one teaches me, or cares 
 whether I am good or not. You shouldn't be 
 so angry. I will mind what you say, if you 
 will be kind." 
 
 Philip said nothing. The conversation was 
 a new experience to him. 
 
 *' Won't you forgive me ? " said Griselda 
 presently, creeping a little closer. 
 
 ''You haven't done me any harm." 
 
 *' But I'm very sorry. Who have I done 
 harm to?" 
 
 *' Only yourself so far." Philip's thoughts 
 had flown into regions quite beyond poor
 
 PRELIMINARY. 33 
 
 Griselda's comprehension, and he puzzled 
 her. 
 
 '* I want some one to forgive me. I won't 
 do it again ever," she said, not quite knowing 
 what she meant. 
 
 PhiHp did not reply. He was revolving 
 something in his own mind. He was young 
 and impulsive : the pendulum of his nature 
 having rebounded from the quarter to which 
 his short course of recklessness had swungr 
 him, he was now more demonstrably virtuous 
 than was exactly natural to him. 
 
 " Look here, Griselda," he said, catching 
 hold of her arm roughly, for his own strong 
 feelings made him harsh ; " when you are 
 grown up you will harm others beside yourself 
 People are bad enough ; you will take them 
 by the hand and make them worse." 
 
 " I won't make people worse." 
 
 " You will, unless you are good yourself 
 You don't know what influence women like 
 you have." 
 
 *' I mean to be very good always," cried 
 Griselda : " I have always meant that. Only 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
 K
 
 34 A DREAMER. 
 
 I can't," she added, wearily ; " I don't know 
 what Is good and what is bad, and I have no 
 one to tell me. I shan't see you and Cousin 
 Agnes much oftener. What must I do ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Philip ; " Agnes is one of the 
 women who make people better." 
 
 '' What must I do ? " said Griselda, not 
 heeding him. 
 
 Philip was silent. To be a moral teacher 
 was a new role to him, and he had a vague 
 notion that he ought to speak of religion to 
 her ; but the consciousness that he had no 
 religion to speak about checked him. Philip 
 had been brought up in an atmosphere where 
 religion was the most prominent thing, and 
 as yet he had an uncomfortable feeling that 
 morality was guilty if divorced from religion. 
 He knew his father's beliefs and phrases by 
 heart, and could have reproduced them for 
 Griselda's benefit with no difficulty. But he 
 kept silence. 
 
 " W^hy don't you tell me ? " said Griselda, 
 clenching her hands. '' You are wise and 
 good, I suppose, and know what to do. You
 
 PRELIMINARY. 35 
 
 have had people to teach you. What would 
 you do if you were a little girl, and had 
 nobody, and were always being told to do 
 wrong things, and were going to be an 
 actress ? " 
 
 " It is too hard to imagine so many things," 
 said Philip, smiling. 
 
 " Don't laugh, please. I mean it. I can't 
 think how you can laugh when I care so much. 
 What would you do ? " 
 
 '' I didn't mean to laugh, Griselda. I care 
 too, very much." 
 
 " But what would you do ? " 
 
 " You must try always to do the good things 
 you do know about," said Philip, awkwardly. 
 
 " I know that. I always do. That doesn't 
 tell me about the rest. How must I find out?" 
 
 " You might — read books," said Philip, 
 hesitating, and feeling that he was giving her 
 very meagre advice. 
 
 " But all books aren't good." 
 
 '' No." 
 
 " Then what good are books ? I might 
 read the wrong ones."
 
 36 A DREAMER. 
 
 " No," said Philip ; " if you found a book 
 was bad, you would not go on reading it." 
 
 Griselda sighed impatiently. " I think you 
 are stupid," she said. ** Don't you see, / 
 shouldnt know if a book was bad." 
 
 ** Yes, you would," answered Philip, gaining 
 more confidence ; '' and each book you read, 
 you will know better. You haven't read a 
 great many books, have you ? " 
 
 " No, only plays. Papa makes me learn 
 great pieces by heart. I am learning some 
 now,'' and she glanced at a book lying face 
 downwards on a chair ; *' and oh," she went on 
 suddenly, " it is not a good book ! I hate It ! " 
 
 Philip took it up, but the child snatched it 
 from his hands. 
 
 " I won't learn It ! " she cried. " Look here," 
 and she tore it down the back, her cheeks 
 flaming scarlet. 
 
 Philip laid his hand on her shoulder. 
 *' Won't your father be angry ? " 
 
 " I don't care. I won't learn It ! " and she 
 flung the window open and hurled the torn 
 leaves into the street. Philip watched her,
 
 PRELIMINARY. 37 
 
 till the glow had left her cheek and the fire 
 had faded from her eyes. She sat down by 
 the window, pale and quiet now. Suddenly 
 she sprang to her feet, her hands clasped and 
 her little frame trembling. '' Here he is com- 
 ing !" she cried; " what shall I do ? He will 
 be so angry ! He beat me once for spoiling 
 his books and for not learning my lessons. 
 He has often beaten me. What shall I do ?" 
 Griselda came over and looked up at Philip 
 beseechingly, laying her hand on his arm. 
 " Will you say your big dog tore it up, or 
 that it fell out of the window of itself? He 
 will be so angry ! " 
 
 Philip said nothing. He put his arm round 
 the child and drew her to him. 
 
 " You think that would be like a coward ? 
 But you don't know how angry he will be ! " 
 
 " I should speak the truth, I think, Griselda," 
 said Philip, as lightly as he could, but feeling 
 very much inclined to cry. She struggled from 
 his arms, and sat down at a little distance 
 watching him gravely. Mr Mortimer's step 
 was heard upon the stairs. " I won't let him
 
 33 A DREAMER. 
 
 beat you, Grlselda," said Philip ; '' I will give 
 you another book for him." 
 
 Mr Mortimer entered. He looked sur- 
 prised to see Philip Temple, but greeted him 
 with great cordiality. Griselda interrupted 
 vehemently. " Papa, I have thrown it away ! 
 I won't learn a word of it. It is wicked. Mr 
 Temple says so. I tore it up and threw it 
 away. There ! But he's going to give you 
 another." 
 
 *' I don't want another," said Mr Mortimer, 
 deprecatingly. '' You must learn to be quiet, 
 Griselda, and do as you are bid. I never give 
 you anything wicked to learn. Pick up your 
 music, child, and put it away tidily. You 
 came to see my picture, sir ? " 
 
 " I came to see Griselda," said Philip, 
 bluntly. 
 
 '' And very glad of a friend she is. I am 
 sorry to say I am often obliged to leave her 
 alone. Poverty is a hard master, and if we had 
 our rights, my little girl would not be eating 
 her bread without butter, while her cousin "— 
 here Mr Mortimer recollected Philip's relation
 
 PRELIMINARY. 39 
 
 to the cousin, and concluded dramatically, — 
 " but I blame no one. Doubtless all is desio^ned 
 by Providence for our good. You know the 
 door of my studio, Mr Temple, if you have 
 any commands for me," and he vanished. 
 
 " Good-bye, Griselda," said Philip ; " he will 
 not beat you this time, I think." 
 
 '' Perhaps not, " said the child, wearily. 
 " Please don't go yet. You promised I should 
 sing to you to-day. You have never heard me 
 sing." 
 
 " Well, one song, little one, if you like ; but 
 you must be quick. I can't stay long." Philip 
 took out his watch and shook his head over it 
 suggestively. 
 
 " I can sing better than I can play,'' said the 
 child ; " but I generally would rather play. If 
 I am quite alone I like singing best ; but when 
 people are listening it is too — too " 
 
 *' Personal," suggested Philip, smiling. 
 
 *' I don't know if that is it. Perhaps it is. I 
 like — I love singing to myself. Only the words 
 of nearly all songs are stupid, and put one out. 
 But I will sing you a pretty one now."
 
 40 A DREAMER. 
 
 She swept the music from the desk of the 
 piano to the ground, and perched herself on 
 the high music-stool. For a moment she sat 
 with her hands clasped and her eyes turned 
 upward. She may have been choosing a fa- 
 vourite song — checking a rising sob — invoking 
 inspiration, — anything. Philip stepped nearer. 
 He had allowed the song chiefly to please her, 
 for he really wished to be going ; but now his 
 interest rose. She struck the few notes of the 
 introduction softly, lovingly : it was a little 
 evening song, and the child was a born mu- 
 sician. Not a note jarred or startled. She 
 began to sing. Her voice was childish and 
 slender, but perfect in its way, filling the room 
 with sweetness. The full German words drop- 
 ped from her lips soft and round as pearls : — 
 
 " Ueber alien Gipfeln ist Ruh, 
 In alien Wipfeln spiirest Du, 
 Kaum einen Hauch, 
 
 Die Vogelein schweigen — schweigen im Walde. 
 Warte nur — warte nur. Balde. 
 Ruhest Du auch." 
 
 Philip was taken by surprise and bewildered.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 41 
 
 He fell Into a dream, forgetting the little mu- 
 sician till she stopped lingeringly, and then 
 wheeled round on the music-stool and looked 
 up in his face. 
 
 '' That is a very beautiful song, Griselda," 
 said Philip, collecting himself. She flushed 
 with pleasure. 
 
 " I like singing to you. You are fond of 
 music, I think. Most people say, ' How well 
 you sing ! ' or ' What a nice voice you have ! ' 
 and they don't care about the music a bit." 
 
 " Now sing to me again, Griselda." She 
 shook her head. 
 
 '* No : you looked at your watch ; you said 
 you were in a hurry ; you said, only one. 
 Where are you going ? To see Agnes ? " 
 
 '' Yes," said Philip, remembering and smiling. 
 
 The quick tears sprang to Griselda's eyes. 
 
 '* I wish I might go too. I wish Agnes 
 cared about me." 
 
 ''She does, Griselda." 
 
 " No, not like that. You and Agnes are 
 people In a different world from mine. I like 
 thinking about you," she added, enviously.
 
 42 A DREAMER. 
 
 " It is all the same world, Grlselda. When 
 we are married, Agnes and I, you shall come 
 and stay with us, and prove that we are all in 
 the same world." 
 
 *' I don't think papa will let me," she an- 
 swered, sadly. 
 
 Philip went down the stairs, the refrain of 
 the child's song ringing through his ears. At 
 the door he lingered, hearing little pattering 
 footsteps running after him. 
 
 " Please wait one minute," said Griselda. 
 " You said I must get some books. Tell me 
 some good ones." 
 
 Philip paused and looked down on the little 
 eager face, slowly recalling the conversation 
 about the books, and racking his brains to 
 think of one suitable to her. She waited with 
 the air of patient confidence that, in a child, Is 
 sometimes so embarrassing and yet so touching. 
 
 '' I can't think of anything, Grlselda," said 
 Philip, abruptly ; " you must choose for yourself. 
 Go to a good bookseller's shop." He turned 
 away, fearing she would insist ; but seeing 
 clearly enough the disappointment that spread
 
 PRELIMINARY. 43 
 
 over the pale childish face. " Thank heaven 
 I am not a curate," said Philip to himself. " I 
 am not able to give advice in the simplest 
 form. How the child puzzled me with her 
 questions ! Yet I told her right about the 
 books. She will judge better than I. Mybest 
 advisers and most sympathetic friends never 
 yet gave me a book for my edification, that I 
 saw anything in it. Next day I will avoid 
 these deep morals with her."
 
 44 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Christmas -TIME brought Philip back to his 
 English home. He found his parents still in- 
 clined to treat him as a black sheep. They took 
 great pains to be cheerful and affectionate : but 
 he detected the disguise ; mentally supplied the 
 moral to every remark addressed to him ; and 
 had a disagreeable consciousness, whenever he 
 observed them deeply engaged in conversation, 
 that he himself was the subject. The young 
 man had come home with a laudable desire to 
 please, and to prove to his parents that he had 
 turned over a new leaf. As far as action went 
 he succeeded in satisfying them well enough. 
 But he allowed himself a freedom in conver- 
 sation that distressed them exceedingly. He 
 made sallies against all his father's favourite 
 doctrines, ran full tilt against his mother's pre-
 
 PRELIMINARY. 45 
 
 judlces ; donned the oddest armour, mounted 
 the strangest Roslnantes, and proceeded, like 
 Don Quixote, to demolish windmills, and to 
 iieht for those who were well content with 
 existing arrangements. He got up arguments 
 apparently for the sole sake of arguing ; quoted 
 the most heterodox authorities, and advanced 
 the most preposterous theories. Mr Temple 
 shook his head, bewildered and impatient ; 
 Mrs Temple was thoroughly alarmed. Philip 
 had never talked so much In his life before ; 
 she began to wish he would keep silence. He 
 had a faculty for getting up a sort of spurious 
 interest in any subject: soap-bubbles; the 
 cleaning of knives ; the inhabitants of Guate- 
 mala ; the reign of reason ; the cooking of 
 herrings ; the progress of art. He would form 
 a theory in a twinkling, and proceed to draw 
 out its consequences, and the Inferences there- 
 from, in a manner that would startle you. He 
 would bewilder you with questions the most 
 simple and the most intricate, and he would 
 finally wander off Into a fairyland of fancy and 
 nonsense whither you would be hard set to
 
 46 A DREAMER. 
 
 find the way, even if you wished to follow him. 
 He was generally voted a bore, especially by 
 the person to whom his conversation was ad- 
 dressed ; but there were one or two people who 
 were tickled by his grave face, earnest manner, 
 and foolish observations. Amongst these was 
 his grandfather. General Temple, a facetious, 
 somewhat blundering old gentleman, consid- 
 ered worldly by his son and Mrs Temple. 
 He had a great fancy for Philip, who had de- 
 spised the old man in his early youth, but who, 
 since his own making of blunders had begun, 
 cherished for him a more sympathetic and 
 kindly feeling. 
 
 With the beginning of January came Agnes 
 Mortimer. Every one was charmed by her, 
 for she possessed the secret of easy and adap- 
 tive manners, taking such pains to suit herself 
 to her companions, that she never appeared 
 affected or unnatural. Philip found himself 
 quite restored to favour after Agnes had been 
 two or three days in the house ; the moon 
 receives much admiration by reason of the 
 reflected light from the sun. Mr Temple was
 
 PRELIMINARY. 47 
 
 quite ready to acquiesce when Philip suggested 
 that it was well he had not been too much hur- 
 ried in the choice of a profession. Politics 
 were the most appropriate study for a man of 
 fortune — even a man whose fortune came from 
 his wife ; though, indeed, if anything were to 
 happen poor Mr Mortimer, so that his estates 
 passed at once to his daughter and son-in-law, 
 Philip would have quite enough to do in 
 managing all that property. It was an ex- 
 ploded notion that a country gentleman need 
 be a mere fox-hunting, game -preserving do- 
 nothing. And from what he heard, he fancied 
 the Salehurst property had been much ne- 
 Q^lected. Mr Mortimer had said something 
 about letting them take up their domicile there 
 at once. 
 
 Mr Temple was of opinion that change 
 should begin very gradually : the mere pre- 
 sence of a resident landlord (or his heir) who 
 was interested in the estate would be a source 
 of benefit to the place without making any 
 revolutions. He hoped Philip would be care- 
 ful against imbibing new-fangled notions as to
 
 48 A DREAMER. 
 
 the management of property. The rising gen- 
 eration was too fond of sensationalism, and a 
 great many of those plausible theories eman- 
 ated from the Socialists and other dangerous 
 persons. Philip was preparing to rush into 
 the lists in defence of Socialism, when Mrs 
 Temple interrupted with the hope that there 
 was a good clergyman of the right school at 
 Salehurst. This made a diversion, and the 
 Socialists were forgotten. 
 
 Agnes liked these earnest family conver- 
 sations. In her chill, stately home she had 
 heard nothing of the kind. All her life she 
 had merely played at caring; and those sur- 
 rounding her, her father more especially, had 
 not even done so much in the interest of 
 enthusiasm. These people cared about every- 
 thing, from the conversion of the heathen to 
 bonnets and cardboard. Agnes was pleased 
 with Mr and Mrs Temple, and they were 
 delighted with her. 
 
 And as I hinted before, Agnes liked Philip 
 very much, and let him talk to her as much as 
 he pleased. And how Philip talked !
 
 PRELIMINARY. 49 
 
 One day — Mr Temple was busy with his 
 Sunday-school teachers, Mrs Temple was hold- 
 ing a meeting of the clothing club at the other 
 end of the parish — Agnes strolled into the 
 garden and found Philip with his coat off, dig- 
 ging up the flower-beds. 
 
 '' What's this for ? " said Agnes. 
 
 Philip paused, — not unwillingly, perhaps, for 
 it was a clay soil, and only those who have dug 
 in such, know the labour of a gardener. " Ima- 
 gine that I am Adam," said he ; " you are come 
 out to be Eve. Then it follows that this is 
 the Garden of Eden." 
 
 " Was that your idea when you began ? " 
 
 '* I have just evolved it on your arrival." 
 
 " Then what was the motive ? " 
 
 " Oh, to give Rogers a holiday. He is 
 learning Latin — would you believe it ? — and 
 wants an extra hour for his grammar. So I 
 have laid hold of the spade." 
 
 '* Rogers learning Latin seems nearly as 
 unnecessary as you digging." 
 
 " Unnecessary ? Not at all. Why shouldn't 
 he learn Latin as well as I ? Because he has 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 A DREAMER. 
 
 to dig. But if I dig, who suffers ? No 
 one." 
 
 " The garden, I should fancy. Look, you 
 have broken that carnation." 
 
 '' Oh, a dead old thing. A clod fell on it." 
 
 " It is not dead, unless you have killed it. 
 Rogers would have guided the clod better." 
 
 " Ah, well, it is because I haven't practised. 
 I shall improve as I go on ; just as Rogers 
 will improve in his declensions." 
 
 *' What is the theory ? " 
 
 '' That a man should help his fellows more, 
 and no one be tied to one thing exclusively. 
 Why shouldn't Rogers have a bit of learning ? 
 I daresay he is as much interested in Roman 
 history and geology as I am. And why 
 shouldn't I dig ? It is as good exercise as 
 walking to St Martin's Hill with a cigar in my 
 mouth." 
 
 " I thought division of labour was a first 
 principle of political economy." 
 
 *' Yes ; I divide the digging with Rogers." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You divide the digging and 
 the Latin."
 
 PRELIMINARY. 5 1 
 
 " Of course ; on the whole. But one can't 
 work all day. I don't. Why should Rogers ?" 
 
 ^' I daresay he doesn't either. He goes to 
 his club in the evenings." 
 
 " I hope so. If so, my principles are be- 
 o-inninof to work." 
 
 '* People get a great deal of harm in those 
 clubs (so your mother says). They drink, and 
 hear sedition." 
 
 '' My mother knows nothing about it. If 
 they do, what then ? It shows my principles 
 have not worked enouorh. The men haven't 
 had time to learn anything that would coun- 
 teract the drink and the sedition. Sedition ! 
 Humbug!" 
 
 '* I believe you would defend any side in 
 an argument. I daresay you would undertake 
 to prove that black was white," said Agnes, 
 laughing. 
 
 ''It might be done, no doubt. White often 
 seems black. Did you never look at the sun ? 
 It is commonly supposed to be white. But if 
 you stare up at it, you will only see a round 
 black spot." 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 A DREAMER. 
 
 *' That is an optical delusion." 
 
 " Colour is always a delusion. It does not 
 reside in the object; it is not even in your 
 eyes. It is in the very inside of you, in the 
 innermost soul of your brain. If the sun looks 
 black, it is black to you. There is no more a 
 quality of whiteness in the sun than there is of 
 brownness in this clay." 
 
 *' But if the clay is always brown, it seems 
 to me there is a distinct brownness in it." 
 
 " Not at all. You see it brown. How do 
 you know I do ? I call it brown, of course ; 
 but my brown may be your blue. You never 
 can prove that we mean the same by our 
 words. When you play the piano it strikes 
 me as a charming noise ; it may affect you as 
 a glorious smell. Everything may be topsy- 
 turvy. We may never mean the same thing 
 when we use the same words. Oh, I should 
 like to be somebody else for a while to learn 
 about that sort of thing ! To get into the very 
 innermost self of somebody for two hours — 
 to see with his eyes and hear with his ears ; 
 it would explain so many things : perhaps I
 
 PRELIMINARY. 53 
 
 should understand why some people like dan- 
 delions, and pigs, and Jews ; perhaps I should 
 understand what you see in me that is likeable. 
 Agnes, perhaps all people are really alike, — 
 think the same thoughts, like the same things ; 
 only a confusion — that of Babel, perhaps — has 
 entered into their language and senses, so that 
 they seem to be different. I have always 
 wondered, for instance, what my mother ad- 
 mires in Miss Lilias Robertson ; but if she 
 sees on her the face I see on you, it is ex- 
 plained. We both like the same thing." 
 
 Agnes laughed. " Go on.'* 
 
 " Perhaps, besides a universal similarity in 
 the groundwork of our natures, there is an 
 utter dissimilarity in our senses. What I call 
 seeing may be unknown to you, while the out- 
 side world affects you in some utterly different 
 manner, as different as hearing, but which is 
 not hearing, nor smelling, nor feeling, nor any 
 other sense of which I have any conception. 
 Perhaps no two persons have the same sense. 
 Why should they ♦have ? The Creator of the 
 world seems to have had an endless variety of
 
 54 A DREAMER. 
 
 patterns. You never saw two faces Identically 
 the same, did you ? Why should our senses, 
 our sensations, be identically the same ? " 
 
 *' But we all have two eyes, a nose, and a 
 mouth." 
 
 *' Yes ; and we all say, ' It is clear this 
 morning ; I can see far away over the sea to 
 the islands beyond.' " Philip shaded his eyes 
 as he spoke, and gazed with so much earnest- 
 ness on the garden -wall, behind which rose 
 dull streets and a flat uninteresting country, 
 that Agnes started and turned, almost fancying 
 for a minute that she could really reach the 
 ocean with her gaze. 
 
 '' You queer creature ! What next ? " 
 
 '' We shall get to another world some day, 
 and learn a new language. The confusion 
 will be gone, and we shall explain to one an- 
 other what we really meant. I will tell you 
 what I meant when I saw you — what it was 
 to me when that child Griselda sang. She 
 will say what she meant by hearing. Raphael 
 will tell us what he meant b^ seeing, and then 
 we shall understand why he painted better
 
 PRELIMINARY. 55 
 
 than Perugino. Some people's method of 
 seeing will seem hardly worth describing ; but 
 when we know what it was, we shall under- 
 stand their not caring for the Alps and the 
 curl on the edo^e of a bio- wave. We shan't 
 venture to think anybody stupid then ; we 
 shall say, ' Poor man, his sense was deficient.' " 
 
 *' Will it apply to everything ? Will wick- 
 edness be explained too ? " 
 
 '* Of course. I see that a He Is a very ugly 
 thing. You don't, we w^ill suppose. Natu- 
 rally you tell lies. I can't understand it now, 
 but you will explain it all then. The origin of 
 evil won't puzzle us then, for we shall see 
 there was no such thing." 
 
 '' I suspect there is a flaw in the argument 
 there." 
 
 *' We are not arguing ; we are only saying 
 * Perhaps.' When the apostles spoke with 
 other tongues — I don't believe they did, not 
 for a moment ; but they may have done it for 
 all that — perhaps then they were talking this 
 new language. Nobody understood them, for 
 it was before the time. They scarcely under-
 
 56 A DREAMER. 
 
 Stood themselves. They couldn't explain it — 
 they could only speak of It vaguely : ' Other 
 tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance.' 
 Paul knew something about it when he was 
 caught up into the third heaven, and heard 
 unspeakable things not lawful for a man to 
 utter, — whether in the body or out of the body, 
 he could not tell. We have all had visions of 
 it, in vague Intangible moments, gone before 
 we could catch them, and leaving not a trace 
 behind." 
 
 " I wonder how much you believe of all 
 this." 
 
 '' Believe ! Nothing. It is a speculation, 
 a fancy intangible as the premonitions of the 
 new language. Go away, if you please, and 
 leave me to my digging. Rogers ought to be 
 back, but I am afraid he is finishing his Latin 
 in the public-house. He has some traditions 
 of the old school clinging about him still/'
 
 57 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ppiilip was passing through London on his 
 way back to Paris. Walking along a quiet 
 street, he was followed by two persons whose 
 pace corresponded to his own, and whose con- 
 versation he could not avoid hearing. The 
 subject of their talk was familiar to him, and 
 presently he recognised the voice of the more 
 silent of the two. It was Ralph Lindsay. 
 Philip's first impulse was to quicken his steps 
 and avoid his old acquaintance, for he neither 
 knew the young man well nor cared much 
 about him. He had a vague notion that 
 Ralph was an Oliver less strongly dyed — 
 another model of sense and behaviour, less 
 obnoxious, because more stupid. But the 
 conversation was of Henry Mortimer : the 
 man with the unfamiliar voice seemed anxious
 
 58 A DREAMER. 
 
 to do him a favour of some sort, and wanted 
 to find him. Ralph did not appear to know 
 where he was ; and PhiHp, who had acciden- 
 tally become possessed of the desired informa- 
 tion, thought he saw the opportunity for doing 
 his old companion a good turn — for Philip had 
 heard nothing of Henry for a long time, and 
 had no idea that he was " wanted " on a charge 
 of forgery. Last night, however, they had 
 met in a back street in Clerkenwell, whither 
 Philip had wandered on an impracticable 
 errand, in its nature half charitable and half 
 inquisitive. London is said to be your best 
 place if you want to hide; and Henry had 
 taken pains to disguise himself But his was 
 a face and figure not easily disguised, and 
 Philip recognised him. Henry did not seem 
 anxious to talk. On being taxed with his 
 appearance, he said something about a bet; 
 and then, hastily scribbling an address on a 
 scrap of paper, he thrust it into Philip's hand, 
 saying, " Look me up there to-morrow even- 
 ing between eleven and twelve, and bring me 
 ^5, if you have it to spare, like a good fellow."
 
 PRELIMINARY. ' 59 
 
 He vanished, not waiting for Philip's ex- 
 planation that he would be on board the 
 Calais boat to - morrow at eleven o'clock. 
 Henry's disreputable appearance had raised 
 feelings of vexation as well as curiosity in 
 Philip's mind. He felt ashamed of his old 
 companion, and not particularly anxious to see 
 him again just at present. But by degrees a 
 sense of pity rose in his heart, and he began 
 to be sorry that he must needs disappoint 
 him. 
 
 "He looked awfully seedy," said Philip to 
 himself next day, thinking of his own respect- 
 able appearance, and feeling half jealous of 
 himself for Henry's sake; ** and he is her 
 cousin, too. I don't agree with her that we 
 are to cast them all off as much as possible. 
 Henry belongs to me somehow, I think. I 
 must write to him. Wish I could have 
 manao^ed to meet him to-nlo^ht." 
 
 So Philip reflected ; and half an hour after- 
 wards he met Ralph Lindsay and his unknown 
 companion. He stopped and accosted them. 
 
 Henry's wild, hungry eyes had been haunt-
 
 6o A DREAMER. 
 
 ing Philip all the morning ; and now here were 
 hungry eyes again — yearning, sorrowful eyes, 
 full of grief and apprehension. Philip had 
 never marked Ralph's face much before. It 
 was an ordinary face enough, with features of 
 no particular type, and a brow not especially 
 intellectual or lofty, but candid and trust- 
 inspiring; a mouth that spoke of gentleness 
 and steadfastness, and then — grey, hungry 
 eyes. 
 
 Perhaps Philip was more susceptible to in- 
 definable impressions than are most men. As 
 he took Ralph's hand and met the look in his 
 eyes, he felt a thrill run through his frame, 
 that made Ralph a person of importance in 
 his sight from henceforth. So far he had 
 despised him. He had stopped him now 
 with the half-formed intention of using him 
 to settle that matter of his with Henry. But 
 the yearning eyes altered his tone of thought 
 at once, and he stood before Ralph silent and 
 ashamed. He felt guilty before him ; he felt 
 that he owed him a debt which perhaps he 
 could never repay; he felt that, in some in-
 
 PRELIMINARY. 6l 
 
 explicable manner, his lot was mingled with 
 Ralph's, and that Ralph had the right to the 
 highest place. It was all a dim, undefined, 
 incomprehensible sensation or revelation, but 
 it robbed him of speech ; and he stood before 
 Ralph holding his hand forgetfully, with his 
 eyes cast down, and an unwonted flush on his 
 brown and healthy cheek. 
 
 Ralph, too, was silent. His thoughts were 
 far other than Philip's. He was not thinking 
 of him in connection with himself, but in con- 
 nection with Henry. He had no idea how 
 much Philip knew, nor how much he cared. 
 His one desire was to keep him and the man 
 beside him apart. A short conversation fol- 
 lowed, of the vague sort that people hold when 
 their thoughts are far away, and then they 
 parted. Thinking it over afterwards In the 
 light of subsequent events, neither Philip nor 
 Ralph could remember what had been said, 
 nor whether the third man had contributed 
 aught to the few disjointed sentences. Philip 
 went on his way, haunted by two wild blue 
 eyes that had once been his delight for the
 
 62 A DREAMER. 
 
 Ideal youth and beauty that had shone from 
 them ; and by a yearning grey pair that spoke 
 to him with an appealingness still more ter- 
 rible, because he did not so well understand 
 their language. 
 
 Steps followed him rapidly, and presently 
 he was stopped by the stranger. He slowly 
 brought back his thoughts to the actual from 
 the dreaming, spirit-haunted world Into which 
 they had wandered. 
 
 " You don't remember me, Mr Temple ? '' 
 
 ^* No," said Philip, abstractedly; ''I don't." 
 
 ''I had the ferry at Black's Bend — I and 
 old Mr Jenkins." 
 
 " Ah yes. I remember Jenkins. You were 
 his partner then, I suppose ; a mysterious 
 personage we never saw — supposed to be a 
 myth." 
 
 The man laughed. '' Not much of a myth. 
 I remember you young gentlemen well enough, 
 and the larks you kept up. Mr Lindsay, now 
 — he was one of the quiet ones." 
 
 ^'Well?" 
 
 " And you and Mr Mortimer wasn't so
 
 PRELIMINARY. 63 
 
 quiet as some — eh, sir ? I wonder now if you 
 can tell me where Mr Mortimer is. I've a 
 fancy to see him. He lent me some money 
 once, he did, and I've heard say he isn't so 
 flush now as he might be ; and though he 
 said he never wished to hear more of it, 
 I'd be glad to get the debt off my mind. 
 A pleasant-spoken young gentleman was Mr 
 Mortimer." 
 
 Philip stopped in his walk, and leaning 
 back against the railings at the side of the 
 pavement, surveyed his companion. He be- 
 gan to recollect him now — a dumpy, respect- 
 able man, apt to make himself useful about 
 the boats. Philip had been great on the 
 river in his Cambridge days. This man was 
 the very person he wanted, to meet Henry 
 for him to - night, and convey a message to 
 him. 
 
 '' Do you know what Mr Mortimer is doing 
 now ? " said Philip, to gain a little time for 
 thought. 
 
 " Well, sir, I know this much, that Mr 
 Mortimer hasn't — well, as good a coat to
 
 64 A DREAMER. 
 
 his back as you have. Td help him If I 
 could. He did me more than one good turn 
 In his day, sir, and maybe It's my day now. 
 I had a tidy bit of fortune left me lately by 
 my brother In New Zealand, and old Jenkins 
 Is dead and has left me the business. It's a 
 good business In Its way." The man looked 
 very respectable as he spoke, and fingered 
 his new chimney-pot hat with conscious satis- 
 faction. 
 
 *' Well, look here," said Philip, presently ; 
 " Mr Mortimer asked me to meet him to- 
 night, and I find I can't possibly do any- 
 thing of the kind. I shall be greatly ob- 
 liged If you can see him for me, and explain 
 to him that I'm off to Paris at seven o'clock. 
 Will you give him this five-pound note from 
 me, and tell him I am going to write to 
 him at once, sending him some more money 
 — I — owe him ? " said Philip, awkwardly. 
 *' Here's the address he gave me, and he 
 suggested eleven o'clock to - night. I have 
 written my direction on the back : you may 
 as well give It to him."
 
 PRELIMINARY. 6$ 
 
 " Very good, sir ; you may be sure I'll give 
 it him right. I'll write and let you know if I 
 see him. Good day, sir." 
 
 The man disappeared rapidly. " That's a 
 lucky meeting," said Philip to himself, and 
 thought of Henry more comfortably. 
 
 That night Henry Mortimer was arrested at 
 half-past eleven o'clock. The story of Philip's 
 interview with Mr Jenkins's partner reached 
 him with Philip's bank-note honestly delivered. 
 *' Traitor ! " he exclaimed ; and Ralph, hearing 
 the story later, echoed the word. Philip was 
 serenely unconscious — on board the Calais 
 packet. 
 
 Agnes had not yet returned to Paris, and 
 her young lover felt the bright city desolate 
 without her. Letters are a poor substitute for 
 a voice and a presence. Philip was lonely, 
 and for some unknown reason sad. Henry 
 and Ralph haunted him in his dreams, and 
 at times he felt an achlnof sense of dissatis- 
 faction, whether with the present or the future 
 he could not tell. There was a tendency to 
 morbidness in Philip's nature, enough to have 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 A DREAMER. 
 
 made him careful had he suspected Its pres- 
 ence ; but morbidness is not easily distinguish- 
 able from sensitiveness, — a good quality in 
 human nature, and one not to be lightly 
 checked. 
 
 One day Philip, wandering aimlessly through 
 the streets, remembered little Griselda, and 
 made his way to her lonely dwelling. The 
 child sprang to meet him. 
 
 "I've bought some books," said she, proudly. 
 " Will these do ? I got so puzzled in the shop, 
 because the man seemed in a great hurry, and 
 I had no idea what I wanted." 
 
 Philip turned them over, amused at the col- 
 lection. There was a German translation of 
 Plato's ' Republic ; ' a volume of the * Specta- 
 tor ; ' Murray's ' Grammar ; ' Schiller's ' Thirty 
 Years' War;' and a treatise on Communism 
 by a French theorist. 
 
 " Are they nice ? " said Griselda. " Will 
 they do ? " 
 
 ''Yes, I suppose so," said Philip, slowly. 
 " Are they a litde dry, do you think ? " and 
 he produced, not without a certain feeling of
 
 PRELIMINARY. 6y 
 
 shame, a volume of fairy tales he had pur- 
 chased for her on his way. 
 
 " I like this sort of book," said Griselda, 
 when he had made her understand that it was 
 a present, and she had nearly cried with pleas- 
 ure : ** I might have bought one in the shop, 
 but I thought it wouldn't be instructive." 
 
 " Instructive, you little goose ! The best 
 way of instructing yourself is by reading what- 
 ever you like best." 
 
 Griselda gazed at him with widely-opened 
 eyes. At last she shook her head. '' That 
 isn't what you said before at all," she ob- 
 served, gravely. 
 
 " It is quite sensible though," said Philip. 
 " If I didn't say it before, it was because I was 
 trying to do you good — a great mistake on 
 my part. Now I am going to say what I 
 think, without minding if I do you good or 
 not. One never learns anything by being 
 done good to, or by trying to do good to 
 one's self. One must be thoroughly natural, 
 and do whatever one likes best ; unless one 
 likes something evidently wrong. Don't look
 
 6S A DREAMER. 
 
 at me like that, child, as if I were the Pope, 
 and must speak the truth ; " for the great eyes 
 were fixed on him again with their question- 
 ing, confiding gaze. Griselda sat down quietly. 
 
 " I think you are a very odd person," she 
 said, " and I don't believe you mean what you 
 say." Philip laughed. 
 
 *' Yes I do, Griselda ; but it would take too 
 long to explain it to you. You mustn't want 
 me to instruct you. I am not at all suitable 
 for a teacher." 
 
 " But I must ask you things. There is no 
 one else. Don't you ever get eaten up by a 
 question ? " 
 
 *' No ; yes, — I don't know. You ask such 
 puzzling questions, Griselda. Now let us talk 
 of something else." 
 
 Griselda was ready to talk about anything. 
 
 " Do you know, I think you are something 
 like Henry," said Philip to her, as he was 
 going away. 
 
 " Am I ? But he has beautiful blue eyes, 
 not at all like mine. Are you very fond of 
 Henry, Mr Temple?"
 
 PRELIMINARY. 69 
 
 - Very. Why ? " 
 
 " I don't know if I ought to tell you ; you 
 might not like it." 
 
 " Yes, Griselda, tell me," said Philip, smiling. 
 
 " Because he is not fond of you. He said 
 once he wished he had never seen you. I 
 wondered why, but he would not say. Will 
 you tell me ? " 
 
 " Not to-day, Griselda. I must say good- 
 bye now," said Philip, feeling as if he had 
 received a slap in the face from the little 
 child before him. 
 
 " Are you angry with me for having told 
 you r 
 
 " No, not at all. Let me go, Griselda. I 
 am in a hurry. I will tell you more another 
 time, perhaps. Good-bye, you little thing ! " 
 
 It was a disagreeable impression to receive 
 at parting : the old affection for Henry had 
 revived in Philip's heart. 
 
 The weeks passed on. Agnes was home 
 again, and Mr Mortimer and his little girl 
 were preparing to leave Paris. The day be- 
 fore their departure, Agnes sent for her little
 
 70 A DREAMER. 
 
 cousin, to bid her good-bye. Griselda was 
 very quiet and sad. She did not talk much, 
 but sat on a low stool gazing up Into Agnes 's 
 beautiful face, and occasionally turning her 
 head to look at Philip, and smile when he 
 tried to amuse her. Then she went away, 
 vanishing out of their presence and their 
 thoughts — a poor, little, pretty child, so pen- 
 sive and lonely ! but out of their reach for 
 the present, living a life they could not touch. 
 Very likely they might not see her again : 
 they were going away from her, on another 
 and a smoother pathway through the wide, 
 desolate world. 
 
 Philip was sorry for her. Agnes cared little 
 after the child was out of her sight. 
 
 But Philip had not yet quite parted from 
 Griselda. It was getting late that evening, 
 and he was sitting in his own bachelor apart- 
 ments busy with his work, when a servant 
 came In, saying that a little girl wanted to see 
 him. There was a momentary feeling of 
 annoyance on Philip's part, and he received 
 Griselda kindly but coldly. The child felt
 
 PRELIMINARY. 7I 
 
 this, and the pain on her Httle face deepened. 
 She sat down, saying nothing, with tears roll- 
 ing silently down her cheeks. 
 
 '' What is it, little one ?" said Philip, touched, 
 and coming over to her side that he might 
 play with her long curls. 
 
 She looked up, all her confidence returning. 
 
 " I am come to tell you something," she 
 said. " I knew you would care. It is so 
 dreadful to be with people who don't care. 
 Henry is in prison in England." 
 
 Philip did not speak : he remained standing 
 looking down upon her, the curl still in his 
 hand. 
 
 '' You will find all about it there," continued 
 Griselda, holding out a piece of an English 
 newspaper ; " and papa had a letter besides. 
 Papa is so terribly angry. Wq are going 
 away to-morrow, and I suppose we can't do 
 anything. I came to ask if you could do 
 something. Can you get him out ? " 
 
 *' No, Griselda," said Philip, in a low voice : 
 " when people are put in prison, they can't 
 be got out. They must stay their time.
 
 72 A DREAMER. 
 
 What is it for ? Perhaps Henry did not 
 do it." 
 
 '' I don't quite know what it is. Forgery, 
 the paper says. What does it mean ? " 
 
 '' That is steaHng, Griselda. Henry could 
 not have done that." 
 
 " Ah, but he says he did. He doesn't seem 
 to be sorry. Don't you think it is very dread- 
 ful ? Papa is very angry. He says Henry 
 might have * managed better.' He does not 
 care about his doing wrong a bit. Oh, I wish 
 somebody cared besides me ! " 
 
 " I daresay Henry does care really, Griselda. 
 Let me read this." The date of the young 
 man's arrest brought a sickening sense of 
 explanation : Henry's disguise; Ralph's anxiety; 
 the curiosity of. the man, Mr Jenkins's partner. 
 Philip crushed the paper in his hand, and 
 stood looking at Griselda. She was standing 
 too, looking up at him. It was piteous to see 
 the weight of sorrow on the childish, delicate 
 face ; but Philip was not heeding Griselda then. 
 
 *' I knew you would care," said the child, 
 at length ; '' not only because they have put
 
 PRELIMINARY. 73 
 
 him in prison. But can't anything be done 
 to make papa less angry ? He says he will 
 never speak to Henry again, and that he might 
 have managed better," she repeated, with in- 
 dignant scorn ; " as if that was the part to mind 
 about ! But oh," she added, the tears com- 
 ing again, " it is too sad to think of him in 
 prison ! Can't anything be done ?" 
 
 ** No, Griselda. I am afraid not ; now. I 
 will help him when he comes out." 
 
 '* Thank you," she said. " I knew you 
 would care. I must go back now. I came 
 out without leave, and papa will be angry about 
 that too." 
 
 Philip walked home with her. The young 
 man and the little girl passed through the 
 streets silently, till they had reached the dingy 
 baker's shop. Then Philip lifted her and 
 kissed her forehead. *' I will take care of him, 
 Griselda," he said ; " I will set him all right 
 when he comes out." 
 
 Philip's first impulse was to go to Agnes, 
 and talk it over with her; but he checked him- 
 self. He could not talk about it. It was too
 
 74 A DREAMER. 
 
 keen a sorrow for himself: no one could un- 
 derstand, not even Agnes. Perhaps she knew 
 it already, and had not told him. Henry was 
 her cousin ; but nothing to her, and Philip 
 could not expect her to sympathise in the pain 
 that was tearing his own heartstrings. Yet he 
 would have liked to be with her, to feel her 
 pressing his hands, if she would have asked 
 no questions. That sort of comforting seemed 
 too much to expect in this garrulous world, 
 and the pain of explaining was worse than the 
 pain of solitude. He could not explain to her 
 why he felt himself a partner in Henry's 
 crime and punishment. He could hardly 
 explain it to himself
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mr Mortimer had been ailing since A^nes's 
 return from England : his illness suddenly 
 became serious, and the doctors gave no hope 
 of his recovery. Philip Temple, himself in 
 low spirits, felt quite in sympathy with the 
 quiet sadness of his betrothed at this time. 
 He delighted in seeing her by her father's 
 couch, composed and gentle, thoughtful and 
 judicious. Philip had no particular affection 
 for Mr Mortimer ; and it did not occur to him 
 that a little less composure, a little more evi- 
 dence of sorrow, might have been natural in 
 a daughter. He never suspected that indiffer- 
 ence might be the cause of her quietness. As 
 I say, Philip did not know Agnes very well : 
 she was hidden in a veil of idealism he had 
 thrown over her, and many of the qualities he
 
 76 A DREAMER. 
 
 thought he saw In her, existed only in himself. 
 Indifference was a quality of which Philip 
 had no experience, and he naturally failed to 
 imagine Its existence in Agnes. He thought 
 her general silence was reserve — a thing he 
 knew well ; and he supposed her compo- 
 sure to come from self-control — a quality he 
 admired greatly. Agnes saw his delusions, 
 and smiled to herself; but she was well pleased 
 that he should keep them. In so far as Agnes 
 liked any one, she liked this earnest young 
 man, whose eyes flashed and sparkled, even 
 when his lips were firmly closed — whose warm 
 young hand, with its strong rapid pulse, was 
 a contrast to her own cool stately one enclosed 
 by it. 
 
 Of late Mr Mortimer had conceived a liking 
 for Philip. He was not satisfied without a 
 visit from him every day. His eyes were 
 used to rest on him with satisfaction and con- 
 fidence, and often it seemed on his tongue to 
 say something of more importance than the 
 daily chit-chat which Philip fancied was all 
 they could have In common. At length his
 
 PRELIMINARY. 77 
 
 Strength seemed fairly exhausted, and the doc- 
 tors talked of hours instead of days. 
 
 It was three o'clock, and Agnes sat alone 
 by her father's side. He had spoken long and 
 earnestly to her that day. 
 
 " You will do it, Agnes ? Remember it is 
 my last dying wish. I slighted my father's 
 dying wish, and it has thrown a curse over 
 my life. If I had a week more — two days 
 of health — I would do it myself It is im- 
 possible. I have delayed too long. I can 
 but leave it to you." 
 
 " Yes, father," said Agnes, in her clear, 
 measured voice. 
 
 *' You promise me ? " he insisted, as if he 
 scarcely trusted her. " You will see that 
 justice is done ? " 
 . " Yes," repeated Agnes. 
 
 *' Take a pen and write down what I have 
 told you." 
 
 " I know all you said." 
 
 " Write it down, Agnes : then there can be 
 no mistake. Now, child — now. Write it in 
 my name, and I will sign it."
 
 JS A DREAMER. 
 
 Agnes wrote silently. 
 
 " Let me see, Agnes. Yes, that will do. 
 Put at the end, ' I wish It found and acted 
 upon at once.' Then I will sign It." 
 
 Agnes obeyed unwillingly. 
 
 '' Where Is young Temple } I wish to see 
 him about It. Have you sent for him, Agnes ?" 
 
 '' Philip may feel himself aggrieved, papa. 
 You had better let me explain it to him 
 quietly." 
 
 *' Nonsense ! Send for him at once. I am 
 pretty sure what his feeling will be." 
 
 '' It will not be so easily done as you think." 
 
 " Found, do you mean ? Easily done ? 
 When I have told you all ? " 
 
 *' No ; I do not mean the finding. I mean 
 the obeying." 
 
 " Temple will manage It. It Is a work that 
 will just suit him. If he swears at me, I can't 
 help It. A lifelong misery Is worse than any 
 amount of abuse. If you saw things as I do, 
 Agnes, you would wish to be spared what I 
 have suffered. There has been a curse on us 
 all," he said again.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 79 
 
 " I do not see it, father. They have pros- 
 pered less than we." 
 
 The dying man started up. " But you will 
 do it, Agnes ? You have promised, have you 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Where is Tempje ? Why is he not here?" 
 
 '' He will come this evening as usual." 
 
 "It may be too late, Agnes. Send for 
 him." 
 
 She left the room, seemingly to obey ; but 
 Philip did not come before the evening. Mr 
 Mortimer was sinking fast, — almost too ill to 
 speak. He pressed Philip's hand with fever- 
 ish energy. 
 
 " Why are you so late ? " he whispered. 
 
 Philip glanced at the clock ; it was ten 
 minutes sooner than the time when he usually 
 joined them. He turned to Agnes, but read 
 nothing in her face. " I am sorry I did not 
 hurry more," he said, apologetically. 
 
 " You will do it ? " said Mr Mortimer, after 
 several minutes, during which he had found no 
 voice.
 
 8o A DREAMER. 
 
 '' Surely," said Philip, startled ; " tell me." 
 
 ** Agnes knows. She has promised. Show 
 him — the paper." 
 
 " Yes, papa, later. Do not trouble yourself. 
 You may trust us." Philip looked at her in- 
 quiringly. *' I will tell you afterwards," she 
 whispered. 
 
 Mr Mortimer closed his eyes. He did not 
 speak again, but several hours passed before 
 he breathed his last. Just before he died 
 he turned his head again to look at his 
 daughter, as if to recall his last wish to her 
 mind, and Agnes smiled reassuringly. 
 
 Philip led his betrothed into another room 
 and clasped her in his arms. She wept. 
 Philip had expected to see her weep, and 
 tears from his own eyes fell on her dark, 
 bowed head. He liked to feel her leaning 
 upon him ; his arm supported her with re- 
 newed tenderness and dignity. While his 
 tears fell with a boyish abandon, he felt him- 
 self more of a man than he had done before. 
 Life would be no playtime of experiment and 
 dilettanteism in future.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 8l 
 
 " Tell me, dearest," said Philip, presently, 
 "what did he speak of? What is the wish 
 he has intrusted to us to carry out ? " 
 
 " It is nothing difficult, Philip. Some money 
 he wished given to poor Henry, that my 
 uncle asked for urgently. It seems almost 
 throwing money away giving it to Henry; but, 
 of course, we must attend to papa's wish. 
 Three or four days ago he wrote down for 
 me the sum he wished Henry to have. He 
 spoke particularly about it, because it is not 
 in his will." 
 
 " Yes, that will be easily settled. There is 
 a great deal before us, Agnes," said Philip, 
 meditatively. 
 
 *' I am so thankful to have you to help In It 
 all," said Agnes, clinging to him, for indeed 
 she felt the need of Philip's help In what was 
 coming. She had put him off for the present, 
 but had by no means resolved that she would 
 not speak more frankly later. It was not a 
 thing to be told In a hurry. 
 
 '* You will rest now, dearest," said Philip ; 
 *' you need rest." 
 
 VOL. I. r
 
 82 A DREAMER. 
 
 But when Philip was gone and Agnes had 
 shut herself into the solitude of her own room, 
 it was not of rest that she thought. She threw 
 off the mask she had worn for several hours, 
 and abandoned herself to the struggle that had 
 to be faced before she next saw her lover. 
 She was in a state of painful uncertainty that 
 made her regret each thing she had done, and 
 yet acknowledge that she had acted wisely. 
 Agnes was not disposed to analyse her con- 
 duct and her motives. Truthful analysis causes 
 unpleasant discoveries sometimes, and we do 
 not like giving ugly names to our own actions 
 and wishes. Agnes Mortimer was convinced 
 that she was a very prudent, well-intentioned 
 woman : she did not care to probe this convic- 
 tion with a view to finding unsoundness in it. 
 
 The following day found her still undecided, 
 but the balance of her thoughts inclined to 
 silence. Philip did not refer to her father's 
 words again, and several days passed with 
 no more on Agnes's part. To speak would be 
 trebly difficult now. Yet one day she began 
 to pave the way to do so if it should seem
 
 PRELIMINARY. S^ 
 
 desirable. The first step was to see some- 
 thino^ of the effect such a revelation miorht 
 have on Philip. 
 
 *' Do you know," said Agnes, while her 
 heart beat fast with unnecessary apprehen- 
 sion, "that Henry is in prison on a charge 
 of fraud ? " 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, I know," said Philip. This 
 subject had been untouched between them 
 as yet. 
 
 " You will not thank me for bringing you 
 such disreputable relations," said Agnes. 
 
 "He belongs to me m.ore than to you, 
 Agnes," said Philip. 
 
 " You thought a great deal of Henry," ob- 
 served she. 
 
 " No ; I think not. But he belongs to me, 
 If you can understand what I mean. I feel 
 this that he has done, something personal for 
 which I shall be ashamed all my life." 
 
 " You will feel it more when he is your rela- 
 tion ; it will be still harder to forgive him for 
 disgracing you." 
 
 " That is true, Agnes — as to the disgrace ;
 
 84 A DREAMER. 
 
 but I knew and loved him too well not to 
 forgive him." 
 
 *' And If — If you had not known and loved 
 him so well, you would not be able to forgive ? 
 you would feel the disgrace to me — to us both 
 — more ? " 
 
 '' I suppose so," said Philip. '' It Is not easy 
 to forgive people for disgracing us. In some 
 cases I should hardly try to forgive." 
 
 Agnes turned away. Alone again In her 
 room, she once more considered the alterna- 
 tive presented to her. 
 
 " It Is Impossible," she said ; ** he must not 
 know. I could not tell him. He feels that 
 sort of thing more than most people do. He 
 would never forgive papa, and he would de- 
 spise us all. It Is decided now. I will not 
 tell him." 
 
 Probably whatever Philip had said. In the 
 little talk with the side purpose in it, Agnes's 
 resolution would have been the same. 
 
 Soon after this, Philip returned to England, 
 the Government commission that had afforded 
 him a place having finished its investigations.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 85 
 
 He mieht have been recommended for other 
 employment had he wished it, but his old un- 
 settled idleness had returned. He intended 
 to be a first-rate country gentleman ; but in 
 order to fit himself for this vocation he had 
 much to learn, and without leisure time he 
 could not learn. He took lodgings in Blooms- 
 bury, and spent his mornings in the library 
 of the British Museum learning Sanskrit. Mr 
 Temple believed his son to be studying Polit- 
 ical Economy, and it is true that Philip had 
 turned his thoughts in that direction : he 
 devoted his evenings to writing a slashing- 
 rejoinder to Mr Mill's latest suggestions ; and 
 had elaborated sundry quite original doctrines, 
 which he was prepared to reduce to practice 
 on the earliest opportunity. But he did not 
 care much about Political Economy. Ancient 
 Indian mythology attracted him far more. 
 Mr Temple found out this waste of time, 
 and wrote expostulatingly : — 
 
 " The classics themselves are useful only as 
 a means to an end. For instance, I am glad 
 to deem myself a fairly good Greek scholar,
 
 86 A DREAMER. 
 
 but the fact has no importance for me except 
 in so far as It bears on the study of theology. 
 In your position you will need Httle Latin and 
 less Greek ; and you have already more than 
 a sufficient acquaintance with these languages 
 and literatures. By diving deeper into them, 
 as you are doing at present, when so many 
 weightier subjects are pleading with you for 
 study, you are wasting your time as surely as 
 if you were devoting it to third-rate novels. 
 As to the Indian language, which cannot even 
 boast an affinity to the Hebrew, I consider it 
 a perfectly useless study except for a phono- 
 logist. Reflect, my dear son, on the short 
 time left to you before you enter on a life that 
 will entail Immense responsibilities, and for 
 which you have not been prepared by any 
 technical education. Your wife will look to 
 you for advice and guidance. But very shortly, 
 I fear, you will see cause to repent that you 
 have squandered these months, which, by judi- 
 cious application, might have proved a source 
 of lasting benefit to yourself and to the ten 
 talents lent you by the Heavenly Master, for
 
 PRELIMINARY. 87 
 
 which you will some day have to render a 
 strict account." 
 
 Philip shrugged his shoulders, and replied 
 by an aphorism : — 
 
 *' In the pursuit of the Interesting, neither 
 the wisest nor the dullest man can avoid being 
 himself overtaken by the useful and the unin- 
 teresting." 
 
 Whereupon he began to dip Into Arabic. 
 
 April came : It was a fine spring, and already 
 the leaves were green upon the trees. Long 
 sunny days, with no faint touch of easterly 
 wind ; gentle showers, to lay March's unwhole- 
 some legacy of dust ; soft hazy evenings, 
 tempting to ride or boat by sweet sugges- 
 tions of summer glow, tempered by a reflec- 
 tion of tender February coolness ; masses of 
 flowers, brought In from the country and distri- 
 buted through the streets by hopeful children 
 rejoicing in the growing warmth — primroses. 
 Lent lilies, hyacinths, wallflowers, each with 
 Its luscious scent and pure yellow, pink, or 
 brown ; — It was all typical of what April in 
 London ought to be ; and Philip, always sensi-
 
 88 A DREAMER. 
 
 tlve to idealised natural impressions, felt the 
 strong pulses of hope and happiness beating 
 within him, in unison with the throbbing heart 
 of nature. 
 
 Not unmixed happiness, however. Wander- 
 ing under the trees of Kensington Gardens, 
 he could lose all sense of the world's trouble, 
 in a dream of his own and his beautiful bride's 
 future united life, over which the halo of 
 young anticipation shone with a golden light, 
 — till a recollection would check his springing 
 footstep and bring the flush of pain to his face. 
 He would pause, and press his hand to his 
 brow, feeling that this golden spring was 
 jarring hopelessly with another heart, once 
 brighter than his own ; and often then he 
 would leave the pleasant garden, with its twi- 
 light shadows and sunset - illumined glades, 
 preferring to plunge into narrow, doleful alleys, 
 where the poor people dwelt — where he could 
 dream and fancy indeed, but not of unmixed 
 gladness and joy. 
 
 For Henry was in London also, imprisoned 
 for two long years ; and Philip knew well that
 
 PRELIMINARY. 89 
 
 Henry's was no nature to bear this unscathed. 
 He deserved it, people said ; his guilt was un- 
 questioned, and the punishment was considered 
 light, for even the judge had been influenced 
 by the gracious presence and the bonny boyish 
 face of the young culprit, who made no ex- 
 cuses, who was known by all to be guilty, who 
 was blamed and pitied by all. But Henry, 
 w^ho deserved more punishment than he had re- 
 ceived, who admitted his guilt, and was not in 
 the least oppressed by it, was like some beau- 
 tiful caged bird that cannot live without liberty, 
 and that beats its wings all day against the 
 cage in a fruitless, unreasoning yearning to 
 reach the free air once more. Philip knew 
 Henry well enough to guess at the misery re- 
 straint would cast over him. While his indigna- 
 tion at the boy's crime was more intense, more 
 bitter, than that of any of his other friends, he 
 yet pitied him with a more discerning grief 
 than even loving, merciful Ralph could bestow. 
 Ralph Lindsay knew that Philip was in 
 London, but he had not cared to call upon 
 him, and they did not meet till one day far on
 
 90 A DREAMER. 
 
 ill April, when Ralph at last went to speak to 
 him about Henry. Philip was out, but Ralph 
 went into his room and waited. There was a 
 portrait of Agnes on the wall ; books lay about 
 in all directions, books on all sorts of subjects, 
 evidently much used and treated with more 
 familiarity than ceremony. On the writing- 
 table lay a pile of MS. Ralph took up the 
 topmost sheet. It w^as in Philip's writing ; a 
 fairy tale — at least, it began as a fairy tale — 
 most simple and nazve, but presently wandered 
 off into a metaphysical argument, abstruse, 
 bewildering, whimsical. Ralph read it through, 
 and laid it down again on the table. Beside it 
 stood a vase, a lodging-house vase of red glass, 
 filled with flowers, buttercups and daisies, 
 the last flowers you would look for in a young 
 man's room. Ralph sighed, and went to the 
 window. He disliked Philip — thought him 
 unprincipled, dangerous, heartless ; but he was 
 jealous of him. Ralph had not envied Philip's 
 superior abilities during their contemporary 
 college career : but now he would have liked 
 to have written that fairy tale ; he would have
 
 PRELIMINARY. 91 
 
 liked pictures of a beautiful woman about his 
 room ; nay, he would have liked that jug of 
 field flowers. The flowers in themselves were 
 very little ; he could gather some himself on 
 Sunday when he was to dine at Hampstead 
 with a friend. But his buttercups in a red 
 vase would be a copy of Philip's ; he would 
 rather have thought of gathering them himself. 
 Steps were heard ascending the stairs. Ralph 
 knew the firm, rhythmical tread, such as his 
 ordinary feet seemed incapable of producing. 
 He bit his lip, and frowned. 
 
 Philip started on seeing Ralph. They met 
 with embarrassment. Philip was cold and con- 
 strained ; Ralph nervous and anxious. Henry 
 had been three months in prison, and to- 
 morrow Ralph was going to see him. Had 
 Temple any message ? It seemed an unne- 
 cessary question on Ralph's part, one that he 
 himself disliked to put ; but his sense of jus- 
 tice required it. There were so many things 
 Temple ought to say to Henry. 
 
 Philip's answer disconcerted Ralph. " I 
 will see him myself"
 
 92 A DREAMER. 
 
 In Ralph's mind was a foolish awe of Philip. 
 Instead of simply asserting his own intentions, 
 as he had every right to do, he spoke plead- 
 ingly — ''I have arranged it with Henry. It 
 is his wish that I should eo." 
 
 " I will come with you," said Philip. He 
 was thinking only of himself and Henry, and 
 forgot that Ralph's wishes might demand con- 
 sultation. 
 
 Ralph made no audible remonstrance. He 
 disliked the plan exceedingly ; but at least he 
 would see Henry himself He could yield thus 
 far, if yielding this would satisfy. Philip, self- 
 absorbed, did not notice Ralph's reluctance. 
 When the morrow came, they together pre- 
 sented themselves at the prison-gates. 
 
 Reader, have you ever visited a friend in 
 prison ? The narrow corridor barred on either 
 side, so that you cannot touch him ; the lis- 
 tener ; the hollow clank of the keys ; the dull 
 echo to your own constrained voice ; the pale 
 face gazing at you through the bars ; the prison 
 dress ; the languid step ; — it is a scene you will 
 not forget. And if the prisoner is one so
 
 PRELIMINARY. 93 
 
 young and fair as Henry — if you see as much 
 change in him as Ralph and Philip saw in 
 Henry — it will haunt you for days after! 
 
 Philip had not been five minutes in Henry's 
 presence before he wished he had not come. 
 The uselessness of the pain made itself too evi- 
 dent. Henry had not much to say — one wild 
 complaint against the confinement ; nothing 
 else seemed to affect him much. It was killing 
 him, he cried. He scarcely spoke to Philip, 
 appearing to cling entirely to Ralph. And 
 Philip could not speak to Henry. The mere 
 presence of the official silenced him : the man's 
 stony expression, assumed from a delicate wish 
 to annihilate himself as much as possible, made 
 him monstrous and terrible to Philip. Ralph 
 himself w^as an absolute barrier to free inter- 
 course. And, above all, Henry's state of mind 
 was Incomprehensible to Philip. Was the con- 
 finement really all that oppressed him ? Philip 
 felt so utterly out of sympathy with him, that 
 no words rose to his lips. Reproaches were 
 out of place, and compassion and grief were 
 of a kind too deep and mysterious for expres-
 
 94 A DREAMER. 
 
 sion. He stood silent, with compressed lips ; 
 as stony, apparentl}^, as the speechless, expres- 
 sionless warder. 
 
 Not so Ralph. His was a loving, simple 
 nature, with few complexities and few ques- 
 tionable tendencies. He was more influenced 
 by objects themselves than by his thoughts 
 about them, and feeling with him was bearable 
 only if translatable into action. The sight of 
 Henry, who as yet was the dearest person in 
 the world to him — for men like Ralph are 
 supremely constant by nature — pale, ill, miser- 
 able, banished all thought but the longing to 
 comfort him. Ralph forgot the presence of 
 other persons ; forgot Henry s ill-doing ; forgot 
 his own incompetence to remove the pain, 
 whatever its nature, that was driving the boy 
 to desperation. And Henry, whose wavering, 
 inconstant nature had been keenly wounded 
 by what he considered Philip's treachery (for 
 no explanation had been offered of the circum- 
 stance leading to his arrest), turned again to 
 his earlier friend with more vehemence than 
 was exactly genuine. Ralph and 'Henry had
 
 PRELIMINARY. 95 
 
 much to say; Philip and Henry said nothing 
 but the merest commonplaces. 
 
 The meagre time granted to the visitors was 
 over, and the warder was preparing to lead 
 Henry away. His closing sentence to Ralph 
 he prefaced with these words, uttered with a 
 deliberation contrasting forcibly with his pre- 
 vious excited sentences; — 
 
 " I shall die before the first year is over : 
 this is good-bye in reality perhaps." 
 
 The visitors silently descended the long 
 stone stairs, where conversation seemed illegal. 
 Philip, following Ralph, had fallen into a reverie, 
 of which Henry's prophecy was the motive. If 
 he were really dying — if he were really to be 
 given a fresh start in another world — might it 
 not be the best thing ? Nay, was it not surely 
 the best thing ? What could he, could any man, 
 do for him ? Was God less merciful than 
 man ? And was not God infinitely more 
 powerful, more wise, more righteous ? " Don't 
 leave him with me," cried his heart ; " I could 
 only fail, and he would be sacrificed. ' God 
 fails never.' 
 
 > jj
 
 96 A DREAMER. 
 
 The thought was the first breath of comfort 
 that had come to Philip since he had entered 
 the prison-gates. As they issued once more 
 into the street, he turned to Ralph to shake his 
 hand at parting. 
 
 Ralph, too, was repeating to himself Henry's 
 parting words — " It is good-bye in reality 
 perhaps." 
 
 As Philip touched him, he raised a dull, 
 stricken face, where no consolation pierced the 
 enveloping gloom of sorrow. The very thought 
 that had brought a breath of hope to Philip 
 had been the culmination of Ralph's grief. If 
 he never saw his Henry again ! 
 
 Ralph said nothing for a moment as Philip 
 took his hand. Then he sharply withdrew it, 
 and spoke bitterly ; — 
 
 *' Good-bye, Temple. I hope you are con- 
 tent with your work." 
 
 Philip made no answer. His heart had 
 leaped up under the sudden revulsion of feel- 
 ing as Ralph's misery encountered his own 
 lightened pain : he scarcely heard the bitter 
 words, though years afterwards they rose In
 
 PRELIMINARY. 97 
 
 his memory. He saw only the mournful, 
 hungry eyes, where disappointment struggled 
 with desire and reproach. Again the strange 
 sense that his lot and Ralph's were inexplic- 
 ably bound together forced itself upon him ; 
 and as Lindsay walked slowly away, Philip 
 stood before the prison -gate watching him, 
 while his breath came painfully, and his heart 
 beat with a swiftness and strength that almost 
 robbed him of physical consciousness, and yet 
 deepened the vivid mental impression. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 98 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 On entering, Philip found a letter from Agnes 
 asking him to visit her at Salehurst, where she 
 was living with a maiden aunt. Mr Benson, 
 her father's lawyer, was coming on business, 
 and must be asked to stay for dinner. Would 
 Philip come and help her to entertain him ? 
 He would remain till the next day, of course. 
 
 Philip agreed to the proposal — not with his 
 customary alacrity, perhaps. Agnes's motive 
 in asking him on this occasion was of so 
 perfectly simple a nature that it needs ex- 
 planation. Mr Benson was a disagreeable 
 person, and Miss Mortimer did not wish to 
 be bothered with him. Philip was the most 
 convenient person to whose shoulders the 
 burden could be transferred, and Agnes ac- 
 cordingly passed it gracefully over. It had
 
 PRELIMINARY. 99 
 
 long been her unspoken principle never to 
 do anything disagreeable, if another person 
 could be made to do It Instead. 
 
 Salehurst, where Philip was to exercise his 
 vocation of first-rate country gentleman, was 
 one of those beautiful historical places of 
 which England Is justly proud. Philip's 
 emotions as he mounted the fine horse that 
 Agnes used to send to meet him at the 
 little country station were always of the most 
 pleasurable kind. Of course they were not 
 wholly unconnected with the fact that It was a 
 fine horse ; that the people touched their hats 
 to him with much respect as he passed ; that 
 Salehurst Park, though not of great extent, 
 possessed the finest beech-trees In the county ; 
 that the house was old and stately, with a gal- 
 lery of family portraits, and a bed-chamber In 
 which Queen Elizabeth had reposed her regal 
 head. Very few people are wholly insensible 
 to such circumstances, and certainly Philip was 
 not one of the few. Salehurst had great at- 
 tractions for him; and though he never ceased 
 wondering at the strange trick of fortune which
 
 100 A DREAMER. 
 
 had laid it at his feet, he was not at all disposed 
 to quarrel with fortune for the arrangement. 
 But Philip's vanity was always more inclined 
 to glory in what he was than in what he had : 
 at present it was rather In what he would be 
 than in what he would have. He meant to 
 be such a model of a country gentleman! 
 and what a queen Agnes would be for miles 
 around ! 
 
 Mr Benson was elderly, — fond of snuff and 
 fond of port wine. Philip took a dislike to 
 him at once ; thought the dinner would never 
 end, and that Mr Benson was determined to 
 be late for his train afterwards, as he chatted 
 lazily to him alone in the dining-room when 
 the ladles had withdrawn. 
 
 But at last he hit upon a subject that ar- 
 rested Philip's wandering attention, made him 
 sit straight up in his chair for half an hour, 
 and start with surprise when the carriage was 
 announced that was to take the old man to 
 the station. Not a pleasant subject appa- 
 rently, nor pleasantly spoken of; for Philip 
 frowned as he coated the lawyer, and scarcely
 
 PRELIMINARY. lOI 
 
 touched his hand at parting. Then he turned 
 to Agnes — 
 
 ** I am going to study moonHght on the 
 trees for an hour," he said, and disappeared 
 into the night. 
 
 It was raining, but PhiHp paced up and 
 down near the house unheeding, his brows 
 knit and his Hps pressed tightly together. 
 When he came in, Miss Davidson, Agnes's 
 aunt, had gone to bed, and his betrothed 
 was waiting for him in the Hbrary. PhiHp 
 threw himself into a chair, and looked at her 
 abstractedly. He answered her observations 
 about tea and his damp appearance with so 
 preoccupied an air that Agnes laid down her 
 embroidery and examined him carefully. 
 
 *' Something is the matter, Philip. What 
 is it?" 
 
 He did not answer at once; then he plunged 
 into the subject occupying his thoughts. 
 
 " Agnes, that fellow Benson has been telling 
 me the most extraordinary story." 
 
 Again Miss Mortimer scrutinised her young 
 lover ; but she answered quietly —
 
 102 A DREAMER. 
 
 ''You must not attach too much importance to 
 what a gossiping old man like Mr Benson says.'' 
 
 '' I hope you will be able to prove to me 
 that it is only a gossiping story," said Philip, 
 with some sharpness. 
 
 Agnes felt her heart beating with a vague 
 sense of apprehension, but she calmed herself 
 with argument. " I am sure," continued Philip, 
 '' that it is as new to you as it is to me. I 
 hope, for the sake of our peace of mind, you 
 will be able to show that it is an invention." 
 
 '* Well, what is it ? " 
 
 *' It is about the way in which your father 
 came by this property." 
 
 '' I thought you knew all about that." 
 
 ** I knew a little about it. Your uncle, 
 Henry's father, was the eldest son, but was 
 disinherited." 
 
 " I told you that myself," said Agnes. 
 
 " I know you did. Do you know any more 
 about it ? " 
 
 '' Nay ; tell me what you have heard." 
 
 Philip drew closer to Agnes, and arrested 
 her work with his hand.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 103 
 
 " Agnes — it is not true, I daresay — Mr Ben- 
 son says your grandfather had changed his 
 mind aeain before he died ; he wished his 
 eldest son to succeed him." 
 
 Agnes moved sHghtly, but did not reply. 
 
 "He drew up a will to that effect under this 
 Mr Benson's direction ; he signed it ; and to 
 the last day of his life he expressed his wish 
 to be in accordance with that. Your father 
 and every one knew it. Yet after his death 
 no will could be found but the former one, 
 leaving almost everything to his younger 
 son." 
 
 "Well?" said Agnes. 
 
 " Did you know anything of all that ? " 
 Philip was very close to her, and his eyes 
 were fixed on hers : Agnes had no time to 
 hesitate. 
 
 " I have heard my father speak of it." 
 
 Philip rose and walked over to the chimney- 
 piece ; he stood with his back to the fire, lean- 
 ing one elbow on the dark ledge in the oak 
 carving. He was still watching her. She 
 pursued her embroidery with great calmness.
 
 104 A DREAMER. 
 
 It was some time before either of them spoke 
 again. 
 
 " I can't understand how Mr Mortimer could 
 have taken possession under such circum- 
 stances," said PhlHp, at length. 
 
 *' That is rather an unkind way of putting 
 it," said Agnes, gently smiling; "what else 
 could he do ? If the second will was not 
 forthcoming, there was nothing for It but to 
 act on the first." 
 
 *' What can have become of it ? " 
 
 " That Is what no one could find out." 
 
 '* But, Agnes " Philip paused. 
 
 '' Well, dear ? " 
 
 '* The old man thought it was all right. He 
 did not mean his first will to be acted upon. 
 He must have destroyed the wrong one by 
 mistake or something." 
 
 " I don't see how he could have done that." 
 
 *' Well, at any rate he anticipated, no doubt. 
 He intended his eldest son to sttcceed himr 
 Agnes made no reply. " Was It not so, dear- 
 est ?" . 
 
 " Some people like giving trouble. I have
 
 PRELIMINARY. 105 
 
 often heard of persons whose wills turned out 
 entirely different from what was expected." 
 
 " Was there any doubt, Agnes, as to what 
 he wished ? " 
 
 " I suppose papa was satisfied that It was all 
 right before he took possession, as you call It.'^ 
 
 " Are you satisfied ? " 
 
 " I don't see that It concerns us," said Agnes : 
 *' why need we discuss It ? " 
 
 " I think It concerns us very materially." 
 
 - Why ? " 
 
 " Why ? Don't you see, Agnes ? " 
 
 " I dislike judging people's conduct, especi- 
 ally when they are not by to explain them- 
 selves." 
 
 '* Agnes, It does concern you." 
 
 ''How.^" 
 
 *' Because — because — Agnes, because you 
 are now in your father's place." 
 
 Agnes looked up, not as If It was a new 
 Idea to her, but as If she at last fully under- 
 stood Philip's attitude. She did not reply, 
 however. 
 
 " Don't you see, dearest ? "
 
 I06 A DREAMER. 
 
 " I don't see exactly what you mean." 
 
 " Don't you, Agnes ?" 
 
 ''What Is it?" 
 
 " It appears to me that your uncle should 
 have been in your father's place, and Henry in 
 yours." 
 
 " I daresay papa felt scruples, I should 
 have, certainly. But it is done now ; it can't 
 be helped." 
 
 " Why do you say it can't be helped ? " 
 
 '' What would you propose to do ? " 
 
 " Your uncle is still alive." 
 
 " I think papa was a very much better 
 person to have all this money than uncle 
 William." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with It." A pause. 
 " Agnes, don't you care about all this ? " 
 
 " I wish you would not be always asking 
 me if I ca7^e about things. It Is more my 
 business than yours." 
 
 "It Is my business, Agnes, if I am to be 
 your husband." 
 
 She glanced at him. " What do you want 
 me to do, Philip ? "
 
 PRELIMINARY. 10/ 
 
 '' Could you retain anything comfortably 
 that you thought should be your uncle's ? " 
 
 " Do you want me to give it up ? '' 
 
 " If it Is a thing you have not the right to, 
 you ought certainly to give it up." 
 
 " You give away my property with great 
 calmness. Forgive me if I consult my own 
 opinion a little on the subject." 
 
 " But I mean what I say, Agnes." 
 
 '' I do not exactly agree with you, however. 
 It is very easy to say I have no right to it. 
 That is the point you have to prove." 
 
 '' You admit yourself that your grandfather 
 intended his eldest son to be his heir. Agnes, 
 don't you see ? " impatiently, after a pause. 
 
 " I see that you are Quixotic and romantic." 
 
 " For goodness' sake, Agnes, do not laugh 
 over a matter of such importance." 
 
 '' I am not laughing ; but I view it with a 
 little common - sense. I have always been 
 afraid that your romantic nature would some 
 day propose some extraordinary thing that I 
 should have to dispute about with you. Xo 
 man in his senses would ask me to throw
 
 I08 A DREAMER. 
 
 away my property on such very slender 
 grounds.'' 
 
 " Slender grounds ! " 
 
 '' Any honourable, practical person will 
 agree with me. Ask your father." 
 
 '' Will you accept my father s arbitration ? " 
 
 "Will you accept it?" 
 
 '' It will not alter my opinion." 
 
 " Then there Is no use in consulting another 
 person about our affairs." A few moments' 
 silence, then Agnes resumed — *' If uncle Wil- 
 liam went to law about it, there could be no 
 question of the verdict." 
 
 ** The law deals with generalities," said 
 Philip. "It knows nothing of the great law 
 of exceptivity. There is where conscience 
 steps in." 
 
 " Nevertheless the law is of use In deciding 
 doubtful points." 
 
 " Would you like to go to law about It ? " 
 
 " No ; I should rather the matter was not 
 made public." Agnes was looking down at 
 her work. Presently she raised her eyes and 
 became conscious that she had made a blun-
 
 PRELIMINARY. I09 
 
 der. Philip was staring at her in astonish- 
 ment. " I mean '' she began, hastily. 
 
 " Don't try to explain it away, Agnes," said 
 Philip, sternly. There was another pause. 
 Aofnes was considerinor what had offended 
 him in her last remark. Philip was too much 
 bewildered to say another word at present. 
 He had never imagined that Agnes could 
 speak as she had done to-night. '' It is my 
 fault," he told himself, vaguely ; but none the 
 less what he really felt was that she was 
 wrong. 
 
 At last Agnes rose, and gathered her skeins 
 of silk together. She did it slowly and osten- 
 tatiously ; for she wished Philip to speak first. 
 He remained silent, however. 
 
 "■ All sensible people would take my view," 
 said Agnes at last. " Sleep on it, dear, and 
 you will admit that I am right. You know 
 you are inclined to be run away with by an 
 idea," she said, playfully ; and coming over to 
 his side, she put her arm round his neck, and 
 drew his head down to kiss him. 
 
 Philip turned away.
 
 no A DREAMER. 
 
 Agnes flushed angrily. He was rude as 
 well as unreasonable. She no longer felt 
 sorry to be obliged to annoy him. She moved 
 to the door, then paused to say pointedly, 
 *'Good night, Philip." 
 
 He followed her, and arrested her retreat 
 by putting his arm round her ; but there was 
 nothing conciliatory in his manner. Agnes 
 thought it best to treat the matter playfully. 
 
 " Well, you want to kiss me now, do you ? 
 Have you been trying to quarrel with me, 
 Philip?" 
 
 '' No, Agnes." He kissed her, but coldly, 
 and led her back to her chair. " Agnes, listen 
 to me. I must speak plainly. I think your 
 father acted not only doubtfully but dis- 
 honourably. It Is the privilege of children to 
 repair their father's mistakes." 
 
 " I think both your assertions are open to 
 question,'' said Agnes, with spirit. '' I cannot 
 allow you to decide this matter for me, Philip." 
 
 '' Agnes, do you think I could touch one 
 penny of money that ought by right to have 
 been Henry's ?"
 
 PRELIMINARY. Ill 
 
 " You seem to have an exceedingly mor- 
 bid feeling about Henry. I cannot under- 
 stand it." 
 
 " No, Agnes, you don't understand it," said 
 Philip, quietly ; " but the feeling is a fact. 
 I ask you to respect it." 
 
 " Certainly ; but not to the point of throw- 
 ing away my property. I can't imagine any 
 one more unsuitable to undertake it than 
 Henry." 
 
 " I could not touch it. I hope I should feel 
 the same, no matter who might be the heir. 
 The fact that it is Henry strengthens the 
 feeling tenfold. Agnes, do you dread the 
 thought of poverty so much ? We shall not 
 be so very poor. Your uncle may allow you 
 as much as he received. I have a little 
 money, and I can work. I will work very 
 hard for you." His tone was softer, the 
 momentary repulsion was gone, and his affec- 
 tion had returned. 
 
 " I am sorry we disagree so entirely," said 
 Agnes, coldly. " I cannot admit your argu- 
 ments ; they belong to your favourite Utopia,
 
 112 A DREAMER. 
 
 and are out of place in this common-sense 
 world. I hope you will come round to my 
 opinion. Meantime I must decide for my- 
 self." 
 
 Philip looked at her sorrowfully, and with 
 reviving affection came temptation. He sus- 
 pected that the generality of consciences 
 would on this matter be less scrupulous than 
 his own. If for this once he were to act by 
 other people's consciences ! '' We will think 
 it over, Agnes," said Philip. *' I am going 
 home for a fortnight. Then we can make up 
 our minds." 
 
 She kissed him and went to her own room. 
 
 The following day found Philip at the par- 
 sonage. There were his grandfather and his 
 cousin Oliver on a visit. The latter was a 
 very *' rising " young man, and a general 
 favourite. Mrs Temple, always a little jealous 
 of Oliver's mother, hoped her boy would be 
 better able to cope with his cousin than in old 
 times, for Philip's last visit had left a pleasant 
 impression on her mind. Alas, the old faults 
 had returned ! He was silent, cross, sarcastic.
 
 PRELIMINARY. II3 
 
 He took not enough Interest in temperance 
 meetings and clothing clubs to abuse them ; 
 he avoided Oliver; he snubbed the General. 
 Mrs Temple was In despair, and annoyed 
 Philip with remonstrances. Mr Temple let 
 him alone, but In displeasure. 
 
 It was Philip's own fault, of course. In 
 nine cases out of ten, misunderstood people 
 have only themselves to blame. If Philip 
 had given his father the smallest hint of the 
 strupforle eolnor on In his own mind, he would 
 have been rewarded with Instant sympathy, 
 no matter whether Mr Temple thought him 
 Oulxotic or not. He mlgrht have orlven him 
 some advice on the matter, for the good 
 clergyman had not reached the age of elght- 
 and-forty without having accumulated a store 
 of practical and honourable wisdom, that 
 would have been Invaluable to his son. But 
 the young man, proud. Intolerant, and self- 
 contained, preferred to fight his battles unaided 
 and unseen. A kindly advance, a friendly 
 question, annoyed him ; and he thought his 
 mother Interfering and his father suspicious, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 114 A DREAMER. 
 
 when one sensible word from himself would 
 have thrown down the barrier between them 
 in a moment. 
 
 He paid for his reserve — not only in the 
 harsh judgments necessarily formed by those 
 surrounding him. A smouldering fire does 
 more deadly damage than one perceived and 
 combated. For the present, Philip's outer 
 nature, .that part of him which concerned 
 speech, action, and circumstance, — and his 
 inner nature, which concerned thought and 
 feeling, were tolerably well balanced, and 
 acted in sufficient harmony. How long this 
 balance might be retained was questionable. 
 By shutting one part of himself entirely to 
 himself, he was not acting in a manner con- 
 ducive to its preservation. 
 
 '' That poor fellow, young Mortimer, Is 
 dead," said Oliver one day. " You knew it, 
 Phil?" 
 
 '' Yes, two days ago." Philip was lying on 
 his back on the hearth-rug, a newspaper In his 
 hands. He answered with studied quietness, 
 not thinking or not caring that some show of
 
 PRELIMINARY. II5 
 
 Interest would be expected from him. His 
 wish was that they would not talk of Henry. 
 He had never lost the sense that his death 
 would be the best possible thing that could 
 happen for him. The thought of Henry alive 
 had been painful ; the thought of Henry in 
 God's hands, started afresh — dying young be- 
 because beloved of heaven — had come to him 
 as a message of peace. But the stronger the 
 feeling, the stronger also was the certainty that 
 it would not be understood, and he determined 
 to say nothing about Henry. He adroitly 
 turned the subject, and presently escaped. Mrs 
 Temple burst into tears. 
 
 '' Oh, Arthur, how hard he Is ! Fancy his 
 not caring. That poor miserable young man ! " 
 
 Great sternness had settled on the clergy- 
 man's benevolent face. "It is the old story,'' 
 he said, sadly; '' he has taken a creature feebler 
 than himself for his amusement, and havine 
 got all he wanted out of it, now views its ruin 
 unconcernedly, because he has himself escaped 
 in safety." 
 
 Philip's exit had been arrested in the door-
 
 Il6 A DREAMER. 
 
 way by the sound of his mother's sob. He 
 had Hstened unseen. Now he re-entered, pale, 
 his eyes flashing. A pause followed ; every one 
 knew he had heard. Oliver viewed the scene 
 with curiosity ; there was always an element 
 of unexpectedness In Philip's actions and words. 
 The General was sorry for the boy, and wished 
 to make a diversion in his favour, but could 
 think of none. 
 
 " You are speaking of what you do not 
 understand," said Philip, at length. " You talk 
 of viewing another's ruin unconcernedly. Shall 
 I tell you what is of greater importance than 
 another's ruin ? A man's self I care about 
 Henry more than any of you do, but I am at 
 present too much occupied with myself to give 
 him all my thoughts." 
 
 Philip paused, and no one replying, again 
 escaped from the room. 
 
 Could anything be more vague, more un- 
 satisfactory, more calculated to give an unpleas- 
 ing impression ? Mrs Temple's tears flowed 
 faster ; the gloom on her husband's face deep-
 
 PRELIMINARY. II7 
 
 ened. Oliver went to the window to hide the 
 little triumphant smile that would curl round 
 his lips when Philip made an especial fool of 
 himself The old General was very uncom- 
 fortable, and presently said — 
 
 " Don't judge the poor fellow too harshly. 
 I don't understand him a bit better than you 
 do ; but I have a suspicion that there is more 
 in him, and of a better quality, than you think." 
 
 Though not enjoying his stay at home, 
 Philip delayed his departure for another week. 
 The great question pending between himself 
 and Agnes had received no solution as yet in 
 his mind. If Agnes would not give in to him, 
 what was he to do ? Was he to ofive in to 
 her ? Now, a fortnight after she had uttered 
 the words that had so startled him, and viewed 
 by the gilding haze of memory, they did not 
 seem nearly so repulsive as they had done at 
 first. He began to think that perhaps, after all, 
 Aofnes's view mi^ht have its advocates amone 
 worthy and honourable people. Certainly it 
 might ; for she held it, and she was worthy
 
 Il8 A DREAMER. 
 
 and honourable. Philip was so used to hear- 
 ing his theories called illusory and absurd, 
 that he was apt to lose the sense of the point 
 where their carrying-out ceased to be volun- 
 tary and became obligatory. Perhaps this was 
 a case not of lawful or unlawful, but of expe- 
 dient or inexpedient. If so, he might give in to 
 Agnes ; and Henry was no longer here with 
 wild eyes claiming something from him. And 
 he meant to be such a blessing to Salehurst : 
 he had so many theories to carry out there ; 
 and if once his theories could get free play 
 they would win converts at once. And he 
 loved Agnes so much, and thought her the 
 best woman in the world. He would trust 
 her common-sense in this matter : she was far 
 nobler than he, and every one said he had no 
 common-sense. After all, what she had said 
 was true. It was her affair, not his. Still 
 Philip hesitated ; and all the arguments on the 
 other side bubbled up in his mind, the more 
 convincing because they came naturally, need- 
 ing no invocation.
 
 PRELIMINARY. 1 19 
 
 What would be the use of trying to carry 
 out theories if he began by choking the most 
 insistent theory of all ? 
 
 " No," he said, stepping into the London 
 train one dull, drizzling morning ; " that is a 
 sort of quackery, and I won't do it."
 
 120 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Back again in Agnes's presence ! Subject to 
 the influence of her stately tenderness, her 
 surpassing beauty ! Could he give her up ? 
 But it was not coming to that. As he watched 
 her at dinner, Philip thought he saw signs of 
 yielding in Agnes. She had pressed his hand 
 more affectionately than usual ; she talked to 
 him more submissively; she watched him more 
 assiduously. Agnes fancied she saw signs of 
 yielding in him : she hoped so ; she did not 
 want to lose him. They said no word on 
 the one engrossing subject till it was getting 
 late and Miss Davidson had retired. Then 
 Agnes took his hand and led him into the 
 library. It was a large, sombre room, heavily 
 panelled in oak : portraits of departed ances- 
 tors hung upon the walls, and their grave, silent
 
 PRELIMINARY. 121 
 
 faces flashed weird glances out of the gloom ; 
 for the two candles on the mantelpiece and 
 the smouldering fire on the hearth gave but a 
 meagre and a flickering light. The two young 
 things, holding each other's hands before the 
 dying embers, looked strange and desolate in 
 the great silent room. It was some time be- 
 fore they spoke. Philip felt the gloom and 
 the stillness more than did Agfnes. 
 
 '' Dearest,'' said he, at length, " tell me we 
 need not part." 
 
 " I do not want to part," answered Agnes in 
 a low voice, looking down. 
 
 A long silence again ; they were beginning 
 to understand that neither intended to yield. 
 
 - Well, Philip ? " 
 
 -Well, Agnes?" 
 
 " You don't mean to say you have it still 
 — an absurd scruple, a romantic wish ? " 
 
 " Agnes, tell me what you intend to do." 
 
 Her heart beat as she answered, " I have 
 made no change ; I can make no change." 
 
 " Agnes, I cannot marry you on those terms." 
 His voice was low and sorrowful, but distinct.
 
 122 A DREAMER. 
 
 ** There is no real obstacle but your " 
 
 '' Oh, Agnes ! " burst out Philip, throwing his 
 arm round her, " give it up. Can you bear 
 that we should part for the sake of a little 
 money ?" 
 
 '' Don't." She moved from him a little. 
 " That is an exaggerated way of putting it. 
 Let us talk sensibly." 
 
 Philip was silent. 
 
 '' You know, Philip, it is absurd. You could 
 not expect me to do it. You are unreason- 
 able." 
 
 He walked up and down the room in silence. 
 
 *' Well, Philip, come," joining him : '' you 
 are fond of me ; I am fond of you. We don't 
 want to part. It is my affair, not yours : let 
 me have my way this time, and in future we 
 shall agree better." 
 
 " Agnes," said Philip, slowly, '' don't you see 
 in the least what I mean ? why I couldn't do 
 it ? Have you not wavered at all ? / have 
 wavered. I have done my best to see with 
 your eyes — to take your view. Have you 
 never hesitated, Agnes ? "
 
 PRELIMINARY. 123 
 
 " No, Philip, I cannot say that I have. I 
 should like to please you, of course, but " 
 
 " Then, Agnes '' — he stopped, and laid his 
 hands on her shoulders — " there is a great 
 gulf between us. If we disagree about this, 
 we shall disao-ree about other thincrs. The 
 rock we have split on is a typical rock." 
 
 " As usual," said Agnes, " I don't half 
 understand you. What do you mean exactly?" 
 
 *' I mean that I think you are in a false 
 position, and I cannot marry you unless you 
 consent to abandon it." 
 
 " Do you mean you think it is wrong, 
 Philip ? " 
 
 *' I have not thought much of whether it is 
 wronor or rio^ht. I could not do it." 
 
 " But do you think it is wrong ? " 
 
 '' Well, yes," said Philip, after a pause ; " I 
 suppose I do." 
 
 She sighed. " I cannot understand you, 
 Philip. You are an enthusiast. It seems such 
 a little thing — a doubtful point — especially as 
 it concerns you. You fancy it worse than 
 it is."
 
 124 A DREAMER. 
 
 " Great and little lose their ordinary mean- 
 ing," said Philip, **when we apply them to 
 moral actions. Actions are typical, and their 
 importance is less in themselves than in their 
 cause and their effect. But this does not seem 
 little or doubtful to me. I could not do it. 
 Did I say I hesitated ? I feel no hesitation 
 now. Everything is clear to me as the moon- 
 light." He pointed to the end of the room, 
 unreached by the faint gleam from the candles. 
 " Agnes, do you see the darkness there ? But 
 there is light beyond! The moon and the 
 stars are there whether we see them or not. 
 Would you shut them out for ever ? They 
 pierce the clouds, but they cannot pierce the 
 windows with the shutters and the curtains 
 that we have made." He stepped over to 
 the farthest window and unbolted it. A ray 
 from the clear, full moon streamed in and 
 illuminated his earnest face and clasped 
 hands. 
 
 Agnes shivered. " What do you mean ? " 
 she said, faintly. 
 
 Philip did not answer. He returned to her
 
 PRELIMINARY. 125 
 
 side and knelt by the fire, taking the poker 
 and playing with it listlessly. 
 
 " I hope we may neither of us ever do any- 
 thing worse," said Agnes, vigorously. From 
 the height of her own dark secret, Philip's Idea 
 seemed to her almost contemptible. 
 
 He glanced at her with a look of some sur- 
 prise. After a few moments he said, ''It is 
 different from one isolated action. It is a thing 
 to affect our whole lives. It is choosing a path 
 for life. I had exactly the same feeling when 
 I refused to go into the Church as my father 
 had wished. In God's name, Agnes, what 
 could be more horrible than to walk throuQrh 
 the world starting on the wrong path ? What 
 good could there be in life for a man who did 
 that?" 
 
 " You bewilder me with your moons and 
 your paths," said Agnes ; " I think you be- 
 wilder yourself too. Do look at things sen- 
 sibly — not through this distracting medium of 
 metaphor." Agnes spoke with half-disdainful 
 accents ; but his words, still more his manner, 
 had impressed her.
 
 126 A DREAMER. 
 
 Philip did not speak at once. Presently he 
 took her hand. " Agnes, I could not do it. I 
 should feel as if I were selling myself. Let us 
 part, Agnes : now." 
 
 She was wavering ; a few moments' pause, 
 a few more earnest words, and she might have 
 been in his arms — mi^ht even have confessed 
 a deeper wrong than he suspected. But 
 Philip did not know it. He dreaded that 
 hesitation might return to himself if he pro- 
 longed the struggle. The farewell must be 
 now — at once. 
 
 '' Good-bye, Agnes. One last kiss, my 
 darling." 
 
 She turned from him ; he was hurrying her. 
 '* Not one, Agnes ? Can you bear it ? " 
 
 Ah, he had misunderstood her — had checked 
 her! A word's encouragement might have 
 saved her ; he gave it not. 
 
 " Let us part, Agnes. We could not walk 
 together after this." 
 
 Slowly she drew her ring from her finger 
 and turned to face him. 
 
 " Very well, Philip. I am very sorry. As
 
 PRELIMINARY. 127 
 
 you say, we could not be comfortable together 
 again. Some day you will think of me less 
 harshly, I hope. There is my ring. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Philip laid it on the mantelpiece. A poor 
 little ring it was, not costly, nor rare, nor w^on- 
 derful in any way; but oh, the pleasure he had 
 taken in buying it ! how his heart had danced 
 for joy, and the sun had shone, and the birds 
 had sung for him, that golden day not a year 
 aeo ! The siofht of that little rinof was too 
 much for Philip. His eyes filled with tears, 
 and for a few moments he gazed silently at 
 Agnes. 
 
 But she stood calm and cold, looking at 
 him like a thing apart. 
 
 " It must be so, Agnes ? You will not do 
 this little thing for me ? Yet my love would 
 have been worth keeping, Agnes!" He 
 stretched out his arms to her, to clasp her 
 once more to his heart ; but she remained 
 standing silent and motionless. 
 
 He pressed his lips on hers for the last time, 
 and left her in the darkened room, into the far
 
 128 A DREAMER. 
 
 end of which still streamed the flood of silver 
 moonlight. 
 
 Agnes never saw visions ; and when the 
 door had closed, memory did not restore her 
 lost lover still standing in that pure, pale 
 beam, his face not clearly illuminated, but 
 marked out in strong light and deep shadow. 
 She did not think much of Philip when he 
 had left her ; she thought of herself. She 
 had chosen deliberate, conscious wrong, and 
 she knew it. She was going to try a life be- 
 gun thus. The first thing must be to remove 
 anything that might lead to the discovery of 
 the wrong she had done. Agnes opened her 
 writing-table; in it lay the paper she had 
 written for her dying father. She raised her 
 eyes to a large old-fashioned bureau at the 
 end of the room, not much used since her 
 grandfather's day. Was there anything tell- 
 tale in that ? Agnes considered, thinking only 
 of herself, however. No, there was nothing 
 to inculpate her, except this paper in her own 
 handwriting. She cast it on the hearth, and 
 stooping, tried to blow sufficient life into the
 
 PRELIMINARY. 1 29 
 
 expiring embers to consume It. It was not 
 very easily done ; and absorbed In her task, 
 Agnes did not hear the door open softly and 
 admit some one, who advanced quietly, not 
 noticing her. It was Philip ; he had forgotten 
 the little ring, and had returned for It. The 
 one candle high up on the carved mantel- 
 shelf gave so little light that he did not see 
 the stooping black-robed figure by the hearth, 
 till Agnes raised a scared white face to con- 
 front him. Embarrassed and startled him- 
 self, Philip stared at her, forgetting for the 
 moment his own errand. 
 
 Agnes started to her feet, having first nerv- 
 ously snatched up the paper which was smok- 
 ing but not yet burning; she crushed It in her 
 hand, and spoke in a trembling, agitated voice : 
 " What Is It ? What are you doing ? You 
 have terrified me ! " 
 
 Philip said nothing. He collected himself 
 sufficiently to step forward and find the ring ; 
 then he retired as quietly as he had come, and 
 without turning his head to look at her again. 
 
 Agnes trembled like a leaf, and only after 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 130 A DREAMER. 
 
 long reasoning was she convinced that PhlHp 
 could have seen nothing of the object she 
 was taking such pains to destroy. She locked 
 the door to complete her work of destruction ; 
 and she listened long with the key in her hand 
 before she had courage to venture up the 
 broad staircase to her own room. 
 
 While Philip and Agnes were talking to- 
 gether In the library at Salehurst, Ralph Lind- 
 say sat alone In a bachelor room of the great 
 city, employing himself with his pencil. Ralph 
 Lindsay was a bit of an artist, and his pencil 
 had been busy of late. It was his favourite 
 distraction when his thoughts became too 
 painful. 
 
 Ralph had grown pale and thin, he spoke 
 little, and was much alone In his leisure time. 
 There were a few people who thought he was 
 going Into consumption ; but others, who knew 
 of what fibre his simple, loving heart was made, 
 and who knew also the history of one more 
 to him than a brother, lately sunk Into an 
 early and a dishonoured grave, perceived that 
 It was no bodily ailment which had changed
 
 PRELIMINARY. 131 
 
 the young man so grievously. All agreed that 
 it was well he was going away — for Ralph's 
 employers were sending him to the Hague 
 for a few years, on business connected with the 
 firm. He was a most trustworthy, sensible 
 fellow, just the man for the post, which was 
 one of some responsibility. Ralph did not 
 care about going much ; one place seemed as 
 dreary to him as another just then. 
 
 He began to draw to-night with no par- 
 ticular motive ; a face, of course — a portrait, 
 also of course, but it was not designedly a 
 portrait. The features grew into a face he 
 knew, without his intending it — a young, not 
 unhandsome face, with dark eyes, and some- 
 thing of a scowl on the finely-chiselled, sensi- 
 tive lips. The scowl was exaggerated, so were 
 the frown and the contemptuous attitude of 
 the hand. It was not exactly true to life, but 
 it was like Philip Temple. There was some- 
 thing in the face that fascinated Ralph. After 
 he had recognised the portrait, he went on 
 elaborating it with a care that annoyed him- 
 self Suddenly he said " Pshaw ! " contempt-
 
 132 A DREAMER. 
 
 uously, and crumpling up the picture, flung 
 it into the grate. He did not want to draw 
 Philip Temple. It was some minutes before 
 the pencil moved again. Ralph drew fiercely, 
 with intention now. It was the picture of a 
 scene he knew by heart. 
 
 What desolate, narrow room is that ? What 
 is the figure in uniform guarding the door ? 
 On a truckle-bed lies a slender boyish form. 
 Over it stoops a friend, very slightly sketched 
 in the pencil-drawing. The sufierer is half- 
 sitting : his lips are parted ; he is speaking. 
 It is a young, beautiful face, but wild and hag- 
 gard : the finger of death is on it. He is say- 
 ing something that makes the gloomy man 
 in uniform shudder as he listens. Ralph did 
 not write the words at the bottom of the 
 picture, but they had been ringing through his 
 ears ever since he had knelt by Henry's death- 
 bed in the prison-cell. He stopped drawing, 
 and looked at the picture. It was quickly but 
 cleverly done ; it was effective and terrible. 
 
 *' I must resist this," said Ralph, rising. ** I 
 must not attach too much Importance to my
 
 PRELIMINARY. 133 
 
 poor Henry's wild words. I shall always dis- 
 like that man, but I must allow no unreasoning 
 prejudice to infect me with morbid hatred. 
 Let me draw something pleasanter." 
 
 Essays at little landscapes — tarn or moor, 
 mountain or river, such as Ralph remembered 
 to have seen in Scotland. He and Henry had 
 made a walking tour there together — long ago, 
 when they had been boys. The landscapes 
 did not grow to-night under Ralph's feverish 
 touch. He abandoned them, and rising, paced 
 the room several times, his hands behind his 
 back and his head bent. But presently his 
 features relaxed. A smile played round his 
 lips. He sat down, and resuming his pencil, 
 began another face — a face he had seen to- 
 day for the first time. It was a pretty little 
 picture. When finished, Ralph contemplated 
 it with satisfaction. A childish figure, with 
 clasped hands, and a little head thrown back- 
 ward and surrounded by loose curling hair ; a 
 plaintive, upturned face, with questioning eyes 
 and pretty parted lips. Ralph spent a long 
 time over the picture, lingering fondly on the
 
 134 A DREAMER. 
 
 flowing hair and rounded shoulders peeping 
 above a white pinafore. He had not had such 
 a graceful little model before : he meant to 
 keep this picture. 
 
 Ralph was fond of fairy tales, though he 
 never wrote one in his life. An old favourite, 
 by Hans Andersen, sprang up in his mind as 
 he looked at his picture. It wanted a name ; 
 that of the fairy heroine would do — *'The 
 Little Syren : " a dear little heroine she was ; 
 and doubtless, thought Ralph, she had deep, 
 pathetic eyes, like the sweet child in the 
 picture.
 
 135 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Father," said Philip, sitting one evening 
 with Mr Temple in his lodgings in Blooms- 
 bury, " when you were a small boy, did you 
 ever make a house with cards ? I will show 
 you how I mean," taking up a pack that lay 
 on the side-table, and which, by the way, was 
 a secret eyesore to the clergyman. " I used 
 to do it once. First two leaning together, 
 so : the table is not slippery ; it is easily done. 
 Then two covering the gap at the sides ; two 
 at the ends ; two flat ones for a roof, — that is 
 one storey ; on it another, and another, and 
 another." There was at times an earnestness 
 in Philip's manner when engaged in the most 
 trivial occupation that compelled attention. 
 Mr Temple leaned forward, watching him and 
 quite excited about the card-house. Philip's
 
 136 A DREAMER. 
 
 words fell from his lips with a melancholy 
 incisiveness that showed he had a meaning. 
 " There are four storeys ; it is a pretty little 
 pagoda, and stands well on Mrs Brown's red 
 table-cloth. I have not played this game since 
 I was a little chap, but I can do it quite well. 
 I mean I have not played at it with cards since 
 then. One can build with other things too. 
 If you give it the lightest touch, if you blow at 
 it even, what happens ? See ! " Philip drew 
 back as the heap of cards fell together on the 
 table. 
 
 -Well, Phil?" 
 
 A pause. Philip gathered the cards to- 
 gether and put them away. Then he drew 
 a chair by the window, and leaning back in it, 
 gazed out on the evening sky where it gleamed 
 over the roofs of the opposite houses. His 
 eyes filled with tears, but he spoke quietly — 
 
 '' I heard of a man who built a house once 
 — on the sand it was. It lasted till a storm 
 came ; then it fell, and great was the fall of it. 
 What do you suppose was the result for the 
 man when his house fell ? "
 
 PRELIMINARY. 137 
 
 " My boy ! " The voice and look touched 
 Mr Temple's kind heart. 
 
 " I think he was probably hurt," pursued 
 Philip. '' He did not expect his house to fall, 
 of course. He was most likely in it, and it 
 crushed him. But he was not killed. It takes 
 a great deal to kill a man. He scrambled out 
 somehow, and his life went on as before. I 
 daresay he built another house, and looked at 
 the foundations better the second time.'' 
 
 " My dear Phil, tell me what has happened," 
 said Mr Temple. He supposed that, as usual, 
 the boy's notions had landed him in some 
 scrape. The father was not very anxious yet, 
 for Philip evidently took the matter greatly to 
 heart, and Mr Temple considered that he gen- 
 erally showed most feeling over matters of 
 comparatively little importance. 
 
 *' Could you find me some work, do you 
 think ? " said Philip, presently. " I don't care 
 what it is, much." 
 
 - Work, Philip ? " 
 
 " Yes. I don't feel inclined to proceed with 
 the Sanskrit at present. I will do any work
 
 138 A DREAMER. 
 
 you like. Only don't make a quack of me," 
 he added hastily, with a sudden fear that his 
 assertion might be interpreted too literally. 
 
 " All right, Phil. We'll look out for some- 
 thing. What does Agnes say about all this ? " 
 
 " Agnes ? " Philip's eyes seemed to be gaz- 
 ing farther away than ever, as if they pierced 
 the serene evening clouds. He raised his hand 
 unconsciously and pointed. 
 
 " What are you looking at ? " said Mr 
 Temple, following the direction of his finger, 
 and perceiving nothing ; " what do you see ? " 
 
 " A forest," said Philip, turning and fix- 
 ing his eyes on his father, who involuntarily 
 started — this strange son of his was so unac- 
 countable and irrelevant in his speech — '' and 
 a man passing through it. The forest is dark 
 and bewildering, and the man has lost his way. 
 He is pursued by strange creatures and wild 
 voices, and eyes staring at him." Philip shud- 
 dered himself, and paused for a moment ; then 
 he continued, smiling — '' That is the conven- 
 tional beginning, is it not ? Can you guess 
 what follows ? The man is going on, following
 
 PRELIMINARY. 139 
 
 a rising path with a stream flowing beside and 
 beneath it. The path leads westward. If he 
 walks on, he thinks the sun will overtake him. 
 There is a beautiful form waiting for him, with 
 jewels flashing on her brow. She takes his 
 hand to lead him. They go on together. He 
 is following the same westward path, but he 
 thinks it is she who is guiding him. The path 
 is smooth now, edged with moss and flowers. 
 Sometimes she drops a jewel, and he picks it 
 up and treasures it. They are in the sunlight. 
 It has overtaken him. He feels the light and 
 the warmth, and calls on her to rejoice. But 
 the sun has been too much for her : she is 
 gone — melted — lost. He is alone. He has 
 only the jewels left which she did not value. 
 Yet he feels the sunshine. He cannot leave it. 
 He is in the right path. He can't go back to 
 find her, and she is vanished. She can't come 
 to him — in the sunlight. Have you under- 
 stood the parable, father ? " 
 
 " No, my boy." Mr Temple tried to be 
 patient and indulgent, but he thought his son 
 uncommonly silly.
 
 140 A DREAMER. 
 
 *' You are not a good hand at a parable, 
 father, except the Gospel ones. But perhaps 
 I expect too much from you. One can't open 
 a lock without a key. I am apt to forget 
 that. I have a way of fumbling at a lock, and 
 poking it, and damaging it with knives and 
 gimlets, all to no purpose. Your way is best, 
 father, and you are not fond of fairy tales. 
 Unless you are, you will never care to use the 
 key, even if I give it to you." 
 
 '' My dear Phil, don't trifle with yourself 
 like this. Tell me what is the matter." 
 
 " Nothing ; except that I have knocked 
 down my card-house. The storm has over- 
 whelmed my castle on the sand. My forest 
 vision has melted under the strong rays of 
 the sun. You must let me be your boy a 
 little longer, my father. Agnes and I have 
 parted." 
 
 " Parted ? What do you mean ? You have 
 not quarrelled ? " 
 
 '* We have broken off our engagement." 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" said Mr 
 Temple, almost sharply.
 
 PRELIMINARY. I4I 
 
 Philip had become cold and indifferent in 
 manner. 
 
 " We disagreed." 
 
 " You have annoyed her in some way." 
 
 '' Exactly." 
 
 " What have you been doing ? " Philip 
 shrugged his shoulders. *' How have you 
 displeased her ? " 
 
 '' I told you : we disagreed." 
 
 " About what ? " 
 
 " It is not a point that concerns other 
 people. I do not care to discuss it." 
 
 *' I shall write to Agnes and ask her," said 
 Mr Temple, hastily. 
 
 *' I must request you to do nothing of the 
 kind." 
 
 " I meant" (again hastily, but apologeti- 
 cally) '' I might smooth matters." 
 
 " I do not wish them smoothed. Don't you 
 know what a wise book says : ' Can two walk 
 together except they be agreed ? ' " 
 
 " My dear Philip, you could not expect 
 any one in his senses always to agree with 
 you."
 
 142 A DREAMER. 
 
 " That Is precisely what Agnes said. So 
 we parted." 
 
 A few minutes' silence. Mr Temple was 
 much pained and mortified. 
 
 " I cannot believe," he said, at length, '' that 
 Agnes would take offence about a trifle. You 
 must have displeased her seriously. I hope, 
 Philip, you have not forgotten " 
 
 " I suppose," interrupted Philip, bitterly, *' it 
 is possible that / may have seen cause for 
 offence — that It may have been 7ny wish that 
 we should part. I am not saying it Is so ; but 
 I beg you will bear the possibility in mind 
 before you make sweeping accusations against 
 any one. I don't want to talk about it. Noth- 
 ing can alfer matters now. Henceforth Agnes 
 Mortimer and I are friends only." 
 
 " Well, I am sorry for your disappoint- 
 ment," said Mr Temple, a little grudgingly. 
 
 '' I shall survive, I daresay/' said Philip, 
 crossly ; '' that's enough about it." 
 
 Poor Mr Temple was more puzzled by his 
 son than ever. But he tried to hope that it 
 was all for the best, — that it would be a lesson
 
 PRELIMINARY. I43 
 
 to Philip. Perhaps, after all, he might make a 
 wiser marriage later. He was not fit to marry 
 an heiress ; all her money would be squan- 
 dered in his projects. It was just as well for 
 him that he would have to enter a profession, 
 and face realities for a while. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, Philip refused to 
 work at anything but projects. He estab- 
 lished himself in a diminutive house in Ken- 
 sington, where he was attended by an old 
 man and woman imported from Whitechapel. 
 Here he studied Sanskrit, and smoked and 
 dreamed and theorised to his heart's content. 
 He collected a circle of friends around him, 
 to whom he elaborated his favourite schemes, 
 and who thought a great deal more of him 
 than he probably deserved. Some of his pro- 
 jects arrived at a certain amount of reality ; 
 amongst others, one for building a model 
 street in Whitechapel. He formed a com- 
 pany for this purpose, and intended not only 
 to reform the social condition of that part of 
 London in which the street was to be situated, 
 but to make the fortunes of the shareholders.
 
 144 A DREAMER. 
 
 The scheme failed, of course, and PhiHp lost 
 a good deal of money in consequence ; but he 
 never lost his own faith in It. '' Of course, if 
 people had no patience, schemes must fail. 
 It would be seen some day that his plans 
 were sensible enough in reality.'^ Notwith- 
 standing this and many other failures, the 
 attention of certain ardent public men was 
 called to the visionary young theorist, who 
 talked so persuasively, and who had so much 
 good purpose in his projects. He had written 
 two or three pamphlets expounding his views ; 
 his fame was spread abroad by his friends ; 
 he had dabbled in several social matters of 
 interest and importance. Though often in 
 these cases he had done nothing that could be 
 termed in the least successful, he had always 
 brought a new light to bear on the question at 
 issue, that had charmed the well-meaning but 
 uninventive people, who were working away, 
 diligently but not dexterously, in a time-worn 
 groove. In a few years Philip found himself 
 a person of some importance, who received 
 letters asking for suggestions, from members
 
 PRELIMINARY. I45 
 
 of Parliament ; who was applied to for advice 
 by the managers of societies ; whose commu- 
 nications to the editor were always inserted 
 in the * Times ; ' and who, above all, had 
 established friendly relations with his poorer 
 brethren in Whitechapel and Stepney. On 
 the whole, he was well content, and his father 
 and mother began to hope he might be a 
 useful man some day. 
 
 He had put matrimony out of his head for 
 the present ; but the wound occasioned by his 
 rupture with Agnes healed much sooner than 
 he had expected. He discovered that he had 
 been in love with a chimera ; and then he 
 laughed at himself. When a man begins to 
 laugh, he is on the high-road to recovery; and, 
 consequently, Philip recovered straightway. 
 Circumstances also contributed to this salutary 
 result. Before a year was over, Agnes mar- 
 ried somebody else. The fortunate somebody 
 was the prosperous, the popular, the rising 
 young man, Oliver Temple. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 PART II 
 
 FOR HENRY'S SAKE
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Nearly four years later: a sunny day towards 
 the end of March ; five o'clock ; several per- 
 sons sitting on the benches in Kensington 
 Gardens, and shading their eyes from the 
 level rays of sunlight ; — a man crossing the 
 grass at a rapid pace, carrying a bag of 
 sugar-plums in his hand. 
 
 The man was Philip Temple ; the sugar- 
 plums were for a little girl of about three 
 years old, Lily by name — Agnes and Oliver's 
 only child. Philip had a supper-party to-night 
 in his little house at Kensington. Agnes and 
 Oliver were among the guests ; Agnes had 
 undertaken the duty of hostess. 
 
 On one occasion when Philip had given a 
 similar entertainment, his mother had been 
 with him to sit at the head of his supper-
 
 150 A DREAMER. 
 
 table. Mrs Temple did not enjoy herself: 
 the whist - table alarmed her ; the prawns 
 came at the wrong part of the meal, and 
 the home - made brown bread was out of 
 place ; Mr Donnlngton, the painter, smelt of 
 tobacco ; Mr Lowestoft's comic songs were 
 profane ; nobody cared for Sunday-schools or 
 temperance meetings ; and she knew nothing 
 of the last new novel, or the new tragic actor ; 
 she had not been to the Handel festival ; she 
 had not even heard the sensational Ritualistic 
 Revivalist, Canon Girton of St Mark's, Wheat- 
 ley Square. Mrs Temple thought there was 
 too much noise ; that Philip talked a great 
 deal of nonsense ; and that his friends were 
 very queer - looking people. There was an 
 old, threadbare coated, white - haired, blue- 
 eyed foreigner, with a blind daughter, who 
 played on the zither, and could speak no 
 language Intelligible to Mrs Temple; there 
 was a yellow man with limp hair, and long 
 eyes turned up at the corners, with a pictur- 
 esque, shy little wife dressed in numberless 
 scarves of green and crimson and yellow.
 
 "FOR HENRYS SAKE. 151 
 
 Ti-foo-chum-chun and his wife seemed quite 
 intimate with Philip ; but Mrs Temple, who 
 only thought of the heathen as subjects for 
 missionaries, did not know how to conduct 
 herself in such queer company, and was only 
 too thankful when the evening was over. 
 
 Philip laughed at her, and chose Agnes for 
 his hostess next time. She liked everything 
 and everybody, and was always ready to do 
 what Philip wanted. 
 
 " Phil is a bore," said Oliver, " and thinks 
 too much of himself, and the men one meets 
 are snobs." But he went nevertheless when 
 Philip sent him an invitation. Agnes was 
 determined to go ; and Agnes would not go 
 without her husband. Oliver was growing 
 rather fat and Indolent, and very aristocratic. 
 People said his wife ruled him, and nobody 
 took the trouble to correct the assertion. 
 People also said that Philip was still a 
 slave of that handsome Mrs Temple - Mor- 
 timer. And again nobody took the trouble 
 to contradict the assertion. '' People " were 
 wrong In both instances. Agnes had not
 
 152 A DREAMER. 
 
 the slightest power, except in trifles, over 
 her husband or his cousin, who in old times 
 had been her lover. She and Oliver ''got 
 on" very well together, to all appearances. 
 They may have been somewhat cold in 
 manner, but then they were so exceed- 
 ingly dignified. Neither of them had ever 
 pretended to be exactly in love ; the motive 
 of their marriage had not been deeper than 
 mutual admiration. And Agnes and Philip 
 were intimate though somewhat superficial 
 friends : he was not in the least jealous of 
 Oliver ; he was welcome at his house when- 
 ever he chose to present himself; he was 
 fond of Lily ; and he liked talking to Agnes 
 on any light, unimportant, indifferent matter. 
 He had not forgotten the past, but he hard- 
 ly ever thought of it ; he had ceased to 
 blame Agnes severely since her conduct had 
 ceased to be an affair of his ; he did not 
 trust or esteem her highly, but he liked 
 her, and their easy cousinly relationship was 
 decidedly pleasant. 
 
 All this is a digression ; let us return to
 
 "FOR HENRYS SAKE. 153 
 
 the tall, dark, somewhat grave young man 
 whom we left hurrying across Kensington 
 Gardens with the bag of sugar-plums in his 
 hand (he had consumed two burnt almonds 
 already : few persons under thirty could resist 
 so very favourable a chance). 
 
 Philip's attention was arrested by a person 
 sittinof alone beneath an elm - tree — a little 
 childish person, quaintly dressed in grey, and 
 sternly defying fashion, then outrageous in 
 crinoline; she had a pale, rather sad little 
 face, and sat looking thoughtfully on the 
 sunny trees and early flowers. It flashed 
 across Philip's mind that he had somewhere 
 seen this girl before, and he half hesitated 
 as he passed her, and looked at her with a 
 momentary glance of curiosity. The girl 
 raised her eyes, suddenly meeting his glance, 
 and embarrassing Philip, who felt himself 
 caught in a rudeness. But the eirl started 
 to her feet, holding out her hand eagerly, and 
 advancing towards him. Only for a few steps, 
 however ; Philip did not recognise her, and 
 was startled and unresponsive. Then her
 
 154 A DREAMER. 
 
 courage faded : she checked herself; the flush 
 died from her cheek and the sparkle from her 
 eye. She drew back, saying quiveringly — 
 
 '' I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have done 
 that. I thought I knew you — that was all." 
 
 Philip's chivalry was aroused, for the child 
 was evidently ashamed of her impulsiveness. 
 
 ** Don't be sorry," he said, smiling ; *' we 
 are old friends, are we not ? My name is 
 Temple," he went on ; " Philip Temple." 
 
 '' Yes, that is what I thought," said the girl : 
 " thank you ; please forgive me ; " and still she 
 was turning away, but with so much contrition 
 that Philip detained her. 
 
 " Why do you go ? We are old friends, and 
 may be allowed to speak to each other for a 
 few minutes." 
 
 " Yes, but you don't know who I am. You 
 have forgotten Griselda." 
 
 "Ah!" said Philip, the name recalling a 
 long-unopened page in his history. 
 
 '' Please let me go," said Griselda Mortimer. 
 
 ** No, no," answered Philip, who had taken 
 her hand ; *' I remember you very well now.
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. ;I55 
 
 It was stupid of me to forget. You are not 
 much changed." 
 
 " Of course I am changed," said she, gravely. 
 " I was only a little girl then." 
 
 " You are not much more now," said Philip, 
 who thought she was about fifteen. " Do you 
 know the gardener s lodge down there ? The 
 tulips and hyacinths are splendid. Let us go 
 and see them." They walked along silently, the 
 tears running unheeded down the child's face. 
 
 " Why do you cry ? " Philip ventured pres- 
 ently, when they had isolated themselves by 
 the little garden. 
 
 " I'm not crying," said Griselda, with sudden 
 anger, making her reply a true one, for the 
 flash of her eyes seemed to burn up the tears, 
 and she looked at him defiantly with perfect 
 calm. *' I am going home now," she said pres- 
 ently, Philip having made no second remark 
 after this flat contradiction. 
 
 " Not yet," said he. *' Are you not going 
 to speak to me ? Why did you run out at me 
 then ? " 
 
 '' Of course I wish I had not done it," she
 
 156 A DREAMER. 
 
 cried ; " I hadn't time to think. I can't think 
 in a hurry, and yet one has to act in a hurry ; 
 that is why I am always making mistakes. I 
 didn't want you, as it turned out ; but I might 
 have wanted you, and while I was thinking 
 if I did or not, you would have been gone. 
 Good-bye, Mr Temple." 
 
 " You cannot walk home by youself/' said 
 Philip. " You must let me go with you." 
 
 - What for ? " 
 
 " To take care of you," said Philip, lecturing 
 her, as one naturally lectures a child. " You 
 should not come to such a public place by 
 yourself." 
 
 " Why not, please ? " 
 
 '' Well, I don't know. Ladies don't gener- 
 ally," said Philip. 
 
 Griselda paused ; then she said gravely, " I 
 am not a lady then, I suppose. I am only a 
 singer.'' 
 
 " Oh, for that matter, a housemaid may be 
 a lady, of course," said Philip. 
 
 " That is not what you began about," said 
 Griselda. Philip was reduced to silence.
 
 "FOR henry's sake." 157 
 
 " Why shouldn't I take care of myself ? " said 
 the girl, who was always shaken by disap- 
 proval. 
 
 " You are too little to go about alone," said 
 Philip, shrugging his shoulders, ''and too 
 pretty." 
 
 It was not a polite speech, but he told him- 
 self it was for her good. Griselda's eyes 
 flashed. She turned her head away indig- 
 nantly and would have left him. Philip was 
 vexed with her — she with him. 
 
 " As we have met," he said, " I should like 
 to have heard a little about you — where you 
 are living, and what you are doing." 
 
 She turned round, and answered gravely, 
 " I live with papa, of course, and I go on 
 learning to sing. I am to begin at the Opera 
 when I am eighteen — that will be In less than 
 three months. I have nothing more to say. 
 Now will you please tell me the shortest way 
 to the Marble Arch." She spoke coldly, and 
 was evidently offended. 
 
 " May I not come to show 3^ou ? " said 
 Philip, more meekly now that he knew her
 
 158 A DREAMER. 
 
 age, but more than ever convinced that she 
 ought to be protected. Griselda said nothing, 
 and he walked solemnly beside her, neither of 
 them speaking. She threaded her way with 
 great coolness between the thronging vehicles 
 in Oxford Street, as they crossed it near the 
 Marble Arch. They turned down Wigmore 
 Street, and crossed Cavendish Square. At 
 Maroraret Street she turned aofain to the left, 
 and presently stopped at the door of an un- 
 inviting house in a narrow street. Griselda 
 mounted the three little steps and held out 
 her hand. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said, '* and thank you." 
 Her brown eyes looked soft and kindly now. 
 Philip was emboldened to say — 
 
 '* I live in London also. May I not come 
 to see you some day?" 
 
 '' Perhaps," said Griselda, doubtfully. '' I 
 mean, perhaps I will let you in. I don't 
 know." 
 
 *' I will take my chance." 
 
 "In the morning is best," said Griselda; 
 '' but I don't know if I will let you in."
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 159 
 
 He turned away thoughtfully, hailed a pass- 
 ing hansom, and drove home with his sugar- 
 plums. 
 
 That evening Philip told Agnes about 
 Griselda, and found she had not known of 
 her being in London. Agnes did not seem 
 particularly interested In her cousin. On the 
 following morning, however, Mrs Temple- 
 Mortimer said to Oliver — 
 
 " I hear Griselda is living in London. I 
 Intend to ask her here." 
 
 *' Why, my dear ? " 
 
 "It Is very important that we should be 
 kind to her." 
 
 " I suppose you think we owe her some- 
 thing," said Oliver, who had extracted his 
 wife's secret from her own lips six months 
 after their marriage. 
 
 " I choose to be civil," said Agnes. 
 
 " One doesn't want actresses in and out of 
 the house." 
 
 ** She Is quite a lady," said Agnes. 
 
 " A lady of a confoundedly vehement 
 temper."
 
 l6o A DREAMER. 
 
 *' It suits her style ; there is nothing unlady- 
 like in her manner or temper." 
 
 " You can't call your precious uncle a 
 gentleman/^ 
 
 *' I said nothing about inviting him." 
 
 '' You had better not invite him. I hate 
 snobs.'' 
 
 *' I daresay Griselda is more like other 
 people now," said Agnes ; " and as to her 
 singing, it is an advantage. We must keep 
 up our character for good music." 
 
 '' Oh, if you make a singing girl of her, it is 
 a different thinor. You need not hawk her 
 about as a relation. But she'll never be much 
 of a singer.'' 
 
 " I think she will. I consider her voice 
 lovely." 
 
 *' She's beginning too young to be any 
 good, and she hasn't the nerve and the 
 brass for it." 
 
 *' You seem to know a great deal about her." 
 
 " I heard her sing at a rehearsal the other 
 day." 
 
 *' Why didn't you tell me ? " said Agnes,
 
 ''FOR HENRYS SAKE." l6l 
 
 annoyed. " You are hard to please, Oliver. 
 Pray, is brass an attraction ? " 
 
 *' A person ought to be one thing or another, 
 not a sham lady or a bad singer." 
 
 " She is quite a lady," repeated Agnes. " It 
 is only her position that is against her. Her 
 position is not her fault." 
 
 '' Whose fault is it ? Ours ? " 
 
 Agnes did not answer this question. " You 
 can't deny that she is very pretty, Oliver," she 
 said. 
 
 '' For that style. I don't admire her. I 
 hke a tall, handsome woman, like you, my 
 dear." 
 
 It was a rudely-presented compliment, and 
 Agnes left him — knowing, however, that she 
 would be allowed her own way about Griselda. 
 Oliver let her do as she liked in trifles. 
 
 When Agnes Mortimer had married Oliver 
 Temple, she had had a definite plan for her 
 life in her own mind. She meant to become a 
 very good woman. It is true, she had begun 
 with a mistake, or a sin, if you prefer calling 
 it so ; but Agnes had no objection to whited 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 l62 A DREAMER. 
 
 sepulchres. If ghosts were to rise from them, 
 she could shut her eyes ; and doubtless the 
 Scripture was mistaken which condemned the 
 sewing of new cloth on an old garment. She 
 believed her husband to be a very estimable 
 man, not so crotchety as that poor dear Philip, 
 but as truthful and honourable as the ordinary 
 English gentleman — better than herself, Agnes 
 hoped In her heart. Then he found out her 
 secret, and Instead of testifying horror at It, 
 treated her conduct as a matter of course, 
 entering Into the plot with her, and only 
 making one stipulation, that she was to keep 
 absolute silence on the matter to every one. 
 Agnes had neither power nor Inclination to 
 resist, but from this moment she hated her 
 husband. A crisis In her life was over : she 
 had bound herself Irrevocably to her sin ; she 
 had entered Into a plot to sustain a fraud ; she 
 had an accomplice ; she had confessed herself 
 an Impostor. The consciousness of all this 
 was very bitter, for Agnes had not lost all 
 reverence for truth and justice. She felt her- 
 self changed. From henceforth she abandoned
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 163 
 
 all idea of becoming a good woman — improve- 
 ment was impossible. The most now left to 
 her was to seem good to other people. And 
 from henceforth she no longer tried to love 
 and respect her husband. He was a liar and 
 an impostor too. She hated him for the thing 
 she almost hated in herself But she con- 
 tinued to be in appearance a dutiful and affec- 
 tionate wife. Mr and Mrs Temple-Mortimer 
 were universally liked and commended. If 
 they had a skeleton in their cupboard, its pres- 
 ence was unsuspected by their friends and 
 neighbours.
 
 i64 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FEW mornings afterwards, Philip made his 
 way again to the dingy house in the narrow 
 street where Griselda Mortimer lived. The 
 bell was answered by herself. She started on 
 seeing him, and drew back. 
 
 '' I thought it was the baker," she said, 
 colouring, and keeping her hand on the 
 latch. 
 
 " You know you told me to come in the 
 morning," explained Philip, apologetically. 
 
 " I know I did, but " 
 
 '' Never mind. Miss Mortimer," said Philip, 
 helping her ; *' I happened to be passing, and 
 having no umbrella, suffered such anxiety from 
 that black cloud, that I stopped to get an 
 opinion about it. Give me one quickly. Is 
 it going to rain ? "
 
 i6s 
 
 '' Yes," answered Griselda ; *' a shower. 
 Come in, as you are afraid of the rain." 
 
 '' But I am not. I was only tortured by un- 
 certainty in my own mind. You have settled 
 the question for me. I am content." 
 
 " I should like to see you. Please come in." 
 
 Philip followed her up the stairs. " I am 
 afraid you are letting m^ intrude, Miss Mor- 
 timer," he said. 
 
 How pretty Griselda was in her print frock 
 like a housemaid's, tucked up at one side over 
 a crimson petticoat, and covered in front with 
 a white apron ! Her abundant hair was hidden 
 away as much as possible, giving her a demure 
 look that seemed the prettiest affectation. She 
 looked at him gravely. 
 
 " Why do you say Miss Mortimer to 
 me?" 
 
 "Are you not Miss Mortimer?" said Philip, 
 who could not divest himself of the idea that 
 she was a mere child. It seemed a pretty 
 affectation to call her Miss Mortimer, like her 
 own demureness. 
 
 " I suppose I am," said Griselda, sitting
 
 l66 A DREAMER. 
 
 down composedly, but with an expression of 
 sadness stealingr over her face. 
 
 -Well?" 
 
 *' I had rather you said Griselda. So few 
 people call me by my own name, and I like it 
 best. It feels then as if I belonged to some 
 one and was a real person. When I am only 
 Miss Mortimer, I feel like a thing." 
 
 "Well, I will call you Griselda. I like it 
 much better." 
 
 Philip wondered if he were looking at her 
 too much. He turned his eyes to survey the 
 room. It was small and dark ; the furniture 
 was old and meagre, but there was a piano, 
 of course, and on the wall hung an oil-painting 
 — a fair copy of a celebrated picture. Philip 
 went over and looked at it. 
 
 " Your father painted this ? " 
 
 *' Yes ; he gave it to me. It is my favourite 
 picture in Florence." 
 
 " It is a good copy," said Philip, with much 
 candour ; " it is a pity your father does not 
 keep to this style, I think." 
 
 " You mean copying good pictures instead of
 
 "FOR HENRY'S SAKE." 167 
 
 inventing bad ones ? I think that too, only it 
 applies to so many people." 
 
 " Curates, &c," said Philip, smiling. 
 
 *' But I know the feeling," said Griselda, 
 warmly, " that makes one love best what one 
 has made one's self. I have a great many beau- 
 tiful songs, but I love none of them so much 
 as the poor little tunes I invent myself" 
 
 " Oh, it is a g^rand thinor to invent ! " said 
 Philip; " I delight in it. I invented a machine 
 once. It wasn't a particularly good one, and 
 some other man had found it out long ago. 
 No matter, I invented it. Let me glory in it, 
 and — keep it to myself" 
 
 ** When we love a thing very much, we fancy 
 other people must love it too," said Griselda. 
 " When I read a stupid book or sing an ugly 
 song, it makes me sad. I hear the wailing 
 of the disappointed writer who thought it so 
 beautiful." 
 
 "• Do you?" said Philip, leaning towards her; 
 "so do I. I have an intense sympathy with 
 stupid people, and ugly people, and slighted 
 people. They are almost always disappointed,
 
 l68 A DREAMER. 
 
 or else they will be disappointed. Why, I 
 myself, Griselda, once fancied I was a genius, 
 and dally expected to develop Into the beauty 
 of an Apollo. I know something of disap- 
 pointment." 
 
 She looked up sympathetically, surprising 
 Philip, who had spoken In jest. " I remem- 
 ber," said Griselda, "you were disappointed 
 about Agnes." 
 
 " I have recovered from that," said Philip, 
 gravely. 
 
 '' Why did not you marry Agnes ? '^ asked 
 Griselda, innocently. " I beg your pardon," 
 she added presently, as Philip made no answer. 
 " I did not mean to ask anything rude. But I 
 have always felt so sorry about It. You used 
 to seem so happy. I think you were the first 
 really happy people I had seen, and I was 
 always thinking about you. It seemed a sort 
 of Ideal frame of mind that I had not met with 
 In real life before. I enjoyed it so much, and 
 yet It all came to nothing. You can't think 
 how I cried about you when I heard," she 
 said, laughing.
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 169 
 
 '' Did you, Griselda ? That was very good 
 of you. But I am afraid you were too sym- 
 pathetic. I got over it pretty soon." 
 
 " Did you ? I can't help being sorry. It is 
 fooHsh, perhaps ; but I can't help liking people 
 who are really " She hesitated. 
 
 *' Constant, Griselda ? But people make mis- 
 takes sometimes, and fall in love with the 
 wrong person. Then as they get wiser and 
 better they grow out of it, and it is a mercy if 
 they have not made an irretrievable mistake, 
 and bound themselves already, in what ought 
 to be bands of affection, to the wrong person." 
 
 " I see," said Griselda, very thoughtfully ; 
 " and as Agnes did not really care for you 
 — she married so soon after ' — it did not 
 matter ? " 
 
 " How do you mean 'matter'? If Agnes 
 had broken her heart for me, I should have 
 been very sorry ; but it could not have altered 
 my decision." 
 
 " But surely the other person's feelings would 
 make a difference ? It is so terrible to make 
 people unhappy ! "
 
 I/O A DREAMER. 
 
 *' In some cases It would make a difference, 
 no doubt." 
 
 "It would make a difference," she went on, 
 *' in mere cases of liking. One could not 
 break a person's heart merely to please one's 
 self. But if there was some question of right 
 and wrong, I suppose It would not make a 
 difference. Oh how dreadful It would be!" 
 she said, clasping her hands. 
 
 *' You have stated the case exactly right," 
 said Philip, gravely. He liked her view of 
 things. 
 
 *' That was what you had to do, then ? " 
 she said, softly. 
 
 *' Yes ; I suppose It was. But you see I 
 did not break any one's heart," he added, 
 smilinof. 
 
 " I am glad you think people can get over 
 disappointments of that sort," said Griselda. 
 
 *' Why ? A minute ago you were angry 
 with me for having done so." Griselda smiled. 
 
 '' Because you destroyed a little ideal I had 
 formed of your faithfulness. But now I was 
 thinkinof of somethino- else."
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 171 
 
 " A penny for your thoughts, then. You 
 can refuse to give them if you Hke, as I did 
 not answer your inquisitive question." 
 
 '' Oh, please, I did not mean to be inquisi- 
 tive." 
 
 " I know you did not. But I am inquisitive 
 as to your thoughts." 
 
 *' It seems a queer thing to tell you, but 
 I don't know why I should not. It is only 
 there is some one who was foolish enough to 
 want me to marry him. I can't bear him to be 
 unhappy, and I should like to think that, as 
 he gets wiser and better, he will get over it." 
 
 Philip was amused by this simple reply. 
 '' I thought young ladies liked to keep their 
 admirers," he said. She coloured. 
 
 " Please do not talk to me so. I should 
 never like to make any one unhappy." There 
 was a moment's pause. Philip was interest- 
 ed in her. Suddenly she exclaimed, startling 
 him, '' I hate that talk about ' admirers.' It 
 is horrid. As if one wanted to be admired /" 
 
 " You frighten me ! I like to be admired 
 
 o 
 
 very much. But then / don't get much chance
 
 172 A DREAMER. 
 
 of being admired." Philip was elaborately 
 pointing a pencil ; but he raised his eyes 
 to her pretty face and smiled as he spoke. 
 Griselda rose, her whole face flushed and her 
 lips quivering. 
 
 '* Don't," she cried. Philip rose also, startled 
 and penitent, and trying to remember what he 
 had said to offend her. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, apologetically ; *' I 
 was only jesting. What was it I said ? " he 
 added, amused at her consternation, and con- 
 scious of innocence. 
 
 Griselda sat down again, and said, very 
 gravely, *' If you had heard as much as I 
 have about being admired, and the advan- 
 tages of beauty — such advantages as I hear 
 of — you would not wish to be admired. You 
 would wish to be ugly, as I do sometimes." 
 
 Philip felt ashamed of his trifling frame 
 of mind. Her evident pain rebuked him. 
 *' There are real advantages in beauty too, 
 Griselda," he said, with some awkwardness. 
 
 " I know there are," she replied, with quiet 
 dignity. *' Ah ! if people — if you — would
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 173 
 
 remind one of those — not of the sham ones ! 
 There are real advantages in all beauty, 
 whether it is in nature or in art. I love my 
 art, though I cannot bear the way I have to 
 spend my time at it." 
 
 " I am afraid I don't exactly understand you." 
 
 '' I love music more than anything in the 
 world ; yet the thought of this life terrifies 
 me. Have you ever thought what it must 
 be to stand up and sing before a crowd of 
 people ? " 
 
 " You are nervous, Griselda : you will get 
 over that." 
 
 '' I am not talking of that. I shall never 
 get over the feeling I mean. It isn't that I 
 am afraid of singing badly ; it is the thought 
 of singing at all — in that way. I know very 
 well what I am talking about. I have sung 
 several times at concerts and in drawing- 
 rooms where there have been numbers of 
 people. It is horrible. It is like being 
 scorched. To stand up before a crowd of 
 persons and show oif, it makes my heart 
 stop beating ! "
 
 174 A DREAMER. 
 
 She hid her face in her hands, partly 
 ashamed of her excitement, partly anxious to 
 hide the tears that had come with a sudden 
 rush. Philip was too much moved by her 
 distress to reply. He came a little nearer, 
 and would, as a tribute of respect, have 
 touched her hand, had it been at liberty ; 
 but it was pressed tightly against her brow. 
 Her little frame was shaken with sobs. Pres- 
 ently she stammered, crossly now — 
 
 '' I wish you would not make me cry. Why 
 do you, when you know I hate it ? " 
 
 *' Griselda, you poor child ! tell me, is there 
 nothing I can do for you ? " 
 
 She looked up through her tears. " Yes, 
 there is something. I will tell you. The 
 first night will be the worst ; but if my friends 
 will come and listen, it will not be quite so 
 bad. Will you come ? If I know I have 
 some friends watching me, it will help me. 
 I shall feel more like a person — less like a 
 thing, a toy. Papa will come. I have one very 
 great friend who will come ; and Agnes, my 
 cousin, she w411 be there, perhaps. Will you
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 175 
 
 remember ? because you are my old friend. 
 I may call you that, mayn't I ? " she added, 
 shyly. 
 
 " I will come, Griselda, my old friend," said 
 Philip. 
 
 Just then the door opened, and a little 
 servant came in with a query about " Master's 
 dinner." She was a London girl, probably 
 captured in Clerkenwell. Her face was sal- 
 low, her back round, and her dress dirty ; 
 but her hair, or rather her frizzettes, was elab- 
 orately arranged in the height of last year's 
 fashion. 
 
 *' That is Elizabeth," explained Griselda, as 
 the door closed; and seeing a smile on Philip's 
 lips, the cause of which she mistook, she add- 
 ed, angrily, " Why do you laugh at Elizabeth ? 
 She is a very good girl, and works so hard. 
 I wonder if you are ever half so tired when 
 you go to bed as she is ? " 
 
 Then Griselda sent Philip away, but not 
 before he had said, '' I. may come again, 
 Griselda, may I not ? " 
 
 *' Oh, please do!" she cried; "I have so
 
 176 A DREAMER. 
 
 few friends. I have been so glad to see 
 you again. ^^ 
 
 Philip walked back to Kensington, saying 
 to himself that she was a little tangled mass of 
 contradictions, and that she had a sweet little 
 face. 
 
 Her " Oh, please do ! " had been so warm, 
 that Philip ventured to repeat his visit before 
 very many days had passed. 
 
 This time he found '' her very great friend " 
 with her. He and Philip recognised each 
 other. 
 
 " ?Iallo, Lindsay ! " 
 
 '' How do you do, Temple ? '' 
 
 It was about five o'clock, and Griselda in- 
 sisted on making some tea for her visitors. 
 She flashed in and out of the room, bringing 
 the cups herself, boiling the kettle, and pro- 
 ducing some radishes and mustard and cress. 
 It was a merry little meal. Griselda was in 
 high spirits, and she and Ralph combined to 
 make Philip welcome and amused. 
 
 Griselda and Ralph were great friends. 
 They called each other by their Christian
 
 " FOR HEN.RY S SAKE." 177 
 
 names, and appeared to have all sorts of 
 private little jokes and interests. Ralph 
 followed her about with his eyes, full of un- 
 concealed interest and admiration. Griselda 
 apparently tyrannised somewhat over him, but 
 he seemed no unwilling slave. Occasionally, 
 when her eyes fell on him, a look of tender 
 compunction stole over her face, ^s if she 
 thought she were teasing him, and felt sorry 
 for it. Philip was a little perplexed by the 
 relationship between them. 
 
 After tea, she sat down to the piano, and 
 sang as often as they asked and whatever they 
 liked. Philip, listening to her, felt himself car- 
 ried back to the enchanted land whither she 
 had once wafted him in her childhood. The 
 promise of her early singing had been ful- 
 filled : its purity and simplicity remained ; but 
 her eighteen years had given to her voice a 
 strength and richness only to be guessed at 
 when Philip had heard her last. Evidently 
 singing was a delight to her ; her cheek 
 glowed and her eyes shone with the rapture 
 of a St Cecilia. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A MONTH passed. Much may happen In a 
 month ; and much had happened in this par- 
 ticular month. 
 
 Agnes had sought her little cousin, and 
 patronised her affectionately. Oliver admitted 
 that she had Improved in appearance. Philip 
 saw her frequently. And, what was more 
 Important than all this, Ralph Lindsay and 
 Philip had struck up a friendship. 
 
 I have said before that Philip had always 
 fascinated Ralph, and the prejudice the latter 
 had entertained against him, though strong, 
 had been rather forced. During the four 
 years that had passed since Ralph had gone 
 to Holland, his history had been simple, and 
 on the whole happy. Four such years tend 
 to soften prejudices, and allow green grass to
 
 179 
 
 grow upon new-made graves. When Ralph 
 met Philip again at Griselda's little tea-table, 
 the past flashed before his mind, and he told 
 himself that it was this man who had ruined 
 and betrayed poor Henry ; but he told him- 
 self also that explanation and repentance were 
 possible for all that, and he determined to 
 give Temple the benefit of the possibility. 
 A month passed, and I suppose Philip gave 
 Ralph the explanation, and convinced him of 
 the repentance. At any rate, Ralph Lindsay's 
 eyes fell on him now with entire confidence, 
 and even affection. 
 
 Ralph's was eminently a receptive nature. 
 He recognised and appreciated in others num- 
 berless qualities which in himself existed only 
 in the rudimentary stage. He never, perhaps, 
 originated anything ; but no one was quicker 
 to perceive the original and to delight in it. 
 Philip, on the other hand, was all imagination ; 
 he wanted some one on whom he could pour 
 the mass of bewildering, chaotic, uncontrol- 
 lable fancies that his own head was hardly 
 strong enough to contain. He needed some
 
 l8o A DREAMER. 
 
 one to respond to his touch, as Griselda's piano 
 responded to the harmonies she poured into it. 
 The two natures, PhiHp's and Ralph's, feh 
 themselves complementary at once ; and when 
 barriers to frank intercourse had been mutu- 
 ally removed, confidence and intimacy were 
 established between them. 
 
 Ralph was continually in the little house in 
 Kensington, and often outstayed even young 
 Winthrop the rising poet, or Donnington the 
 melancholy painter, or the boy Lynton Roth- 
 bury, a half-mad young scapegrace, with a wild 
 gipsy nature and more than a touch of genius, 
 who worshipped Philip, and would have gone 
 through purgatory unflinchingly for a touch 
 of his somewhat careless hero's hand. Philip 
 was a little bored by some of these enthusiastic 
 disciples of his : they were rather disappoint- 
 ing on long intimacy, wonderfully like the rest 
 of the world in many ways, but wanting the 
 common-sense which Philip had once despised, 
 and for which he now began to pine. A great 
 many of them were excellent theorists and 
 very faulty practitioners ; and Philip, with his
 
 "FOR henry's sake." i8i 
 
 craving for the Impossible, lost his temper in 
 turn with each of them. He secretly feared 
 that many of them were but quacks after all, 
 and he welcomed Ralph Lindsay, a sensible, ap- 
 preciative, ennobling sort of fellow, who looked 
 out upon the world through no coloured glass. 
 
 Ralph's story during the last four years can 
 be given in a few lines. He did his work well 
 and prospered, winning the confidence of his 
 employers. He never lost sight of Griselda 
 after the day on which he had drawn her por- 
 trait from memory ; he watched over her with 
 a tender brotherly interest, " for Henry's sake." 
 Not always and only for Henry's sake, how- 
 ever. As Griselda grew older, a new Idea 
 entered his mind, which she unconsciously 
 encouraged in the simple, confiding, sisterly 
 love she sfave him. As a child she had been 
 " his little sister:" when she was seventeen she 
 still named him '' her brother Ralph." 
 
 One day Griselda was lamenting over her 
 hard fate in having to enter a life she dreaded 
 and hated. 
 
 " Don't do It, Griselda," said Ralph, with
 
 1 82 A DREAMER. 
 
 beating heart. *' I will save you from it. Come 
 to me. Be my little wife." 
 
 Griselda flung him from her ; then burst 
 Into tears, and cried all night for him. 
 
 *' Oh, Ralph, what did you say such a thing 
 for ? I couldn't do it. I couldn't marry you. 
 I don't want to marry any one. Why do you 
 make me hurt you like this ? We were so 
 happy. You have spoiled everything now. 
 You have robbed me of my friend. It will 
 never be the same again." 
 
 The words sound selfish, but not so did the 
 tone In which they were uttered. Griselda 
 was thinking of him, not of herself. 
 
 Presently Ralph raised a disappointed face, 
 trying to be cheerful. 
 
 *' Never mind, Griselda. Don't be unhappy 
 about me. I ought not to have asked you. 
 You must forget all about it, and never think 
 of it again. We will be brother and sister 
 still, and as happy as we used to be. Then 
 it will be all right." 
 
 '' No, it won't be the same," said Griselda. 
 '' Could you forget ? "
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 183 
 
 " Oh yes, I'll try to forget. You will forget. 
 We will never say a word about it again, my 
 little sister, and we shall be friends for the rest 
 of our lives." 
 
 And so the intimacy between them, w^hich 
 Philip found existing when he entered into 
 their friendship, was a tolerably successful 
 copy of the frank, unconscious intimacy which 
 had been before this unlucky proposal had 
 frightened Griselda and disappointed Ralph. 
 
 One evening Ralph and Philip were sitting 
 alone over some coffee in Philip's little room 
 in Kensington. The windows were open, 
 and there was no light from lamp or candle. 
 Philip leaned back in a low chair, his hands 
 behind his head, and his eyes far away on 
 the moon - illumined clouds. He was astride 
 a hobby, of course. 
 
 " I suspect we know very little about ani- 
 mals. Of course my dog here" (the sleepy 
 Duke of Wellington responded to his master's 
 little kick by two slow thumps of his tail on 
 the floor) " may have no other business in life 
 than to stalk about the streets after me, but I
 
 1 84 A DREAMER. 
 
 don't consider that proved. He may have 
 some entirely private business that I don't 
 appreciate because I don't perceive It. I see 
 that the poor dear fellow has very little in- 
 tellect of my sort ; but how do I know he 
 has no other of his own particular sort, which, 
 again, I don't appreciate because I don't per- 
 ceive It ? There Is no common medium be- 
 tween us to enable me to perceive It, just 
 as one can't hear In a vacuum. Imagine a 
 man who not only was blind and deaf, but 
 who had no conception that there were such 
 facts as seeing and hearing, — would he not 
 fall to appreciate, because he failed to per- 
 ceive, lots of people's businesses in life ? I 
 think some theory of that kind is necessary 
 to account for the prodigality of animal life 
 upon the globe — the countless varieties of It. 
 You say all these beasts are merely Inhabit- 
 ants for the world ? I hope I have a higher 
 mission In life than to inhabit the world only. 
 Then why not earwigs also ? I suspect we 
 see some traces of intellects of a different 
 order amone such creatures as bees and ants.
 
 " FOR henry's sake/' 185 
 
 When I talk of intellects of a different order, 
 I don't exactly express what I mean. I mean 
 something replacing Intellect, equal or Inferior 
 or superior, as It may be, to It, but entirely 
 different. Something we have no means of 
 conceiving. We are so fond of supposing 
 the type we know to be the only one, and 
 that other organisms differ from It In degree, 
 not In kind." 
 
 '' I don't see that your hypothesis commends 
 itself to one naturally," said Ralph. 
 
 *' But I think It does. Look, you start with 
 the assumption — let everything be the same 
 unless we can prove It to be different. I start 
 — and I really think more reasonably — with 
 the opposite assumption, — let all things be 
 different unless we can prove them to be the 
 same." 
 
 " Well, I quite agree with you that we 
 know very little about other creatures. We 
 misunderstand those of our own kind often 
 enough." 
 
 "It may very well be, at any rate in some 
 Instances, from our own deficiency in the par-
 
 1 86 A DREAMER. 
 
 ticular branch of intellect that in them has led 
 to the particular speech or action we misunder- 
 stand. I have been writing something lately, 
 by the way, to reconcile this idea with the 
 new scientific doctrines. Shall I show it to 
 you : 
 
 ** By all means. Are you going to publish 
 it?" 
 
 *' Certainly not. It is bad enough to be 
 called a fool by my own circle ; but by the 
 universe at large ! Besides, it is mere guess- 
 work. Heaven preserve the world from an 
 inundation of guesses ! " 
 
 " Talking of understanding people," said 
 Ralph, after a pause — *' do you quite under- 
 stand Griselda's intense love for music and 
 intense aversion to singing in public ? " Philip 
 brought his eyes down from the stars to 
 Ralph's face. He answered presently — 
 
 '' Yes, thoroughly. She feels it a degrada- 
 tion of her singing." 
 
 " But it is not really so," said Ralph. 
 
 *' I am not quite sure. It ought not to be 
 so, of course."
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 187 
 
 " She will get over It, I hope," said Ralph. 
 Again a pause. 
 
 '' Yes, she will get over it, I suppose ; but 
 let me tell you something. If she gets over 
 it, her comfortableness will be increased, but 
 at the cost of spoiling a bit of her nature. To 
 cut off a feeling is as much mutilation as to 
 cut off an arm." 
 
 *' But I think feelings run mad sometimes, 
 when they Interfere with the performance of 
 obvious duty." 
 
 " Hum ! I am not prepared to answer that 
 remark to-night. I feel a reply within me, 
 not yet come to the birth — a week hence, if 
 you please." 
 
 *' Some people feel too much," said Ralph, 
 pushing his advantage while he had it. 
 
 '' Oh no, f/iey dontl' cried Philip; " that Is not 
 it. Wait for a week. Talk of something else." 
 
 The old Whitechapel man had brought In 
 the lamp, and lighted up the cosy room and 
 the young master thereof, who looked almost 
 too much at his ease In the low chair with his 
 hands behind his head.
 
 1 88 A DREAMER. 
 
 " Why don't you marry ? " asked Ralph, 
 lauofhlnof. 
 
 o o 
 
 '* I ! Marry ? Why should I upset my 
 life ? Do you suppose my wife would not 
 scent out the smell of tobacco in all the rooms, 
 and banish my best pipes ? " 
 
 " It's such a jolly little house," said Ralph, 
 enviously. 
 
 " Very, for one person. I can't stow away 
 my father and mother without a positive revolu- 
 tion, and I don't know how many charwomen." 
 
 Ralph laughed. " One's parents take more 
 room than other people," he said, thinking 
 of his own father, the stout and ponderous 
 doctor, and his mother, a gentle dependent 
 woman, who always seemed to carry more 
 shawls and bandboxes than any one else. 
 " Have you never thought of marrying, 
 Temple ? " 
 
 '' You saw last night a lady I once thought 
 of marrying." 
 
 ** That was a foolish Idea," said Ralph ; " I 
 fancy you would not fit the big house in May- 
 fair as well as this little den."
 
 " FOR henry's sake/' 189 
 
 ** True enough : that affair was an illusion 
 from which I waked up a wiser and a sadder 
 man, and — a bachelor." 
 
 " But, seriously, have you never thought of 
 marrying since ? " 
 
 "Seriously and candidly, often." 
 
 " What's wanting ? " The conversation was 
 becoming interesting. When thou and I, O 
 my friend, sit tete-a-tete at eventide, the con- 
 versation, to be really interesting, must concern 
 thee or me. 
 
 " The lady," answered Philip. 
 
 " Have you never seen her ?" 
 
 " I have seen several who would do for a 
 day ; a few who would do for a week ; none 
 who would do for a life." 
 
 '' I don't understand that way of falling in 
 love and out again," said Ralph, severely. 
 
 " Lindsay, my friend," answered Philip, '' you 
 are not so many-sided as I am : you don't see 
 all round a person as I do ; you don't violently 
 dislike and like the same person. Likewise, 
 you have the security against rash affections, 
 of a previous attachment."
 
 IQO A DREAMER. 
 
 " How do you know I have a previous 
 attachment ? " asked Ralph, colouring. 
 
 '' It is tolerably obvious," said Philip ; *' I 
 perceived it at once. Forgive me If It was 
 meant to be a secret.'' 
 
 Ralph did not reply directly. Then he 
 said — 
 
 " Thanks for the hint. I hope every one 
 is not so sharp as you. But I will be more 
 circumspect in the future. It is meant to be 
 a secret." 
 
 '' Having got so far, you may as well tell me 
 the history," said Philip. 
 
 *' There Is nothing to tell, except that it Is 
 hopeless." 
 
 '' Hopeless ! I think not." 
 
 '' Quite hopeless. I have promised never to 
 speak of it again." 
 
 *' Don't keep your promise. Look here, 
 Lindsay : she is a mere child ; she does not 
 know her own heart. I know how she speaks 
 of you behind your back. Ask her again In a 
 year or two, when she has seen a little more 
 of the world."
 
 *' FOR henry's sake." IQI 
 
 " When she has seen more people, I shall 
 have still less chance," said Ralph. 
 
 " No : the people she is likely to see will 
 teach her your value." 
 
 " She will see many excellent people," said 
 Ralph, offended. 
 
 *' None better or truer than yourself, my dear 
 fellow ; none whom she will like better. Mark 
 my prophecy." 
 
 '' No ; she does not really care for me. I 
 have given it up. Child as she is, I should 
 gladly see her married to any worthy, honour- 
 able man who would save her from the sorrows 
 and difficulties before her." 
 
 '' Would you really ? " said Philip, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 *' I should," Ralph answered, earnestly. '' I 
 should be jealous, of course : that little pain 
 would be swallowed up in the pleasure of 
 seeing her happy and cared for. If I could 
 be sure of the man " 
 
 " You shall be the man yourself. I tell you, 
 I know what she thinks of you." 
 
 '' Are you really speaking in earnest ? " said
 
 192 A DREAMER. 
 
 Ralph, with a mien of so much added cheer- 
 fulness that Philip drew back. 
 
 ''I am ; but don't suppose I am infallible. 
 I may interpret the little lady all wrong — 
 but ask her again in a little while. That is 
 my advice.^' 
 
 '' Ah, if I could believe you were right ! 
 Are you sure you don't want her yourself? I 
 would give her to you, Temple." 
 
 " My dear fellow, if I had not been a similar 
 fool myself, and fancied that every person must 
 desire a certain young lady because I desired 
 her, I should laugh at you heartily. I tell you, 
 I will dance at your wedding with unmitigated 
 cheerfulness." 
 
 ''My blessings upon you for the hope you 
 have suggested to me," cried Ralph; "and 
 you will marry yourself some day, I suppose. 
 Then again my good luck to you." 
 
 " I shall do no such thing. Think of a third 
 pair of eyes watching us now, and haunting my 
 steps all day, and a squalling nursery overhead." 
 
 " I can imagine no higher earthly blessed- 
 ness," said Ralph.
 
 ''FOR HENRYS SAKE." 193 
 
 " Nor I," returned Philip, gravely. 
 
 A month had done great things for these 
 two, had it not ? And now a word of explana- 
 tion. Perhaps you think Philip Temple was 
 uncharacteristically frank in this talk with one 
 who, after all, was a new and an untried friend. 
 If so, remember that it is very easy to be frank 
 and very hard to be perfectly sincere about 
 negations. 
 
 Philip had not fallen in love with Griselda, 
 then. He continually found his way to the 
 little house near Margaret Street, and when 
 there, he scarcely took his eyes off the young 
 girl for a moment, or thought of any one but 
 herself. When she sang to him he listened as 
 in a dream, losinor all sense of time in the 
 delight of the moment, and awaking to return- 
 ing consciousness with a start that was almost 
 painful. But he never thought of her but as 
 a pretty child who interested him more than 
 most children. He felt a protective sympathy 
 with her that soon grew^ into a species of ap- 
 propriation. She was a little waif tossed over 
 to his side by the east wind, and it was his 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 A DREAMER. 
 
 business to watch over her, guide her, help 
 her, till he could place her in some hands not 
 less secure than his own. She belonged to 
 him in some manner, — for Henry's sake, per- 
 haps, though that suggestion came later, when 
 Philip had begun to invent motives for his 
 conduct. 
 
 He had something the same feeling about 
 Ralph : it explained the mysterious power 
 those grey eyes had had over him long ago, 
 when as yet he had had nothing to say to 
 Ralph. Philip felt himself a sort of guardian 
 angel for these two, and he was bent on 
 uniting: them. It was his first venture in 
 match-making, and he embarked with all the 
 zeal of adventure and novelty. The idea of 
 falling in love with little Griselda himself had 
 not occurred to him, till Ralph suggested it ; 
 then he laughed it to scorn and forthwith dis- 
 missed it from his mind. No caution was 
 necessary, because no danger was imminent. 
 He watched over his little friend with more as- 
 siduity than before, and with equal platonism. 
 
 Griselda on her part was not in danger
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 195 
 
 either. Perhaps she was hardly old enough to 
 fall in love with any one. She was much taken 
 up with other things, her poor little soul being 
 entirely filled with dislike to the career on 
 which she was about to enter. She clung to 
 Ralph and she clung to Philip as to supporters 
 and friends. She had very few of either, poor 
 child ; and she had no happy, sheltering home, 
 whither she could run for protection. She had 
 none of the strong-mindedness that enables 
 some women to stand alone and face the world : 
 she must flee to somebody for protection, and 
 she naturally flew to the best person she could 
 find. If she found this person in a young 
 man who bore no obvious relationship to her, 
 she could not help it ; she knew too little of 
 the world to trouble herself about convention- 
 alities. Both Ralph and Philip did care enough 
 for conventionalities to talk very seldom of 
 their little friend. Ralph saw her every day, 
 Philip often twice in the week ; but they felt it 
 would be difficult to explain their friendship 
 to an outsider, and they each mentioned it as 
 little as possible. If a stranger such as Agnes
 
 196 A DREAMER. 
 
 found them with her, PhiHp in particular 
 puzzled Griselda by becoming suddenly very 
 stiff and formal. Neither of the two young 
 men dreamt of even alluding to the little 
 student w^hen they wrote home, — Philip to the 
 quiet, busy parsonage, or Ralph to the big, 
 bustling doctor's house. 
 
 A very subtle relationship grew up between 
 Griselda and Philip. She regarded him as a 
 sort of prophet, and consulted him on all kinds 
 of ethical questions, rather to his embarrass- 
 ment, for he did not yet feel himself a perfectly 
 competent teacher. But he always tried to 
 answer her : she belonged to him ; he felt him- 
 self responsible for her. 
 
 If any one doubts that this state of affairs 
 between a young man and a girl is possible, I 
 beg that doubter to remember that Griselda 
 and Philip were not quite ordinary people. 
 She was mentally short-sighted, and only took 
 notice of the things that forced themselves 
 most irresistibly before her vehement imagina- 
 tion at the time being. And Philip lived in a 
 dream-world of his own, where a haze of ideas
 
 '' FOR HENRY S SAKE. 197 
 
 and fancies prevented him from seeing a good 
 many things that presented themselves easily 
 enough to other people. 
 
 Ralph — a third person — a more ordinary 
 creature with a certain amount of common- 
 sense, did think it possible that the subtle 
 relationship between these two might expand 
 into a mutual affection. Ralph's love was ever 
 of the pure self-sacrificing type, and he would 
 not for all the world have put himself between 
 them, had he seen any symptom of the possi- 
 bility becoming a probability. 
 
 Occasionally a qualm came over Ralph's 
 trusting soul about Philip ; he always dismissed 
 it, and was the more loyal to his friend because 
 he had once in the time of his ignorance called 
 him a traitor. Philip of course had no notion 
 that he had ever, even ignorantly, been called 
 a traitor. To be upright and honourable and 
 trustworthy, and not the least bit of a quack, 
 seemed to him the most natural thing in the 
 world. Such virtues were too imperative to 
 be even thought about. 
 
 One day — it was about a fortnight after
 
 198 A DREAMER. 
 
 Philip had renewed his acquaintance with 
 Griselda — he ventured to ask a question he had 
 been long purposing. There were voices on 
 the other side of the sliding doors that separ- 
 ated the little parlour from the adjoining room, 
 — not loud voices, such as Philip had occasion- 
 ally heard there, and which he had never ap- 
 peared to notice — but low and at intervals, as 
 if those of persons deeply engaged. 
 
 ''Griselda," said the young man, **why do I 
 never see your father ? where is he ? " Griselda 
 did not reply. After a moment's thought she 
 rose, and slid back about two inches of the 
 door, so that Philip could look into the next 
 room. 
 
 William Mortimer, pale and emaciated, was 
 lying on a couch. Another man was with him, 
 and between them stood a card-table on which 
 lay piles of gold. The artist's sunken eyes 
 were gleaming with suppressed excitement, 
 and the trembling fingers clutched the cards 
 with an eagerness painful to witness. 
 
 ** That is papa," said Griselda, letting Philip 
 watch the gamblers for a few minutes, and then
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE." 199 
 
 sliding back the door. She looked up In the 
 young man's face as if to read his thoughts. 
 Her own was white, and her lips were closed 
 tightly, as if under the pressure of a familiar 
 pain. 
 
 " Griselda," said Philip — he was tracing a 
 likeness in her to her dead brother — " I wish 
 you were away from him ! " 
 
 She turned away with a quietness that was 
 curiously pathetic, when contrasted with her 
 habitual vehemence. " That would not do at 
 all/' she said. '' He cannot work ; and I — 
 could I leave him ? " 
 
 " Cannot work, Griselda ? " 
 
 " Do you not see he is ill ? He has done 
 no painting for a long time." Philip pon- 
 dered. *' It is I who will have to work," 
 said Griselda. ** I don't like it ; but we want 
 money, and I must get to work as soon as I 
 can." 
 
 " And meantime, Griselda — forgive me — 
 what do you live on ? " 
 
 *' Thatl' she replied, pointing towards the 
 inner room, and studying Philip's face intent-
 
 200 A DREAMER. 
 
 ly. Presently she burst forth, — '' Do you 
 think it is wicked ? I do not know how to 
 help it ; he will do it. I would rather never 
 spend more than we have of our very own ; 
 but there is almost none. Papa has lost his 
 money. I don't like that way of getting 
 money. I never play here ; only sometimes 
 in Germany I have gone to the tables when 
 I wanted money very badly, and it seemed 
 worse to do without it than to gamble for it ; 
 and I have always been very lucky. But I 
 do not like it ; and I persuaded him to come 
 to England, because I thought perhaps he 
 would stop. But no : he gets people to play 
 with him, and I cannot help it. I do not like 
 those men ; but they are not rude to me, and 
 I cannot say * You shall not come here ; ' they 
 would only laugh if I did, and if papa went 
 to gambling-houses it would be worse. I can- 
 not stop him ; and he says we want the money, 
 though I tell him we can live on so little. We 
 have no servant but Elizabeth, and we eat 
 very little, she and I. When we came to 
 London first we lived in lodgings, but that
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 201 
 
 did not do. Respectable people would not 
 have us ; and how could I live except with 
 respectable people ? " 
 
 " You poor little thing," said Philip, taking 
 her two little cold hands in his, " I wish there 
 was some way of helping you, and taking you 
 away from this life ! Can't Ralph think of 
 any way?" he added, doubtfully. He knew 
 very little of that affair yet. 
 
 " Ralph ! " she said, flushing angrily, and 
 snatching her hands away. " What business 
 is that of yours ? " 
 
 Philip walked to the window and looked 
 out thoughtfully for a few minutes. He was 
 thinking of Agnes. Presently he said — 
 
 *' Griselda, if you had a claim on any one — a 
 money claim — would it be of any use to you ? " 
 
 '' I don't know what you mean. We have 
 no claim on any one ; and if we had, it would 
 make no difference. He would gamble just 
 the same. Sometimes I think it is better we 
 are poor. He cannot waste so much." 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Mr Temple ? '* 
 asked Griselda, a few minutes after.
 
 202 A DREAMER. 
 
 He bent down towards her; '' Of Henry," 
 he answered. 
 
 The brown eyes looked up into his, respon- 
 sive and tender. 
 
 " Griselda, I taught Henry to gamble." 
 
 A flush rose on the childish face, and the 
 pain in her eyes deepened ; but she drew a 
 little nearer to him, and timidly laid her hand 
 on his. 
 
 ** Promise me you never will, Griselda," said 
 Philip, *' nor " He did not finish the sen- 
 tence, but hurried away from her. Griselda 
 understood him.
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Never was a more doubting, anxious, troubled 
 little soul than Griselda's. 
 
 One day she had been singing to her two 
 friends. She jumped up hastily. *' Do you 
 think I improve ? " she cried. 
 
 " Improve ? Your singing is perfect, Grls- 
 elda," said Ralph ; and Philip, slowly de- 
 scending from the clouds, said, ** Exactly." 
 
 Griselda laughed. " You are foolish, both 
 of you," she said. " You have not the slight- 
 est notion of what perfection is." 
 
 " I daresay we don't see as far into it as 
 you do," said Philip. 
 
 " I have a little idea of it," said Griselda, — 
 " a little idea of how I want to sing. I shall 
 never attain to it." 
 
 ** Do people ever attain ? "
 
 204 A DREAMER. 
 
 " Yes ; some succeed in whatever they do." 
 
 " It depends on what you mean by success," 
 said Ralph. 
 
 '' But it is very sad to be always failing !" 
 
 '' Fancy what odious self-satisfied creatures 
 we should be if we did not ! " said Philip ; 
 " though, to be sure, if we really succeeded, 
 there is no reason why we should not be self- 
 satisfied. What makes a self-satisfied person 
 irritating is, that the action he is pleased with 
 might have been done better." 
 
 " I think it would be grand to do a thing 
 as well as ever it could be done ! " cried 
 Griselda. 
 
 " Yes ; if I did that once, I should shoot 
 myself," answered Philip. 
 
 '* Ah no ! If I succeeded I could go on 
 then ! But, after all, it does not make much 
 difference," continued Griselda, her enthusiasm 
 dying away. " When I succeed a little, or 
 fail, or get discouraged, it does not do me 
 harm, because I have to go on. I should not 
 want to give up because I failed. I should 
 onlv have to work the harder."
 
 *' FOR henry's sake." 205 
 
 '' But the harder the work," said Ralph, 
 " the more it takes out of you. That is a 
 reason for keeping up your courage." 
 
 " And sometimes one has to work without 
 courage," said Griselda. 
 
 " Then it is all the more courao-eous to 2:0 
 on," said Philip. '' Don't you remember the 
 two soldiers in the battle ? ' You are fright- 
 ened, you fool,' said No. i. ' Horribly,' said 
 No. 2. ' If you were half as much frightened 
 as I, you would run away.'" 
 
 Griselda pondered. Then she said, " I 
 should have run away. Afterwards I should 
 have been sorry; but that is what I should 
 have done. I should have run away by mis- 
 take, as it were, because I should not have 
 had time to think that it was the very thing I 
 had intended not to do." 
 
 " You think too much, Griselda," said Ralph. 
 " You worry over yourself too much." 
 
 " Do you think Ralph is right ? " Griselda 
 asked Philip. " How can one help think- 
 ing ? " 
 
 " I suspect the most healthy people don't
 
 206 A DREAMER. 
 
 think so much," he answered, backing up 
 Ralph as usual when speaking to her. 
 
 " Then I am not healthy. It may be better 
 not to have the thoughts; but If they come, one 
 can't help It. One can't help one's nature. 
 And that is what my nature is — to be, oh, so 
 frightened ! " 
 
 As the days passed on, the poor child be- 
 came more and more terrified when she 
 thought of the doom awaiting her in her 
 opening career. The nearer it came, the 
 greater grew her horror of it. It was always 
 in her mind : a background for all her thoughts. 
 At night sometimes she would wake shudder- 
 ing, almost screaming, from a dream of im- 
 pudent, indifferent faces crowding round her, 
 pressing her in tightly, and forcing her to sing, 
 her music presenting itself to her as a visible 
 form of wondrous beauty torn from her heart 
 to be trampled on and Insulted by strangers. 
 Sometimes Griselda would sit pondering over 
 her fate till her eyes were straining from their 
 sockets, her lips were dry and hard, and her 
 brain seemed consumed by fire, leaving her, as
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 207 
 
 she thought, on the verge of madness. Then 
 she would start up and resolve to fly — whither, 
 she cared not. But always familiar cowardice 
 stopped her, and made her sit down again, 
 with a dreary calmness telling of despair and 
 not of hope. 
 
 •* Let me die ! " the poor child would sob at 
 these moments ; " let me die! I do not want to 
 live. No other life can be worse than this. 
 Only let me die!" Once she had cried in a 
 moment of passion, '' Let me die, O God ! or, 
 if I must live, take away my voice." But with 
 the words another and a new horror seized her. 
 For what had she asked ? Asked to be robbed 
 of the one thing she loved in the world ? 
 Asked to have all the blossom and the scent 
 and the glory of her life taken away ? *' No, 
 no ; not that, O God I " she cried, again falling 
 on her knees ; *' I knew not what I was saying ! 
 Kill me ; blind me ; anything ! But leave me 
 my voice ! leave me my voice ! " 
 
 She rose and went to the piano, with a 
 calm that surprised herself. She sang with 
 an unwearying energy, astonishing her father,
 
 208 A DREAMER. 
 
 who had heard her complaining of late. She 
 talked to him cheerfully of her progress, and 
 of the compliments her teacher had paid her 
 in the morning. She worked for many days 
 with a zeal and a seeming hopefulness that 
 were quite new in her. 
 
 And then the reaction came ; and she cried 
 again, " Is there no escape ? May I not 
 die?" 
 
 One day she said eagerly to Philip Temple, 
 *' Couldn't you find me something else to do ? 
 You are wise and go about In the world : you 
 could find something. I know I am foolish, 
 but I am not stupid. I can learn things. If 
 you could find something I could learn quickly 
 and turn into money at once, then my music 
 would not have to be sold." 
 
 Philip shook his head. " You are not fit for 
 the things other girls do — governessing and 
 that." 
 
 " Ah no. I know nothing but music. And 
 I should be ridiculous as a teacher. I was 
 talking nonsense. I must go on. Why do 
 you make me talk of what I hate ? Let us
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 209 
 
 talk about the part I love. The fact that it is 
 music I am devoting my life to." 
 
 Her cheek glowed as she spoke. Philip 
 watched her pleasurably. 
 
 '' I think," he said, in the quiet low voice that 
 never sounded irreverent, " God made a mis- 
 take in giving you a voice. Why did He not 
 give you the spirit that ought to go with a 
 voice ? " 
 
 " I often ask that, I\Ir Temple. The thought 
 of that kind of singing is just torture to me, 
 but I must do it. He means me to do it. It 
 is my duty, and I mean to do my duty if I 
 can," said Griselda, steadily. 
 
 '' I wish you liked it better." 
 
 '' Duty generally consists in doing what we 
 don't like," said Ralph : " even Christ pleased 
 not Himself." 
 
 *' Christ had only to die. I could do that, I 
 think," replied Philip, dreamily. 
 
 " No, Mr Temple," interposed Griselda's 
 gentle, earnest voice ; " He had to live first, 
 just as we have." 
 
 *' He had easy work." 
 
 VOi.. I. O
 
 210 A DREAMER. 
 
 *' Yes; He went about helping people, and 
 had always friends with Him. But perhaps 
 it was not always easy to Him. Think of 
 thirty years in a carpenter's shop when He 
 wanted to be out in the world doing some- 
 thing." 
 
 '' It has always puzzled me," said Philip, 
 " why everything is made wrong, like that. 
 Why are people not put into places that suit 
 them ? We think ourselves stupid when we 
 put the right foot into the left shoe ; but that 
 is — say what you like, Ralph — what God does. 
 He puts an active man into a carpenter's shop, 
 and a frightened child into an opera; and when 
 they might be doing some good in the world, 
 they are spending all their time trying to cram 
 themselves into the shoe." 
 
 " And if that very process makes them 
 better ? " said Ralph. 
 
 " Oh, I hope it will," cried Griselda ; " it is 
 what we all want, is it not ? Oh, it is wrong 
 of me to complain so much — I know it is. I 
 wish I could forget myself, and do my work 
 without crying over it. But it is only you I
 
 FOR henry's sake." 211 
 
 talk to like this, and things puzzle me so. I 
 shall learn better some day I hope, Ralph." 
 
 What was the use of telling Griselda she 
 would "get over" this terror and anxiety ? It 
 weighed on her none the less. She had an- 
 other fear also. One day, talking to Philip, 
 she said, sinking her voice till it was scarcely 
 audible — 
 
 " I get so frightened at papa sometimes ! I 
 must not fail as a singer, or he will want to sell 
 me. He has said so often," she continued, in 
 the same horrified whisper, " that people will 
 want to marry me. He will choose some rich 
 man and sell me to him." 
 
 '' No one can force you to marry against 
 your will, Griselda." 
 
 '' But if I did will it ? I can imagine myself 
 getting into that state that I would do any- 
 thing to escape from my life. And marrying 
 might seem the least of evils. You don't know 
 how afraid of myself I am ! " She raised her 
 head and looked at him with a mute agony in 
 her eyes that cut Philip to the heart. He did 
 not speak for a moment. It seemed to him
 
 212 A DREAMER. 
 
 Important how he counselled her. Griselda, 
 impulsive, vehement, highly sensitive, appeared 
 just one of those beings who go wrong, and 
 then find a lifetime too short for repentance. 
 If anything he said, or failed In saying, should 
 lead to this misery, could he ever forgive him- 
 self.^ 
 
 Griselda meanwhile was anxiously awaiting 
 his answer. She had not meant to say any- 
 thing so serious. She hardly expected help 
 from anybody. Once she had said something 
 of the same kind to Ralph, and he had answered 
 by trying to comfort her. " God will take care 
 of you, my poor child," he had said. '* Do not 
 be frightened. Trust yourself to Him." She 
 had been grateful for the kindness, but It had 
 not helped her. Ralph did not understand 
 the fear possessing her. She had not meant 
 to speak of It to any one else. But Philip had 
 Impressed her Imagination as a prophet ; she 
 looked up In his face with the same embar- 
 rassino^ and touchlnor confidence as that with 
 which she had, when a child, asked him the 
 name of a book. He felt now as little capable
 
 "FOR henry's sake." 213 
 
 as he had felt then of being a moral teacher ; 
 yet he dared not turn away. She was asking 
 for bread — he dared not give her a stone. 
 The fibres of his own nature quivered too 
 strongly in unison widi hers for him to attempt 
 consolation as Ralph had done. He could 
 only give her s\Tnpathy. 
 
 " We must be afraid of ourselves/' he said : 
 " that pain is nothing to the pain of remorse." 
 
 She did not answer. Philip's thoughts 
 wandered. His mem or}* was capricious and 
 highly tenacious of certain mental sensations ; 
 a slight allusion could bring them ba<^ with 
 the clearness of yesterday. He was not think- 
 ing of Griselda ; he was li^-ing again through 
 certain hours of acute suffering in his own life. 
 She came over to him and touched his arm. 
 '* Have you felt that ?^ she said, in a whisper. 
 
 " I have felt enougL I know what it would 
 be. I taught Henr}- to gamble — and other 
 things. I killed him. He was like you once 
 — no, not in the least like you." Philip in- 
 terrupted himself abruptly, looking down on 
 the delicate face beside him, with the soft eves
 
 214 A DREAMER. 
 
 fixed on his. '^'Grlselda, don't ask me that 
 history. Don't ask me what remorse is. May 
 you never feel it." He paused, and covered 
 his face with his hands. What made him 
 talk so to this child ? 
 
 '' What must we do ? " she said, presently. 
 
 " We must sternly resolve, Griselda, that 
 there are some things we will never do — so 
 stern we must be, that to break our resolve 
 would be sin to us, even if the thing itself 
 appeared right," said Philip, half in a dream, 
 talking of he scarce knew what. 
 
 " And if we fail ?" whispered Griselda. 
 
 " God help us then," said Philip, solemnly. 
 He had forgotten what had led to this ; he 
 was lost in his own thoughts. 
 
 Griselda again gazed at him intently, but 
 the trouble and perplexity still shone from her 
 eyes. She clasped her hands, and cried, " Oh, 
 you are right ; I am sure you are right ! but 
 I should still be terrified. The great tempta- 
 tions of life — the temptations that make us 
 fall — are 7io^ those we have thought of and 
 resolved about. They come up suddenly, and
 
 ''FOR henry's sake." 215 
 
 we know nothing of them, and have no time 
 to think. They seem to slap us on the face 
 and stun us, and prevent us from doing what 
 we should like to do. And there is no time 
 to think, and we have to do something quick, 
 quick, without thinking. And we do the 
 wrong thing, and all is over. That is what 
 terrifies me." 
 
 Philip had no reply to make. They stood 
 gazing into each other's eyes as if they read 
 coming trouble there. The future was impene- 
 trable to them both ; but the mysterious pre- 
 cursor of doom had laid his finger on them, 
 and without recognising him, they felt his pres- 
 ence. How long they stood thus they could 
 not tell. Philip was recalled to the actual 
 present by the girl suddenly turning deadly 
 pale, as if fainting. He caught her as she 
 would have fallen, and laid her on a sofa. 
 In a moment she revived, but they said no 
 more that night.
 
 2l6 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Whitsuntide fell early In June. Agnes and 
 her husband were at Salehurst. One evenlne 
 there was a great party there : Philip was pres- 
 ent : Griselda also ; she, not as a mere guest. 
 Agnes Intended to keep her little cousin for 
 the night, and to be very kind and sisterly to 
 her ; but she was to pay her for her services. 
 Griselda came as a professional singer. 
 
 Agnes knew no one to whom she could 
 confide her feelings about this forlorn little 
 cousin. Oliver was most unsympathetic; Philip 
 was out of the question, of course ; nobody else 
 cared about the beginning of the story, and 
 Agnes had no wish to tell that. But she felt 
 strongly that she owed her cousin something, 
 and she never lost the desire to pay some of 
 the debt. Agnes wished Griselda were not
 
 '-' FOR henry's sake." 21/ 
 
 working for her bread : In vain she told her- 
 self ''that is entirely Uncle William's fault." 
 A troublesome suspicion, nay, a smothered 
 conviction that it was partly her fault, silenced 
 this desirable argument. If she could have 
 done it conveniently, without trouble, or ex- 
 planation, or publicity, Agnes would have 
 given half her Income to keep Griselda off 
 the boards of the theatre. But she knew it 
 was impossible ; she scarcely suggested it to 
 herself; she certainly never suggested It to 
 Oliver. But what she told herself, and what 
 she told her husband (whenever she dared), 
 was that she Intended to be very kind to 
 Griselda : to watch over her and help her In 
 any way she conveniently could. Now it was 
 quite evident that a little money would be of 
 great use to the child ; she would not receive 
 it as a present, but she consented to work for 
 It ; and Agnes felt she was doing her a real 
 charity by allowing this, and by Introducing 
 the little sInQfer as her own near relation. 
 
 Oliver found a o^reat source of amusement 
 in his wife's conscience. He had no internal
 
 2l8 A DREAMER. 
 
 conscience himself, and never brought up his 
 doings before that stern court of justice which 
 sits In the breasts of the generality of men. 
 Any conscience he possessed was external. 
 He would do nothing scandalous ; he did not 
 wish to be disapproved, by more than one or 
 two persons at least. Oliver's system worked 
 very well : most simple systems do. There 
 was no one in the county more honoured and 
 respected than he. Agnes was popular and 
 respected also, probably through her associa- 
 tion with her husband. Her own system was 
 by no means so simple as Oliver's, and had 
 she been able to carry it out, might not have 
 succeeded so well. But he directed In every 
 matter of Importance, and directed on his own 
 system. Agnes obeyed, being given no choice. 
 Oliver considered Griselda of no importance 
 whatever. If Agnes liked to do her a good 
 turn — all right. 
 
 Philip Temple very seldom thought of the 
 dubiousness of Agnes's position. Even his 
 renewed acquaintance with Griselda had scarce- 
 ly reminded him of it.
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 219 
 
 But to-night the young man, who was highly 
 sensitive to impressions, suffered under a re- 
 vival of his old stronor condemnation of A^nes. 
 He was suddenly struck by the painful con- 
 trast between the cousins, which Agnes herself 
 did not seem to feel In the least. There was 
 she, beautiful, dignified, courted, self-import- 
 ant, her every claim admitted without the 
 smallest hesitation. Philip looked at her and 
 admired her — not with his old boyish worship, 
 but with a dispassionate criticism. He could 
 find no line to alter in her face or figure : she 
 was the handsomest woman he had ever seen, 
 and she became her crimson robe exceedingly 
 well ; and also she became her position as pos- 
 sibly no other woman could have done. In 
 a corner of the same room sat a little shrink- 
 ing creature in a severely simple white frock ; 
 she was quite alone ; she was an utterly un- 
 important person — as yet. Agnes went over 
 to her : she bent her stately head patronis- 
 ingly ; she was kind to the child ; she did her 
 best to make others kind to her also. Philip 
 felt himself blushing. Agnes was not in the
 
 220 A DREAMER. 
 
 least ashamed of herself. He was ashamed for 
 her. The perfect face, the matchless form, 
 had suddenly become hateful to him. How 
 dared she treat the child so ? He walked 
 away ; he could not look at it. 
 
 Griselda was a most unmanageable little 
 person. She plainly disliked her position, and 
 resisted all attempts to draw her into the sur- 
 rounding gaiety. She threw all her natural 
 energy into her part in the evening's entertain- 
 ment, singing whenever she was asked, and 
 singing exceedingly well. But she was cross, 
 and refused to be complimented or amused ; 
 she would not dance ; she scorned every at- 
 tempt to please her ; she was as snappish as 
 possible with all the benevolent old ladies, 
 who were just the right people to befriend her. 
 
 Once Philip found her hiding in a curtained 
 recess, where, thinking herself secure from 
 observation, she was allowing a few tears to 
 trickle down her cheeks. He followed her, 
 intending to remonstrate with her for obsti- 
 nately making a martyr of herself 
 
 ''She will come and dance with me," he said
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 221 
 
 to himself ; but when he saw she was crying, 
 he only thought of comforting her. 
 
 She turned impatiently at his step, and her 
 eyes flashed dangerously ; but Philip said, very 
 quietly — 
 
 " Griselda, tell me what is the matter with 
 you." 
 
 " There's nothing the matter." 
 
 *' But I saw you crying." 
 
 " Then you had no business to see me cry- 
 ing. I hate people who are always peeping 
 and trying to pry into other people's affairs." 
 After which speech she stole a glance at him, 
 and seeing that he looked excessively amused, 
 she began "to cry again, rubbing her eyes 
 childishly with her knuckles. 
 
 " Griselda," said Philip, " what is the use of 
 beinof cross with me ? Now tell me what is the 
 matter. I will take you home if you wish." 
 
 " And make me run away from my busi- 
 ness ? That w^ould not be much help. I tell 
 you there is nothing the matter, only I have 
 not got accustomed to being treated as a thmg 
 yet." She still spoke crossly ; but a minute
 
 222 A DREAMER. 
 
 after she looked up doubtfully in his face, and 
 said childishly, in quivering tones, '' Please 
 forgive me." She seemed a mere child to 
 Philip. He took her hands caressingly and 
 drew her towards him. 
 
 *' Come back to your business, then, you little 
 thing, and be brave over it," he said, smiling. 
 
 Griselda coloured deeply, and withdrew her 
 hands, but she came out of the recess quietly, 
 and presently her sweet voice was ringing 
 through the room once more. 
 
 Philip was a little distressed by what he had 
 done : that deep flush had reminded him that 
 Griselda was not quite a child. 
 
 *' I hope Ralph would not mind," he said to 
 himself. '' She is a dangerous little girl ; but 
 if there were no spectators, no harm is done. 
 She understands well enough." 
 
 Possibly it was then that Philip asked him- 
 self why he took so much interest in her, and 
 answered that it was "for Henry's sake." 
 
 There had been a spectator. Agnes had 
 watched the little scene, and had formed her 
 own conclusions. Perhaps she was a little
 
 '• FOR HENRY S SAKE. 223 
 
 less tender to Griselda during the rest of the 
 evening. But she bore PhiHp no malice : she 
 pressed his hand less coldly than usual when 
 she bid him good night. Perhaps she thought 
 she owed him something too. Agnes's was 
 not a simple nature like her husband's. 
 
 Of all the brave schemes for the improve- 
 ment of the Salehurst estate that Agnes and 
 Philip had concocted together in the days of 
 their engagement, but very few had been car- 
 ried out. Agnes had not lost her Interest in 
 them, but her husband was a perpetual hin- 
 drance to her. For a long time after her 
 marriage she had ventured no suggestions. 
 A very short acquaintance with Oliver had 
 shown her that a suggestion would be a ven- 
 ture. As the months rolled on, she feared 
 him more and more ; and when alone with 
 him she spoke as little as possible. Now 
 that four years of their marriage were over, 
 she regarded life simply in the light of en- 
 durance : she had made an irretrievable mis- 
 take, the consequences of which must be 
 borne to the end. She still had wishes,
 
 224 A DREAMER. 
 
 plans, schemes ; but, mostly, they were no 
 longer part of herself. They were remnants 
 of the past clinging to her as a few wither- 
 ed leaves clinof to a tree after their life is 
 gone ; or else they were taken up as some- 
 thing expected of her, — something it was her 
 duty to feel, but in which she had neither 
 heart nor energy. Oliver had ground the 
 life out of her hopes and aims, and had 
 pooh - poohed her plans. This scheme was 
 impossible ; that was unnecessary ; the other, 
 premature. Let her leave it to him ; he 
 would see that everything was done properly. 
 Very likely Oliver was right. Salehurst pros- 
 pered. But Agnes's energies, never called 
 forth in her girlhood, were crushed now : they 
 were like a struggling flame, long smothered, 
 and at last, when bursting into life, extin- 
 guished by a breath. 
 
 Probably he had no notion of the mis- 
 chief he was doing : his own nature was very 
 simple and very unsympathetic. The half- 
 tints, the little intricacies, the fine sensibilities 
 of another nature were lost on him. Their
 
 '' FOR HENRY S SAKE. 225 
 
 existence had no reality for him ; they were 
 "sentiment, you know, and that sort of thing." 
 He never suspected their presence in Agnes, 
 whom he imagined very like himself, but 
 spoiled by a woman's morbid conscience. 
 
 He had some root of affection in him. He 
 was fond of his wife, and would have liked a 
 little more affection from her. Acrnes's su- 
 preme coldness irritated him, and made him 
 take pleasure in wounding her. He was 
 fond of little Lily also in a way — that is, he 
 was proud of her, and liked to have her 
 with him for a few minutes when he had 
 nothing to do ; or he liked to bring her a 
 new toy, and to witness her pretty delight in 
 receiving it. He did not want to be bothered 
 by talking to or playing with her ; but once 
 or twice he had astonished the dignified nurse 
 by finding his way into the nursery to look 
 at the sleeping child, and perhaps to touch 
 her fair curly hair with his hand. 
 
 Ao-nes did not care for the child so much 
 as this even. She attended to her more, per- 
 haps ; purposed to bring her up on the most 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 226 A DREAMER. 
 
 approved system, and often had her with her 
 when strangers were present (from which 
 arose a report that Mrs Temple - Mortimer 
 was the most devoted mother in existence). 
 But, on the whole, poor little Lily had a love- 
 less home : neither father nor mother awakened 
 one chord of affection in her heart. She was 
 more perfecdy indifferent to them than she 
 was to the grand nurse, who at least kissed 
 her when she tumbled down and hurt herself. 
 
 Let us return to Agnes and the village of 
 Salehurst. It was Oliver who had proposed to 
 rebuild the school-house. Agnes had agreed 
 apathetically. Her interest was aroused, how- 
 ever, when she found that, if she chose, she 
 might have the principal management of the 
 undertaking. Agnes called Philip to her as- 
 sistance : long ago they had discussed the 
 scheme together. 
 
 On the morning after the party, when Philip 
 alone remained of all the guests, Agnes called 
 him into the library to talk about the new 
 school. She saw that he was in a bad hu- 
 mour, and she hoped to beguile him out of it
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 22/ 
 
 by reference to his good works. Philip felt 
 he had done much good in this matter of the 
 school-house. It was not merely all his val- 
 uable suggestions and advice that elated him ; 
 he had another source of satisfaction. He 
 had recommended as architect a protdgd of 
 his own. This Edward Bentley was a most 
 worthy young man, but burdened by a heavy 
 debt incurred under the pressure of various 
 misfortunes ; not having a good connection, 
 and therefore having' very little to do, he 
 made small advance towards paying his re- 
 sponsibilities, and was always oppressed and 
 careworn. Agnes expressed great interest in 
 him, and declared she would be delighted to 
 give the new school-house into his hands, beg- 
 ging Philip to let her have his address at once. 
 Philip went to the young man himself, and 
 told him that he had a job for him. It was 
 pleasant to see the joyous excitement that 
 overspread the anxious desponding face, — 
 and indeed he had every right to be pleased, 
 for the patronage of the Temple- Mortimers 
 was worth having.
 
 228 A DREAMER. 
 
 After this, It may be Imagined Philip was 
 annoyed to find this morning that his Inter- 
 view with Edward Bentley had been prema- 
 ture, and had raised a false expectation In 
 the struggling man. Agnes had abandoned 
 him, and had already made an agreement 
 with a more celebrated person. 
 
 '' He will think I have cheated him ! " ex- 
 claimed Philip, angrily. 
 
 " What a pity you were so rash ! " said 
 Aenes. 
 
 " Mr SImmonds is a very able man," she 
 continued, after a pause ; '' he has built sev- 
 eral beautiful churches. Have you seen St 
 Matthew's on Bayly Heath ? " 
 
 " Bentley knows a vast deal more about 
 schools/' growled Philip, internally enraged at 
 what he chose to consider her bad faith, and 
 the cool way in which she had rolled the blame 
 on to him. 
 
 " We are thinking of restoring the church," 
 said A^nes. " I am Inclined to think It ouorht 
 to be done before we build the schools." 
 
 *' People are eternally restoring churches ! "
 
 *' FOR HENRY S SAKE. 229 
 
 cried Philip. '' What is the use of it ? Who 
 admires whitewash, and imitation windows, 
 and nineteenth-century Norman work, and all 
 the hideous folly of a modern reredos, and 
 altar, and bran-new organ case, and boards for 
 the Commandments, painted and illuminated, 
 out of a monkish missal, in imitation of the 
 two tables of stone you suppose, as if Moses 
 had any time for that sort of folly ? " 
 
 " Oh, do stop," interrupted Agnes, with 
 her graceful smile ; *' you take my breath 
 away. We had no thought of eclipsing 
 Moses." 
 
 "Is your church falling down, or what is it ? 
 Can't the parson preach in the little pulpit he 
 is accustomed to 1 or do you want to capture 
 an echo that interferes with his favourite doc- 
 trines ? Why not let the church alone ? It 
 is a venerable structure, pretty enough in its 
 way. Let it live a natural life and die a 
 natural death like any other old building. 
 When a tree is dying, do you plaster it with 
 artificial bark and stick on new leaves with 
 pins ? I am sick of restored churches, with
 
 230 A DREAMER. 
 
 their monstrosities, like nothing in nature or 
 art. And the parsons, who ought to be teach- 
 ing people how to live, or helping them to die, 
 mount on ladders and gape at the poor fools 
 painting the groining in the roof; or fly about 
 all England, hunting for a new device to intro- 
 duce their gas in a pre-Raphaelite, or Byzan- 
 tine, or monstrous nineteenth -century, ritual- 
 istic, artistic manner. For heaven's sake, let 
 the church alone, and don't distract the curate 
 from his parish duties ! Build your school, that 
 half the children in the district may not grow 
 up in ignorance because there is no space for 
 them in the class-room, or because they get 
 asphyxia from the bad air, or chronic bron- 
 chitis from the damp. I was talking to your 
 schoolmaster yesterday, and he says he won't 
 stay another year, not he, even if the new 
 buildings are begun ; that it would require the 
 patience of Job to endure such an ill-arranged 
 place ; that there is no room to do anything he 
 wants ; that he can't teach grammar to the first 
 class without the second class and a pupil- 
 teacher bawling bad spelling in his pocket.
 
 "FOR HENRYS SAKE. 231 
 
 And his wife caught a fever last year, and one 
 of his babies is dying now, because there is 
 no attempt at proper drainage in his house. 
 And you, Agnes — you talk of restoring the 
 church ? " 
 
 '' That schoolmaster Is a very discontented 
 person," said Agnes, soothingly. She knew 
 that Philip was venting his ill-humour in these 
 stormy utterances. 
 
 Oliver was In the room comparing his own 
 smiling equanimity with the ferocity of his 
 cousin, much to his own advantage, as may 
 readily be supposed. He never was out of 
 temper when more than one person were pres- 
 ent. Oliver was delighted that Philip should 
 have the trouble of that confounded school- 
 house ; but he liked him none the better for 
 the fact. 
 
 It was a wet afternoon and not a pleasant 
 one. Oliver was not well and shut himself up 
 in his study. Agnes was unhappy ; she feared 
 that Philip was slipping away from her. What 
 made him care so much about this Mr 
 Bentley ?
 
 232 A DREAMER. 
 
 Philip went out, but having lost some of his 
 boyhood's delight in being wet through, was 
 soon driven in by the rain. He had not for- 
 given Agnes ; she was a very crooked per- 
 son. Some of the horror with which he had 
 first discovered her crookedness returned, and 
 without the affection that had softened it in 
 former days. Philip was restless and dissatis- 
 fied ; he wished himself back in London : a 
 holiday that is a failure is a great evil. 
 
 Matters did not improve when, in the course 
 of the afternoon, Mr Benson, the old lawyer, 
 made his appearance and was invited to stay 
 for dinner. 
 
 " He has come on business," said Agnes to 
 Philip. '' Oliver has been wanting to see him 
 for some time, and we told him we should be 
 here all this week." 
 
 Her manner was not different from usual, 
 and there was nothing improbable in what she 
 said, but Philip was oppressed with a sense of 
 unreality. He turned away, wondering what 
 brought the man here, and hating himself for 
 thinking it anything unnatural.
 
 "FOR HENRYS SAKE. 233 
 
 Agnes's eyes filled with tears ; it was this 
 man Benson who had separated her from 
 Philip. How Philip had changed since then! 
 
 Oliver would not come to dinner, and his 
 cousin found himself to a certain extent in the 
 position of host. Every one was unpleasantly 
 reminded of that day years before, when 
 trouble had begun. When Philip and the 
 old man were left alone with the wine, a frown 
 settled on the brow of the former, and he spoke 
 little and sulkily. Mr Benson remembered 
 him, and was surprised to meet him again 
 at Salehurst. 
 
 The lawyer hated Oliver Temple, who had 
 never taken the trouble to conciliate him. Of 
 late Agnes herself had offended him, and the 
 desire of finding revenge in vaguely annoying 
 them prompted him to talk of the subject that 
 he knew they would least desire, and of which 
 Philip's appearance had reminded him. The 
 young man watched the clock once more with 
 impatience. He fell to wondering why time is 
 so variable in its pace, and was mentally ex- 
 tending a favourite theory. The minutes were
 
 234 A DREAMER. 
 
 passing slowly to-night for the same reason 
 that the sun sometimes looks black. Neither 
 time nor colour had real existence, but were 
 only mental perceptions. There was no reason 
 why time should proceed, or seem to proceed, 
 uniformly, therefore, &c. &c. 
 
 He was listening all the while to Mr Ben- 
 son, as we listen to a sermon when half asleep 
 — dreaming of a fish, perhaps, yet hearing 
 the words justification and sanctificatlon, and 
 marking a new pronunciation or a lapse in 
 grammar. (And here I pause to inquire if 
 all persons are thus conscious while they are 
 dozing, or if it is a peculiarity of Philip's and 
 mine ? At any rate, it is a most painful con- 
 dition — a good punishment for inattention in 
 church.) 
 
 " I suspect," chuckled Mr Benson, startling 
 Philip out of his dream, *' that Mr Mortimer 
 had a vast deal more to say to it than we 
 think ; and who knows but Mrs Agnes could 
 tell all about it too ? She's a cunning one." 
 
 Philip pushed back his chair in disgust, and 
 rose, though Mr Benson's glass was still un-
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 235 
 
 emptied. He did not speak to the old man 
 again that night, and as soon as possible he 
 escaped to his own room to try and compose 
 the whirl that had arisen in his thoughts. 
 Strange as it may seem, the idea suggested 
 by the shrewd, vulgar, unprincipled man, had 
 never occurred to Philip before, and now he 
 flung it indignantly from him. But it brought 
 up a host of unpleasant recollections. A scene 
 almost forgotten, which, at the time of its oc- 
 currence, had vividly impressed his imagina- 
 tion, flashed across his memory with that 
 freshness which is unpleasant In its unnat- 
 uralness. He saw again a darkened room, 
 a kneeling figure burning something on the 
 hearth ; a scared face raised to his, and white 
 lips uttering indifferent words that now he 
 could not hear. He had begun to doubt 
 Agnes then, — he doubted her more now ; yet 
 still he accused her of nothing distinct. 
 
 Philip descended the stairs slowly. Agnes 
 met him in the hall, looking sad and anxious, 
 a rare matter, for on that beautiful face passing 
 emotion was seldom printed.
 
 2^6 A DREAMER. 
 
 " Listen to the rain ! " she said. '' I have 
 ordered a fire. It has been a wretched day ; 
 but Mr Benson is gone, and we can have a 
 comfortable evening. Is anything the matter, 
 PhiUp?" she asked, doubtfully. He was 
 slipping away from her : the fact made her 
 timid, yet even more anxious to retain him. 
 
 Philip did not answer. He stood by the 
 fire absorbed in his own thoughts, not just 
 then amiable ones towards Agnes ; but he 
 had heard what she said, and after a few 
 minutes became conscious that she waited a 
 reply, and that her large beautiful eyes were 
 resting on him, and dim with tears. Some- 
 thing in their expression made Philip uncom- 
 fortable. He moved away, and said abruptly, 
 and not very relevantly — 
 
 "It rains a great deal here, I think." He 
 was thinking of a night when he had paced 
 for an hour under the trees, not heeding the 
 pelting rain, being too terribly stricken by the 
 first insinuated doubt of her. Agnes had for- 
 gotten that rainy night. Her thoughts were 
 in the painful present, as she watched him
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 23/ 
 
 sadly, and listened to the pattering on the 
 window - panes. Those sad watching eyes 
 recalled the present to Philip also. He began 
 to think how he could cut short his visit and 
 leave the house. 
 
 Circumstances came to the rescue. A 
 telegram arrived from Alton Moat, General 
 Temple's house, saying that the old man was 
 dying, and desired his grandson. Oliver, 
 who disliked night journeys and deathbeds, 
 made the most of his rheumatism : Philip at 
 once volunteered for the painful duty. It 
 was not much more than ten when he hur- 
 riedly took his leave. Agnes watched him 
 out of the house with pathetic eyes, then 
 turned to her husband, and looked at him 
 indifferently, as if she were a statue. Oliver, 
 who was really suffering, would have liked a 
 word of sympathy. She gave him none. He 
 waited, hoping for some slight token of affec- 
 tion, then raised his eyes to look at her. The 
 beautiful face, cold and hard in its expression, 
 affected him disagreeably. He ceased to ex- 
 pect anything from her, and gave vent to his
 
 238 A DREAMER. 
 
 disappointment in a low whistle not pleasant 
 to hear. Agnes left him and went to her 
 own room, where she locked herself in. Lily 
 was crying in her little bed close at hand, but 
 Agnes heeded her not. Oliver heard the 
 child from his room below, and wished some 
 one would comfort the little creature ; but he 
 ventured on no step in the matter himself. 
 The grand nurse was away at her supper; 
 the nursery-maid was new, and greatly dis- 
 liked by Lily. The neglected child cried 
 herself to sleep unsoothed. 
 
 " There is a curse on the house," Philip 
 had said to himself as he left it. " My first 
 thought was best, that I would not enter it 
 again."
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The chill of daybreak made Philip shiver as 
 he left the train and walked quickly to Alton 
 Moat. He left the town of Ponchester, with 
 its silent streets and still unawakened house- 
 holds, and set forth along a straight white road, 
 traversing a marshy expanse, and marked at 
 intervals by pollarded willows. Now and then 
 a sudden gust of rain blinded him, and the 
 east wind blew in his teeth, and howled dis- 
 mally over the silent fields. Philip was tired, 
 for a night journey in a slow train stiffens 
 even young limbs. 
 
 It was at Ponchester that he had once long 
 ago met with an accident, pulling an old gate- 
 way down on himself, in the endeavour to 
 release a child that had imprisoned itself in 
 rashly interfering with a structure grown un-
 
 240 A DREAMER. 
 
 reasonable from age. Some of Philip's ad- 
 ventures had been quite foolish and unlucky 
 enough for Don Quixote. 
 
 He remembered to-day the confused sen- 
 sation with which, trying to believe himself 
 unhurt, he had remounted his pony to return 
 to the Moat after the disaster, and the relief of 
 seeing some one come forward and undertake 
 the guidance of the quadruped. He remem- 
 bered how, when his senses were still more 
 benumbed, he had asked '' if the parsonage 
 were in sight ; " after which he had suddenly 
 felt ashamed of having said something foolish, 
 and had determined to speak no more till he 
 were better. Ah ! till he were better. It had 
 been a long time. Here the road turned a 
 little, and brought him into a somewhat less 
 desolate scene. It was at this corner that he 
 had abandoned the struggle to retain con- 
 sciousness, and had believed himself to be 
 dying, as who does not in a first faint ? 
 
 Philip paused as the old house came in sight, 
 to indulge in the luxury of minute recollection, 
 and realise the fact that to-day, at any rate.
 
 *' FOR henry's sake." 241 
 
 he was strono- and well. Those lonor weeks 
 
 o o 
 
 of illness had made a dreary association for 
 the old place, yet they had endeared it to him. 
 He had grown fond of the deeply-recessed, 
 weird rooms, with the narrow windows and 
 the wide hearths ; fond of the kind old man 
 who had always made a favourite of him, and 
 who had never come near him in his illness 
 without distracting his shattered nerves by 
 offers to raise the blinds, or lower the blinds, 
 or open the door, or shake the cushions, or 
 something else equally kind and unnecessary. 
 He had learned to appreciate his mother's 
 patience which had borne his every mood 
 without one murmur ; his father's strong arm 
 had been always ready to support his first 
 tottering steps, and to smile him back to cour- 
 age and hope. How well he remembered 
 watching the sunset as he lay under the much- 
 belauded mulberry-tree ! or staring Into the 
 still water of the moat, and wondering how 
 many living creatures, which no microscope 
 could ever make visible to human eye, preyed 
 among the roots of the w^ater-lilies ! It was a 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 A DREAMER. 
 
 long time ago ; the old place had fallen Into 
 yet deeper decay since then. Philip almost 
 wished the time could return when as yet he 
 had not tried life save in schoolboy fashion. 
 So much had happened since then! There was 
 so much he wished undone. The old place was 
 not connected with his failures. He stood long 
 looking at the house and musing regretfully. 
 Ah, if those old days might return ! If he 
 could be a boy again, visiting his grandfather 
 in the holidays ! If he shut his eyes for a 
 moment, and stopped his ears so as to isolate 
 himself for a space from all the outer world, 
 and with it from time and his own outer self, 
 would it follow inevitably that his eyes and 
 ears would reopen on the same time and 
 scene to which they had closed ? Might not 
 the past return like the waking after a sleep ? 
 or might he not — if that isolating process were 
 complete — find himself in some new sphere, 
 with a new past and a new present, surrounded 
 by new creatures and scenes, himself new, yet 
 still himself? 
 
 *' I am a dreamer," said Philip, rousing him-
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 243 
 
 self — " a fool ; and the old man is dying. Let 
 me enter." 
 
 Alton Moat stood In the midst of a flat and 
 doleful waste. In olden times the little hill 
 on which it stood had been almost an island ; 
 now it was surrounded by what served as 
 pasture-land, cows and sheep browsing con- 
 tentedly on the large fields, bounded and tra- 
 versed by ditches. Along these grew pollarded 
 willows, and here and there were groups of 
 larger trees, their dark foliage scarcely enliven- 
 ing the solemn aspect of the landscape. Mills 
 and lone houses were scattered at intervals; but 
 the only conspicuous object for a considerable 
 distance was Alton Moat itself, standing as it 
 did on a slight eminence overtowered by trees. 
 It had stood there for centuries unchanged, 
 though the surrounding land had been redeemed 
 from marsh, and the encircling moat had long 
 been a means of drainage rather than of de- 
 fence. The house and its garden were within 
 the moat, and still the Inhabitants entered by 
 a drawbridge, long, however, immovable. The 
 house, built In the old feudal times, had been
 
 244 A DREAMER. 
 
 considered a miracle of strength then, its eleva- 
 tion and the almost impassable nature of the 
 surrounding country combining to give it a 
 commanding position. The feudal lord had 
 lived in the tower, and the site of the pres- 
 ent garden had been covered with the dwell- 
 ings of his dependants. A great man was he; 
 but practically he had few enemies to combat, 
 and the very security of his position must have 
 produced a wearisome solitariness. 
 
 The tower had scarcely changed in appear- 
 ance since the days of feudalism ; and inside 
 also it wore an old-world air. The Temples 
 were conservative and poor ; they were not 
 an important family now, and Alton Moat was 
 forgotten by the world at large. 
 
 The old general was glad to see Philip 
 instead of Oliver. " Look, my lad," he said ; 
 " I'd like to have done something for you if 
 I had been able. It is a satisfaction to me 
 that the Moat will be yours some day. I like 
 to fancy you and your wife and little ones 
 living here merrily as I lived once." 
 
 '' Very well, grandfather," said Philip, bend-
 
 '•' FOR HENRY^S SAKE. 245 
 
 ing over him and smiling. *' Fancy what you 
 please. I never pull down other people's 
 castles in the air. But don't set me buildinor 
 them if you have any value for my peace 
 of mind." 
 
 The old housekeeper, Margaret, beckoned 
 Philip out of the room. " Shall we send for 
 a clergyman, Master Philip ? '' she said, crying. 
 " He never took much heed to his soul, sir." 
 INIargaret was a Baptist. Philip's smile van- 
 ished. 
 
 '' How do you know ? " said he ; and added, 
 " Margaret, what are you talking of? Do you 
 think God would not rather receive a soul as 
 He made it, than covered up in a new gar- 
 ment of religion, hastily stitched together, 
 and donned in a panic ? It would never fit, 
 you may be sure." 
 
 " Ah, Master Philip, that is because you do 
 not understand ! I wish your father, ]\Ir Ar- 
 thur, was here with us. \Mien will he come, 
 sir, do you think ? " 
 
 "Not in time to see him, Margaret. Never 
 fear; leave him to his God."
 
 246 A DREAMER. 
 
 Philip returned to the bedside. The old 
 man did not speak connectedly again. At 
 about eleven o'clock the grandson rose to 
 his feet and closed the dead eyes. 
 
 The sun was shining softly through the 
 green panes of the latticed window, and as 
 Philip opened it, he was greeted by a faint 
 scent from the fields around. It was Sunday 
 morning, and the sound of bells was wafted 
 across the pastures from the churches in 
 the town. Everywhere was the hush of 
 peace, and most peaceful of all was the quiet 
 figure on the bed, sleeping in the arms of 
 death. 
 
 The young man in the midst of his life 
 and strength felt subdued and hushed. The 
 despondency and unrest that had reigned in 
 his heart a few hours before could find no 
 room there now. " Let my last end be like 
 this,'' he murmured. What could he more 
 desire than a long and honourable life, full 
 of activity and benevolence, duties well done 
 and sorrows patiently borne, to be closed at 
 last by a painless death in the fulness of
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 247 
 
 age, with one he loved beside him to hold 
 his hand and shut his eyes ? 
 
 Back in London, Philip did not fail to visit 
 his little friend, Griselda Mortimer. He found 
 her weary and depressed, with very evident 
 signs of tears about her eyes. Philip told her 
 where he had been, and of the scene he had 
 witnessed. 
 
 '' You were fond of him ? " she asked. 
 
 " Very, for the last few years. I only learnt 
 to know him comparatively lately." 
 
 Griselda sighed. " Go on," she said ; and 
 Philip told of the old man's quiet death, and 
 of the quiet grave in the country churchyard 
 where they had laid him. 
 
 " Was it very sad ? " asked Griselda. " Those 
 eastern counties must be very dreary, so flat 
 and damp and chill. And that old house : it 
 would make me shiver if I saw it." 
 
 '* It was all very peaceful," said Philip. 
 
 '^ I don't want peace — that sort of peace — 
 silence and cold. I cannot bear it. I want 
 voices and life around me, or I cannot keep 
 going. Don't you know how you hear your
 
 248 A DREAMER. 
 
 heart beating at night when there is no 
 noise ? '' 
 
 "Some day perhaps you will long for the 
 silence and the peace." * 
 
 *' But not in those eastern counties. It 
 freezes my heart to hear you talk of them — 
 the old house, and the moat with the water, 
 and the garden where there are no flowers, 
 and the cold, cold wind. I should die there." 
 
 '* Let us talk of something else," said Philip, 
 for Griselda seemed nervously excited. 
 
 '* Tell me about your grandfather. I like 
 that. Did he not wish he had died before } " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Could he wish to be old ? " 
 
 " His life had been happy, I think. Till the 
 end came he was strong and well, and had all 
 his faculties perfect. Why should he have 
 wished to die ? " 
 
 " It is so hard to imagine other people's 
 lives. Had he never any trouble ? Real 
 troubles, I mean. Not just losing one's 
 friends." 
 
 " Is that not trouble, Griselda } "
 
 "FOR henry's sake." 249 
 
 "It is trouble/' said Griselda, meditatively, 
 " in the same way that having a tooth pulled 
 out is illness." 
 
 " It takes a long time to recover from, 
 Griselda." 
 
 She looked up, the quick tears filling her 
 eyes. 
 
 " It leaves a gap," she sobbed ; " that is all." 
 
 Philip was silent. Trouble had some mys- 
 terious meaning for Griselda ; he could not 
 comfort her.
 
 250 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 At last the day came when Griselda was to 
 make her first appearance at the opera. PhiHp 
 had not forgotten his promise. As ill luck 
 would have It, Mr Temple chose that partic- 
 ular day to come to London on a visit to his 
 son. However, in the afternoon Philip found 
 time to look in on Griselda, and see how she 
 was getting on. He heard Ralph's voice as 
 he ascended the stair, and Mr Mortimer met 
 him at the door of the sitting-room. 
 
 *' I am thankful to see you," said the latter. 
 *' You will cheer her up a bit, or I don't know 
 what's to be done, I am sure." 
 
 Griselda was half in hysterics, and Ralph 
 was vainly endeavouring to calm her. They 
 both seemed relieved by Philip's appearance. 
 
 " It is nonsense to think of her singing to-
 
 ''FOR henry's sake." 251 
 
 night/' said Ralph. " Can't you persuade Mr 
 Mortimer of that, Temple ?" 
 
 Griselda's eyes turned appeallngly to Philip. 
 After surveying her for a minute, he smiled, 
 and said — 
 
 " I think she ought to go if she can. I don't 
 think putting off this business will make It any 
 easier. Don't you agree with me, little Grls- 
 elda ? Don't you think you ought to try ? " 
 
 She closed her eyes, and said faintly, 
 ** Thank you. Yes ; that Is what I expected 
 you to say. And I am sure you are right. 
 Only I don't feel able to do anything at this 
 moment." 
 
 " No," said Philip, cheerfully ; '' that is no 
 matter. You will be all right when the time 
 comes. Where is Elizabeth ? I am going to 
 tell her we all want some tea." 
 
 Ralph entered Into Philip's spirit, and they 
 talked in the most lively manner, till Griselda 
 found herself smiling too. 
 
 " Just look at those great white clouds," said 
 Ralph ; " what are they like ? " 
 
 " A feather-bed."
 
 252 A DREAMER. 
 
 " For shame, Griselda ! So unpoetical." 
 
 ''Well then, cream." 
 
 *' Could two things be more unlike than a 
 feather-bed and cream ? " 
 
 '' What are they like, Mr Temple ? '' 
 
 *' Themselves." 
 
 '' That is very unpoetical." 
 
 '' Not at all. Doesn't it bother you, when 
 you are listening to a sonata, to be told ; — now 
 this bit is like a flash of lightning ; and here 
 we have a river ; and there something else, 
 grammar perhaps. It is all nonsense. It is 
 not really like anything but music." 
 
 *' I still think the cloud is like cream." 
 
 '' It is just the beauty of clouds and music 
 and one or two other things I know of : they 
 are perfectly unprecedented, and only enjoy- 
 able for their own sakes. A poem is about 
 something; a painting represents something; 
 a cow reminds you of a field and a butcher. 
 But a cloud reminds you of nothing intelligible. 
 It is form and colour by themselves. You can 
 dream about a cloud. Just as music is unin- 
 telligible to your understanding. Your soul
 
 ''FOR HENRYS SAKE. 253 
 
 understands it well enough if you don't bother 
 it by pretending it ought to explain in words." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Griselda. 
 
 Philip felt snubbed, and relapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 " I wonder you like listening to an opera, 
 then," observed Griselda, severely. 
 
 " Oh, that is a different matter altogether," 
 said Philip, reviving. '' I never looked upon 
 that as music pure and simple. If so, it would 
 be distraction. No, it is an idealisation ! Life 
 set to music ! It represents a new world ; 
 nothing with which we are acquainted, but 
 something wonderfully delightful. It is a peep 
 into fairyland, where speech is song, and 
 dancing is nature, not a sort of game." 
 
 "Yes; and where it is all make-believe; 
 and the fairies are very uncomfortable women 
 working for their bread." 
 
 o 
 
 " Griselda, you of all people should not say 
 that. Remember you are to make us for- 
 get it." 
 
 " Very well ! " she cried, with a sudden 
 sparkle in her eyes.
 
 254 A DREAMER. 
 
 " Now," said Philip, rising, '' you, Griselda, 
 are to go and sleep as long as you can. Lind- 
 say must take himself off to smoke. I must 
 go home and provide my father with some 
 dinner. We shall all meet again in the even- 
 ing to be transported to fairyland. Ah ! we 
 are only going to look on from the outside. 
 Griselda is going right into it." 
 
 They left her smiling, and walked down 
 the street arm in arm. 
 
 " I wish she had some one beside you and 
 me to look after her," said Philip. 
 
 " She is not fit for this sort of life," said 
 Ralph, sadly. 
 
 Mr Temple had come up on business con- 
 nected with his father's property. He ex- 
 pounded to Philip during dinner, " As I ex- 
 pected, he left very little money. We have 
 all we need, so I intend to let it accumulate 
 for you, Phil." 
 
 '' Why, in the world ? " 
 
 ''Well, I don't believe your schemes will 
 bring you in much," said Mr Temple, smiling ; 
 '* and the little you have is evaporating. If
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 255 
 
 you were to marry now, you would find it 
 pretty tight." 
 
 '' I am not going to marry. I wish, instead 
 of hoarding money, you would spend it on the 
 Moat itself." 
 
 " I propose to let the Moat." 
 
 *' To let the Moat ! " 
 
 *' Certainly. I don't want to live there. I 
 am much more comfortable where I am, apart 
 from the fact that I would not leave my work." 
 
 " But you don't seriously contemplate letting 
 strangers into the Moat ? " 
 
 *' Why not ? " said Mr Temple, smiling 
 patiently ; " you don't want to go to it, do 
 you?" 
 
 *' No — I suppose not. There is nothing on 
 earth to do there, except reading the old books 
 and playing on the organ." 
 
 " I don't think your performances on the 
 organ are worth much. It might be well to 
 sell the organ, I think." 
 
 " Father, what are you dreaming of ? You 
 are a barbarian, worse than Agnes, who is 
 going to restore her church."
 
 256 A DREAMER. 
 
 *' Ah ! that reminds me : our church wants 
 restoration badly." 
 
 " Well, you won't cram it with wool-work 
 and crucifixes. You can't make it much more 
 hideous than it is. Restore your church, 
 father, but for heaven's sake don't desecrate 
 the Moat!" 
 
 " My dear boy, I am sorry you take it so 
 much to heart ; but is it not the best thino- 
 to do ? None of us want to bury ourselves 
 there, and it is better it should be occupied." 
 
 '' There are David and Margaret to live 
 in it." 
 
 " If we get a good tenant — I have one in 
 my eye — it will pay very well. Otherwise it 
 will only be an expense and a worry." 
 
 '' My poor castles in the air ! They always 
 fall with a crash. I had pictured the Moat a 
 common home for us all, ever ready to welcome 
 us, no matter when or why. You could darn 
 the holes, and patch the staircase, and make 
 David and Margaret a little more comfortable. 
 We will go and keep Christmas there as we 
 did once long ago. Listen ! don't you hear the
 
 "FOR HENRYS SAKE. 257 
 
 children from Ponchester singing carols in the 
 snow outside ? We open the window on the 
 secret staircase and throw cakes at them, and 
 then we cluster round the fire In the hall and 
 disturb old Nero by praising the warmth In- 
 stead of simply feeling it. The carol-singers 
 are drinking mugs of hot beer that Margaret 
 has handed to them, and are shouting hurrah 
 for the Temples of Alton Moat. And you 
 want to let strangers in ! " 
 
 Mr Temple laughed. '' Well, we must effect 
 a compromise. The tenant I have In view is 
 your old friend Dr Anderson. He won't want 
 more than the front of the house. We can 
 reserve the tower for ourselves. Will that 
 suit you ? You can have command of the 
 old books, and can make a grand observatory 
 In the tower." 
 
 " Old Anderson will want to keep the organ. 
 That Is the chief merit I see In him,". 
 
 ** Nay, I think he has great merits. I should 
 not like to let the Moat to any one who would 
 not take an interest in It. Anderson cares 
 quite as much for It as we do." 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 258 A DREAMER. 
 
 *' Not he. And he will die of rheumatism 
 before a year is over. I must go and dress," 
 added Philip, rising hastily, after a glance at 
 the clock. 
 
 '' Are you obliged to go out this evening ? " 
 said Mr Temple, who disapproved of the 
 opera. " I have only one night in London." 
 
 *' I am very sorry. It is a promise of old 
 standing." 
 
 *' A promise to whom ? " 
 
 " To one of the singers." 
 
 Mr Temple was much disquieted. He did 
 not like all these queer people whose society 
 his son frequented. A singer sounded very 
 bad company. 
 
 Philip paused as he was going out, to say, 
 " Lindsay is going with me. You have a great 
 opinion of him, father, haven't you ? Is that 
 a relief to your anxious mind ? " 
 
 He did^iot feel inclined to attempt an ex- 
 planation about Griselda. Mr Temple would 
 be sure to misunderstand. However, by the 
 time he was returned, Philip had convinced 
 himself that this was a silly mode of treating
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 259 
 
 his father ; and as Mr Temple (who was very 
 sleepy) and he ate their supper, he entered 
 into a little history of Griselda, dwelling much 
 on the intimacy between her and Ralph, and 
 saying he felt bound to befriend them both. 
 
 "For Henry's sake," he ended, a little 
 awkwardly. 
 
 '' Well," said Mr Temple, '* it is all right, I 
 suppose, Phil. But actresses are a dangerous 
 class of persons. Don't get into that sort of 
 society, my dear boy, and — I should like to 
 warn young Lindsay, too, if I could." 
 
 Philip smiled that superior smile with w^hich 
 young people hear their elders talk of warning 
 them. 
 
 He went to bed disquieted, how^ever, his 
 annoyance about the Moat forgotten in other 
 things. Griselda had done pretty well ; much 
 better than he had expected. But the unwill- 
 ingness he had felt to talk of her had set him 
 thinking. 
 
 '* I will leave her more to Ralph," he said 
 to himself sagely, determining, however, to go 
 and see her to-morrow if possible.
 
 260 A DREAMER. 
 
 Philip was anxious to speak to Griselda 
 about Ralph, and on the following day he 
 insisted on introducing the topic, at the mere 
 approach to which she always bridled. 
 
 " Why did you refuse him, Griselda ? " asked 
 Philip. 
 
 " How do you know anything about it ? " 
 
 *'Your father ■' began the young man; 
 
 but Griselda interrupted — 
 
 " I think, if you had thought about it, Mr 
 Temple, you would have known that papa 
 ought not to discuss my private affairs with 
 all the world." 
 
 '' Ralph told me himself," said Philip, meekly; 
 ** and I am not all the world, Griselda. Surely 
 you don't think I would gossip about you from 
 curiosity ? Am I not too old a friend for 
 that ? " Philip proceeded to plead his friend's 
 cause eloquently. Griselda listened with Im- 
 patience. 
 
 " Mr Temple," she said, gravely, when he 
 paused, " would you marry a man because he 
 was a great friend of yours ? " 
 
 ** It depends on what you mean by a great
 
 " FOR HENRY S SAKE. 261 
 
 friend," said Philip, a little annoyed at being 
 brought down to details in this manner. 
 
 *' I will tell you," said Griselda, seriously : 
 " I think Ralph is the best man I know. I 
 love him very dearly, as a friend — a brother, 
 if you like. But I have never thought of him 
 as a husband. I have no love of that sort to 
 give him. And I could not marry him just 
 because I dislike the life I be^an last nieht. 
 It would not be fair to him." The allusion to 
 last nio^ht made her flush and tremble : but 
 she had spoken with a quiet dignity different 
 from her usual childish manner. Philip felt 
 himself a meddler, and replied, apologetically-^ 
 
 " Well, Griselda, forgive me ; I daresay you 
 are right." He would have left matters there; 
 but she, having no great confidence in herself, 
 and being disposed to regard Philip Temple 
 as an oracle, checked him as he was going 
 away, by saying, with some vehemence — 
 
 *' But I like to know what vou think. I 
 feel as if I was right, but then I so often 
 make mistakes. Say all you meant to say, 
 please."
 
 262 A DREAMER. 
 
 And Philip answered meekly, " I don't 
 know that I am a great judge, but it has 
 always seemed to me that you and Lindsay 
 were cut out for each other. When I saw 
 you together first, I thought you were en- 
 gaged." . 
 
 Griselda's earnestness was a little discon- 
 certing. Philip again took up his hat, but 
 she cried — 
 
 " Oh, do stop I Tell me, do you think we 
 are too intimate ? But it is Ralph's fault, not 
 mine. He made me promise not to mind 
 what he had asked me, but to go on as 
 before. We were always such friends. But 
 
 it is no good ; I have never felt the same 
 
 J, 
 
 to him since. I am always afraid of hurt- 
 ing him. It is like leaning on some one 
 with a broken arm. I don't like being alone 
 with him even. I am always glad if you or 
 some one comes to help me. Poor, dear old 
 Ralph ! " 
 
 '* But, Grlselda," said Philip, cautiously, ^^ I 
 still think it would be better if you were his 
 wife. Are you sure you are not looking for
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 263 
 
 some fantastic feeling, and missing the real 
 love within your reach ? I think you and 
 Ralph would make each other happy." 
 
 '' Really," said Griselda, " I cannot agree 
 with you that I should make a nice wife for 
 Ralph or any one. You must remember 
 how foolish I am, and how little I know 
 about things ; and I am always making mis- 
 takes, and being sorry for them. That would 
 be too tiresome, — almost worse than making 
 mistakes and not being sorry. Indeed I am 
 quite serious. I don't believe I should do 
 Ralph one bit of good. It is much better for 
 us not to think of it." 
 
 Philip did not answer ; and presently she 
 resumed — 
 
 " Of course, it would be a good thing for 
 me in a way ; but still I shouldn't like it. 
 And other thinors would be difficult. I should 
 have either to go on singing or to give it up. 
 I should hate to decide either way. Do you 
 know what I mean ? " 
 
 *' Yes," said Philip, smiling. 
 
 " But I dofi^," she cried ; " I don't know
 
 264 ' A DREAMER. 
 
 what I mean a bit. I wish you would explain 
 It to me." 
 
 " Explanations are bad things," quoted 
 Philip. " Man betrligt sich oder den andern 
 und melst belde." 
 
 He went away, deciding In his own mind, 
 as he had often done before, that he ought 
 not to be always trying to give advice, and 
 that Griselda ought to have a sensible womail 
 to take care of her. j 
 
 Little Miss Mortimer sat still in the twi- 
 light, saying to herself, '^ I have not made 
 him understand a bit. He thinks I only care 
 for myself; and I do care for Ralph." 
 
 She had spoken aloud, and was a little 
 ashamed to find Ralph himself standing be- 
 side her. 
 
 She coloured, and held out her hand silently. 
 
 " You do care for Ralph ? " he said, smiling 
 sadly; "just a little?" 
 
 *' You know I do, Ralph," answered Gris- 
 elda. They were silent for several minutes. 
 
 *' Can It not be, Griselda ? " said he, wist- 
 fully.
 
 '•' FOR HENRY S SAKE. 265 
 
 '' Oh, Ralph, I can't ! '' said Griselda. '' I 
 hate to think I am hurting you ; but I can't 
 do that — you know I can't." 
 
 *' I would take such care of you," said 
 Ralph. *' You should never be lonely, or 
 tired, or worried again." 
 
 *' Oh, Ralph, I can't ! " repeated Griselda. 
 *' I would do anything else in the world for 
 you, but not that. Oh, Ralph, I am sure I 
 am right ! Don't ask me." 
 
 *' Very well, Griselda. I will try to be con- 
 tent as second-best with you." 
 
 ** No, Ralph, it isn't that — second-best. It 
 isn't that I like any one better. Please don't 
 think that. I don't know what it is in me," 
 she said, breaking into tears, and hiding her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 " Griselda, Griselda, don't cry ! Never mind 
 about me. I shall get on very well. I only 
 want to see you happy. I should like to 
 think you were going to marry some other 
 man, if he loved you as much as I do, that is. 
 Only, Griselda, let me say one thing. If ever 
 you change your mind — want me — you wull
 
 266 A DREAMER. 
 
 tell me, won't you ? I will come In a moment, 
 wherever I am." 
 
 ** Oh, Ralph, I can t— I can't ! Do give it 
 up. It breaks my heart to make you un- 
 happy; but I can't." 
 
 ** Don't break your heart, Grlselda. Things 
 aren't bad enough for that. I hope they will 
 never be worse. Please God, it will never 
 come to breaking each other's hearts," said 
 Ralph, trying to comfort her. 
 
 Philip did not forget his resolution about 
 leaving Grlselda more to Ralph, but he did 
 not keep it very well. The failure vexed 
 him. He was glad in some ways to find that 
 he was wanted at home for a month, and that 
 his good-bye to Griselda was likely to be 
 sooner than he had anticipated. A long 
 good-bye it would probably be ; for, with the 
 close of the season, the little singer, now 
 launched in her profession, was to drift abroad 
 again. Philip did not expect to see her again 
 for a long while, unless, indeed, she were to 
 marry Ralph. He still hoped she would. 
 
 Meantime she had become almost too
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 267 
 
 much a part of his own life. She clung to 
 him a little too much. He found he stayed 
 too long with her, and that he was disposed 
 to watch over her too much. It was no great 
 matter : it meant nothing. But it was just as 
 well to put a stop to it. And he was not 
 able to do much in Ralph's cause after all. 
 
 '' I shall hear of you from Lindsay, Gris- 
 elda," he said, after telling her he was come 
 to say good-bye. 
 
 ''Yes, Ralph will always know about me,*' 
 she answered, listlessly. " I wish you were 
 not going away. Shall we ever meet again ? " 
 
 *' Oh, I hope we shall meet again," said 
 Philip, earnestly ; too earnestly, he thought. 
 '' Some day I shall come and see if your voice 
 Is getting spoiled," he proceeded, lightly. 
 
 " I will try and remember all the things 
 you have told me," said Griselda, looking 
 down. 
 
 "About Ralph?" 
 
 *' I am not sure about that. Other things." 
 
 " Griselda, don't. You believe in me too 
 much. Most people think me a goose. I am
 
 268 A DREAMER. 
 
 inclined to agree with them. Look out for a 
 better guide, you little thing.'' 
 
 As Philip walked down the street he felt 
 greatly disinclined to set about the other 
 things he had planned for the afternoon. 
 One of these was a visit to Agnes. " I have 
 nothing on earth to say to her," he told him- 
 self. Even a chat with Ralph in the evening 
 about Griselda did not interest him much. 
 He was thinking of the downcast troubled 
 little face too much to care to talk of her. 
 But he comforted Ralph as usual. " I be- 
 lieve it will be all right in a year or two, 
 my dear fellow," he said.
 
 269 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Late one evening a young man sat in a com- 
 fortable study, with some bills and papers of 
 different kinds on a table before him. His 
 face wore a harassed and anxious expression 
 as he inspected and arranged these, and now 
 and then he laid his occupation down to think, 
 with his hand pressed against his forehead. 
 Presently he rose and rang the bell. A man- 
 servant, with grave, obsequious face, answered 
 the summons. 
 
 '' Ask Miss Janet to come here, if you please, 
 Davis." 
 
 The man retired, and Ralph Lindsay threw 
 himself Into his father's chair, and awaited his 
 sister's coming. 
 
 Janet Lindsay was some ten years older 
 than her brother : like him, but unfavourably
 
 2/0 A DREAMER. 
 
 SO. She had the same irregular, but not un- 
 pleasant features ; the same smooth, dusky 
 hair; the same honest, grey eyes. But Janet 
 was not quiet and patient like Ralph. Her 
 expression was dissatisfied, her manner often 
 sharp and ungentle — not always so, however : 
 if Janet's heart were touched, no one could be 
 more thoughtful and kind. Her invalid sister, 
 her delicate, clinging mother, thought Janet 
 had not her equal in the world — she was so 
 helpful, so strong and loving. Her faults had 
 been caused to a great extent by a certain 
 dreariness in her lot ; an undefined dissatis- 
 faction with her parents ; a vague longing for 
 a sphere where nobler work would call for 
 greater energy. She would have liked to have 
 been a missionary, or the matron of a hos- 
 pital, or even a schoolmistress. But her youth 
 was fading away, and she felt her faculties 
 rusting for want of use. Her days were passed 
 in the trivial round appointed to many women : 
 attending on those who were dependent, and 
 yet not always in real need; helping her father 
 in little services which he scarcely appreciated ;
 
 "FOR henry's sake." 2/1 
 
 entertaining stupid visitors with stupid talk ; 
 visiting the poor, who did not care for her 
 tracts and her advice ; writinof scoldine letters 
 to Ralph, by means of which she hoped to 
 stimulate him to high deeds. Ralph, busy 
 doing his work, was often annoyed by his 
 sister's letters. He could appreciate her ready 
 usefulness at home, but he did not perceive 
 that her irritated advice to him was the out- 
 come of a heart yearning upward out of un- 
 recognised disappointment. 
 
 " Sit down, Janet," said Ralph ; ** I want to 
 speak to you about our mother. She must 
 know at once the condition of my father's 
 affairs. Will you undertake to tell her ? " 
 
 *' She will be greatly shocked. She did not 
 know, as I did, that he has been living beyond 
 his income for several years. That Dr Darby 
 got by degrees all his practice you may say, 
 and poor papa would not confess it by econo- 
 mising. I really think people should have 
 more common-sense than to be surprised when 
 they are outstripped by younger men. Papa 
 always regarded Dr Darby's popularity as a
 
 2/2 A DREAMER. 
 
 personal insult, and as a thing he would not 
 acknowledge for all the world : when, consider- 
 ing the progress of science, and " 
 
 '' Never mind that now, Janet," said Ralph, 
 who had not revered his father too much, but 
 who nevertheless disliked to hear his impru- 
 dence commented upon in Janet's sharp unlov- 
 ing tone ; " what I want you to understand, 
 and to make my mother understand, is that 
 a great change in our circumstances is in- 
 evitable at once. I have put the house into 
 Robinson's hands already, that it may be 
 sold as soon as possible, and to - morrow I 
 shall give the servants notice. There is no 
 means of keeping it from my mother any 
 longer." 
 
 ** She trusted poor papa implicitly. When I 
 hinted that the butcher's bill was unpaid for 
 several quarters, she said every one liked giv- 
 ing him credit, as it showed how proud they 
 were of him. What she meant, I can't tell 
 you ; and what she will feel now, goodness 
 only knows." 
 
 '' Will you speak to her to-night ? Robin-
 
 " FOR henry's sake." 273 
 
 son's man is coming early to-morrow, to make 
 a valuation of the furniture." 
 
 '' Well, I suppose I must. What do you 
 wish me to say ? " 
 
 " Tell her that my father's money will not 
 suffice to cover his debts, and there is abso- 
 lutely nothing left for any of us. But don't 
 make matters out too black. The surplus 
 debts are not very large. I can settle them, 
 and my income will go a considerable way 
 to help." 
 
 " I must go out as a governess, I suppose," 
 said Janet, not, however, speaking despond- 
 ently. She was not especially fond of children, 
 but any active labour would have been accept- 
 able to her. 
 
 "No, Janet," said Ralph, gravely; "you 
 must stay with our mother and Emily. They 
 cannot spare you, particularly now that their 
 expensive maid must be dismissed." 
 
 " What are we going to live on, then ? " 
 asked Janet, with some asperity. 
 
 " I can arrange to give you ;/^20O a-year so 
 long as I am in my present situation. Pos- 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 274 A DREAMER. 
 
 sibly I may see my way to something better 
 before long. Can you manage on that ? " 
 
 '' I suppose so," said Janet, grimly, *' if 
 mamma will be content with a maid -of- all - 
 work. I don't know, though, Ralph ; it is 
 only ;^50 a-year each for the four of us ; (we 
 must have one servant). It might do for 
 people in health, but " 
 
 '' I will make it ^250." 
 
 '' But that's a frightful drag upon you, 
 Ralph. I don't think we ought to allow it. 
 You may want to marry." 
 
 " No. And I shall not let my mother and 
 Emily suffer more than it is possible to 
 avoid." 
 
 " But you will want to marry, Ralph. All 
 men marry sooner or later." 
 
 '' Then it must be later with me, — when I 
 am partner in the firm. You may set your 
 mind at rest, Janet. There is only one per- 
 son I should care to marry, and she will have 
 nothing to say to me, so I shall not need my 
 mother's money." 
 
 Janet was a little awed by the calm voice in
 
 >^ ^ « T^-r- J> 
 
 '' FOR HENRY S SAKE. 275 
 
 which Ralph mentioned this minor tragedy. 
 She had never suspected her brother of being 
 in love, and had been wont to regard him with 
 some contempt from the heights of what she 
 considered a disappointment in her own earlier 
 records. After a few minutes she said — 
 
 *' Is there no way of making money faster ? 
 Business seems very slow work." 
 
 *' It requires patience, of course. One can't 
 expect to be rich all at once." 
 
 " But there are other things that pay better 
 than being a merchant's clerk. Why don't 
 you join that Mr Walker, who has set up the 
 land agency ? See how well he is getting on. 
 And you know of the new machinery patent 
 he is bringing out. That, he says, is sure to 
 succeed. And his " 
 
 '' That kind of speculation is all very well 
 for men with something to fall back upon ; but 
 it is risky work. I have no great opinion 
 of Walker. He talks very big, but tries 
 too many trades to make me confident he 
 has succeeded in one. And as to his land 
 agency, I have great doubts if he under-
 
 2;6 A DREAMER. 
 
 Stands that sort of thing. I am sure I don't, 
 and I will not impose upon people by join- 
 ing him." 
 
 '' Well, I think he deserves great credit for 
 his activity and his energy in leaving no stone 
 unturned for the benefit of his family. Mrs 
 Walker was telling me how busy he always 
 is, liable to be called off at any moment to 
 Scotland or " 
 
 ''Well, I hope it is all right. He is not a 
 man I feel much confidence in. Will you 
 speak to my mother, Janet ? " 
 
 " I only mean, Ralph, that with a little 
 courage, you too might discover some more 
 remunerative work. It seems to me such 
 waste of life to sit all day droning in an 
 office. If you had a little invention, a little 
 energy, you might " 
 
 " Leave all that to me, Janet. Now, at any 
 rate, is not the moment to reconstruct my life. 
 You will help me most by consulting with 
 Emily and my mother how and where you are 
 going to live.'' 
 
 " On ^200 a-year ? "
 
 '' FOR henry's sake." 277 
 
 " On ^250 a-year." 
 
 " It Is not fair to burden you so, Ralph. It 
 would be much better to let me be a gover- 
 ness. Mamma could attend upon Emily ; 
 and they could keep a maid, perhaps, If I 
 were supporting myself You could give 
 them " 
 
 " My mother needs attention herself, Janet. 
 And you will not eat more than a maid. I 
 assure you there Is nothing else to be done 
 than what I say, — at present at least. So 
 please agree to It without arguing over every 
 point." 
 
 Janet went up-stairs to her Invalid sister 
 and her widowed mother, to tell the unwel- 
 come news. Ralph meanwhile returned to 
 the arranging of Dr Lindsay's papers. He 
 felt bruised by this Interview with Janet. 
 Her voice, out of Emily's sick-room, was apt 
 to be loud and somewhat discordant ; the 
 plainness of speech, on which she prided her- 
 self, was jarring at times. 
 
 " It Is a great thing that one can depend on 
 her so thoroughly/' said Ralph, by way of
 
 2;8 A DREAMER. 
 
 comforting himself; and he knew that in all 
 the trying circumstances entailed by such a 
 reverse of fortune, Janet would be a clever, 
 efficient, uncomplaining manager. Neverthe- 
 less he was glad it was not his lot to live with 
 her. '' It is only on roses that thorns are 
 bearable," he said, thinking of another person 
 who gave him occasional pricks, but who 
 seemed to him entirely sweet and lovable. 
 Then he sighed a little and went up to his 
 mother, who knew nothing of his trouble, and 
 was wholly absorbed in her own. 
 
 Ralph Lindsay did not suffer much by his 
 change of fortune. He had never spent more 
 than about half his income, and now made no 
 change In his habits beyond moving to smaller 
 lodelnes. 
 
 He was wrong in thinking Griselda perfectly 
 Indifferent to him. She thought of him much, 
 and often debated in her own mind whether 
 Philip Temple had been altogether mistaken 
 in saying she would be better as Ralph's wife. 
 One sentence of his had Impressed her, and 
 she asked herself, often fearfully. If she might
 
 2;9 
 
 not Indeed be missing real affection by looking 
 for some fantastic dream. 
 
 " He made a mistake once himself," she 
 said, ''and so he ought to know." 
 
 The news that Ralph had lost his father 
 and had been obliged to give up almost all his 
 income, made her still more inclined to turn to 
 him. Misfortune, or anything approaching to 
 heroism, are attractive to women, and it did 
 seem to Griselda heroic on Ralph's part — not 
 that he should support his mother and sisters, 
 but that he should do so without one sigh 
 of regret or one word of blame for his father. 
 " Did he leave you nothing ? " she asked. 
 " Nothing but debts," answered Ralph, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Aren't you angry with him, Ralph ? " 
 " Dear — he is my father," said Ralph, gently, 
 but expostulatingly. 
 
 Griselda thought of the many impatient 
 speeches she had made about her own father, 
 and was silent. 
 
 " I ought to be proud that such a man 
 should love me," she thought. " If I were
 
 280 A DREAMER. 
 
 always with him, he would make me some- 
 thing like him, perhaps/' 
 
 Yet still she delayed to speak the word that 
 would bind Ralph to herself. She would try 
 the world a little longer first. So far her path 
 had been smoother than she had expected. 
 Her work was becoming familiar; her em- 
 ployers were satisfied and encouraging ; her 
 father was pleased, and inclined to reform. 
 One day Agnes, paying her a visit, was 
 struck by her little cousin's improved spirits. 
 
 ** Your life seems to agree with you, Gris- 
 elda," she said, looking with admiration on the 
 bright face and soft sparkling eyes. " I never 
 believed Mr Temple when he said it would be 
 too great a strain for you ; you look as dif- 
 ferent as possible from the pale sad child you 
 were a few months ao^o.'' 
 
 *' Did Mr Temple say that ? '' said Gris- 
 elda, becoming very grave. " What did he 
 mean ?" 
 
 *' That it would make you ill, I suppose/' 
 returned Agnes. 
 
 Griselda shook her head. '' No ; I don't
 
 **FOR henry's sake." 281 
 
 think he meant that. I think he meant I 
 should probably do something foolish.'' 
 
 ^' You odd litde girl," said Agnes, laughing. 
 '' Philip is a dreadful cridc, but I don't think 
 he intended anything so severe as that." 
 
 The remainder of Griselda's time in London 
 passed, on the whole, gaily and in comparative 
 happiness. She was bright and sparkling as 
 a rule, her low-spirited fits being as excep- 
 tional now as once her merriment had been. 
 
 A stormy day is often marked by a few 
 hours of sunshine. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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