E> RARY 
 
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 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND 
 THE DOCTOR; 
 
 A 
 
 $Utorb of % (fctyzxmm of Attain foung Utar. 
 
 BY 
 
 The Rev. HENRY SOLLY, 
 
 Author of " Gonzaga : a Dramatic Tale of Florence ; " " The Development of 
 
 Religious Life in the Modern Christian Church" " Working Men's Clubs 
 
 and Institutes," &°c. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY NOTICE BY LORD LYTTELTON. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN & HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1874.
 
 PRINTED DY WITHEKBY AND CO., 
 iewman's COURT, CORNHILL, AND MIDDLE ROW TLACE, HOLBORN.
 
 8tt 
 
 ™1 
 
 Jtx the Mmrwxnj: of 
 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE, 
 
 FROM WHOSE MEMORABLE WORDS AND DEEDS, 
 
 ABOVE ALL FROM WHOSE CHRIST-LIKE SPIRIT AND LIFE, 
 
 MEN — WHILE LEARNING THEIR NEED OF DELIVERANCE 
 
 Jrom HMfisbiwss mxit J$wsaaIii|T, from $bolatnr mxit dear, 
 Jtont Isolation anb ^rik — 
 
 HAVE LEARNED ALSO TO FIND AND TO LOVE 
 
 THEIR DELIVERER, 
 
 "THESE EXPERIENCES" 
 
 OF TEMPTED, STRIVING, SINNING, SUFFERING, 
 
 BUT IMMORTAL SOULS, 
 
 Qxt fascrilub, 
 
 WITH HONOUR, AND LOVE, AND HOPE, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 

 
 THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTELTON, 
 
 D.C.L., K.C.M.G. 
 
 Dear Lord Lyttelton, 
 
 None know better than yourself that the present is an 
 age in which many struggles are going on for moral and social 
 reforms. The humble part I have endeavoured to take in some of 
 these has brought me the privilege of your friendship, and the very 
 valuable aid of your personal and social influence during many 
 past years. But among all the efforts being made to promote such 
 reforms I doubt if there are any of greater importance than those 
 which aim at purifying and elevating the sacred relationships that 
 exist between the two sexes, and thereby striking at the root of 
 those great social evils and terrible problems which, after eighteen 
 centuries of professing Christianity, still so grievously afflict and 
 pollute society. 
 
 For nearly forty years I have had it on my conscience to do 
 something, however imperfectly, towards this object; and the 
 following "Record" is the contribution, prepared amid the intervals 
 of a busy life, which I have at last to offer. I am well aware of 
 its defects, but as we journey on we learn that it is no use waiting 
 till we can accomplish our appointed work perfectly, but that we 
 must just do our best, leaving other people and a good Providence 
 to make the most of our contribution which its merits or demerits 
 permit. 
 
 Having regard, however, to the delicate and difficult nature of 
 some of the subjects that had to be dealt with, it was natural that 
 I should seek your lordship's countenance and support in this, as 
 in sundry other attempts to be of use, believing that your opinion 
 would be valued, and your name and character would be serviceable 
 in recommending the book and its main objects to the world. Of
 
 course some people would prefer that social and many other evils 
 were left to flourish without those protests which call attention to 
 their existence. But I have long felt, deeply and painfully, that 
 such avoidance and false refinement largely foster these iniquities ; 
 and that true delicacy, as well as moral faithfulness, demand 
 an outspoken denunciation or exposure of those works of 
 darkness which shrink before the light. To bring home to the 
 conscience and heart, indeed, the lessons which have to be learnt, 
 if we would successfully contend against evil, it is often necessary 
 to dispense with rose-water, and to call a spade a spade. There 
 can be no telling lights in a picture without proportionate shadows ; 
 and if we are to use fiction at all as a vehicle for truth, I apprehend 
 we must make our fiction as truthful a representation of reality as 
 the demands of true propriety on the one hand, and the laws of Art 
 on the other justify or require. If an author finds men and women 
 in his imaginary world, naturally talking and acting (according to 
 all his experience) in a way that offends refined taste and true 
 morality, he must not distort their speech and conduct to give an 
 appearance of unnatural propriety. Neither, if he knows that certain 
 other personages would of necessity, under given circumstances, 
 quote from the Bible, offer up a prayer, or express religious con- 
 victions, is he permitted to conceal the fact lest he or they be accused 
 of hypocrisy and cant. To be of any use in this world we must, above 
 all things, be truthful. Philosophic fiction presents no exception 
 to this principle ; and while we are trying to lighten the shadows in 
 the real social landscape, we may be thankful for anything that 
 helps us to realize how dark and terrible those shadows are, in our 
 own hearts and in the world around us. The more thoroughly we do 
 so, the more we shall feel our need of redemption from our follies 
 and misdoings — and the more willing, I suppose, to seek and 
 welcome Deliverance. 
 
 It was, I suppose, because your lordship and another man, whom 
 I am also proud to call my friend, George Macdonald, held these 
 views — that you both underwent the fatigue, and made the sacrifice 
 of time involved in toiling through this work in manuscript, and 
 both finally approved of its publication. Your own opinion you 
 have kindly undertaken to give here by way of Introductory Notice. 
 Mr. Macdonald communicated to me his general opinion of it in 
 terms too flattering to quote, mingled with invaluable criticisms, by
 
 which I have endeavoured uniformly to profit before publication. 
 It would be difficult adequately to express one's gratitude that two 
 men, standing so high alike in moral character and literary ability, 
 and so incessantly occupied, should have taken the trouble above 
 mentioned, and have, in consequence, given their general approval 
 to the effort I have ventured to make. 
 
 While expressing my obligations to Mr. Macdonald and your- 
 self, I must also refer to the kindness of another friend (in the 
 far West), who, having interested himself in the publication of this 
 book, and finding that I could not venture to print it at my own 
 risk, generously guaranteed me against the chance of pecuniary 
 loss, which I should not, myself, have been justified in incurring, 
 and thereby enabled me to let it see the light. 
 
 Considering the value of the aid your lordship has rendered me 
 in this and several other attempts to be of some little use to man- 
 kind in general, it was natural I should wish to be allowed to 
 dedicate "Gerald and his Friend" to yourself, had it not been 
 a decided anomaly to dedicate a work to a person who. was writing 
 an Introductory Notice. But there was one noble and sacred 
 memory dear to you, and to thousands of Englishmen besides — very 
 dear to me, and intimately associated with the course, real or imagi- 
 nary, of some of the following " experiences." It seemed, therefore, 
 very desirable to me, and advisable to you, that I should dedicate these 
 " simple annals" to the memory of a man to whom I felt under the 
 deepest obligations, for whom we both entertained so profound a 
 respect and regard while he was living here, and whose character 
 and work alike justify any attempt, however humble, to express 
 honour and love towards him now that he is gone to a higher life 
 elsewhere. 
 
 In no department of his life was Frederick Denison Maurice 
 more admirable, or perhaps more useful, than in his efforts to raise 
 the moral and intellectual condition of the working-classes of this 
 country. I owed him much for the lessons I learned from him, not 
 merely in the matter of theology and religion, but also in regard to 
 associations for promoting that great improvement. Since the days 
 when I knew something of young men's trials, I have learnt much 
 of working men's troubles, and have looked with deep interest on 
 the various means suggested for raising their moral, social, physical, 
 and political condition. I believe you will agree with mc that the
 
 principles held, and the lessons taught by Mr. Maurice, indicate 
 with wonderful power and truthfulness the path which should be 
 trod alike by him who would help young men to live a manly, 
 Christian life, and by him who seeks to elevate the Industrial classes. 
 As I have learned in later years to look with fervent hope to these 
 classes for a new influence, and an element of fresh, youthful 
 nobleness, that shall renew our national life — somewhat (though in 
 a higher and more peaceful fashion) as the young Gothic nations 
 renewed the life of an ancient and corrupt civilisation — I can find 
 no fitter introduction to the public (independently of what you may 
 be led to say) for these young men's " Experiences," than the 
 closing sentences of Mr. Maurice's Dedication of the noble Lectures, 
 which he delivered on " Learning and Working," preparatory to 
 the establishment of the Working Men's College. After speaking 
 of that true Brotherhood, and common Fatherhood, in which stands 
 our relation to the Son of Man and the Son of God, and in the 
 knowledge of which all our efforts for the moral and social benefit 
 of others and ourselves must be rooted — after adverting to the 
 hindrances, defeats, and bereavements, which those must experience 
 who labour for lofty and unselfish ends — Mr. Maurice concludes in 
 these words : — 
 
 " In our College, and in all our tasks, may we work as those who 
 are cheered on by the voices of invisible friends ! And when the 
 clouds that overhang our country are thickest, and men who are 
 worthy to be trusted appear to be the fewest, may we be able to 
 hope that God will do His own work ; and out of those who are 
 lowest in human eyes — our common people — will raise up citizens 
 that will be fit to live and die for England, if not to rule her." 
 
 That his prayer may be answered, and that many more from the 
 select circle, which has the good fortune to number your Lordship in 
 its ranks, may come forward as generously and unwearied ly as you 
 have done, to give "the common people" a brotherly helping 
 hand — is the earnest prayer, 
 
 Dear Lord Lyttelton, 
 
 Of your sincere friend, 
 
 HENRY SOLLY. 
 
 Grove House, Hampstead, N.W., 
 July zb//i, 1874.
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 My friend, the author of this tale, has thought it might be of 
 advantage that I should write a few words by way of introduction 
 to it. 
 
 I cannot pretend to do so in respect of the book simply as a 
 novel or work of fiction. I am no great judge of that branch of 
 literature ; but the book, as will appear, has a high moral purpose 
 in view, and I fully adopt the opinion that such a purpose may 
 be admirably served by skilful and life-like fiction, such as I 
 believe will be found in these volumes. On this point I may 
 refer to an unquestionable authority — a dry, ethical writer and 
 politician, who probably cared as little for novels, as mere recrea- 
 tion, as any one who ever lived — I mean Sir James Mackintosh. 
 " Fictitious narrative," he says (Life, ii. 20), "in all its forms, is 
 one of the grand instruments in the moral elevation of mankind." 
 And he follows this out in a passage long and careful enough to 
 be called by himself an essay {lb. 125 — 135). 
 
 But it is on one special object, rather, I should say, on one special 
 method of this book, that I must dwell a little. That object is to 
 hold out warning, reproof, encouragement, example, to young men 
 against their worst enemy — " the lust of the flesh." The method 
 is plain-speaking — to a degree very unusual in these days, but for 
 which the author conceives he has warrant in sound reason, in 
 truthfulness, and in Scripture. 
 
 The obligation and the abstract importance of this form of moral 
 restraint are denied by no one. That it is the most difficult form 
 may be admitted. But that it is more than a mere question of 
 degree — that the difficulty amounts to impossibility — that the 
 inevitable imperfection and shortcoming (nay, possibly, occasional 
 and incidental inconvenience) of any attempt to deal with it, are 
 reasons, more than in any other case, for not making the attempt 
 — these are, I believe, among the worst and most pernicious 
 delusions which afflict mankind.
 
 I will refer to weighty and kindly words, of one of the most 
 unjustly-slandered men who ever lived, but one whose memory 
 has lived down those slanders, and whom we may now quote 
 without fear — a man from whom in details we may differ, but whose 
 main thesis is irrefragable, if anything ever was — I mean Malthus. 
 " If moral restraint" (he says) "be the only virtuous mode of 
 avoiding the incidental evils arising from the principle of popula- 
 tion, an obligation to practice it will evidently rest exactly upon 
 the same foundation as our obligation to practice any of the other 
 virtues." 
 
 " Passion, instead of being extinguished, as it now too frequently 
 is by early sensuality, would only be repressed for a time, that it 
 might afterwards burn with a brighter, purer, and steadier flame." 
 
 " No imputation on the benevolence of the Deity can be founded 
 on the laws of nature respecting population, which is not equally 
 applicable to any of the evils necessarily incidental to an imperfect 
 state of existence."* 
 
 Let me put the matter a little more precisely. Malthus himself 
 thought that on our present general system, with some improved 
 social arrangements, young men might very generally look to 
 marriage at twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Suppose we say twenty- 
 five or twenty-six. Does anyone seriously believe that in an old 
 and crowded country like this we shall ever carry it much further ? 
 That it is conceivable (even if on other grounds it were desirable) that 
 our young men shall ever be able to marry, as the rule, at twenty or 
 twenty-one ? And if not, how is it possible to blink the necessity 
 of inculcating this moral restraint, unless we are prepared to abandon 
 the attempt to maintain the most sacred foundations of virtue and 
 morality ? 
 
 How to inculcate, then, is the only question. There are parents, 
 I believe, who have on this matter advised their sons in plain 
 language, and with good effect. But many do not know how to 
 do so ; and most books and addresses, spoken or written, avoid 
 plain language, and such is for the most part the customary rule 
 among us. 
 
 I do not condemn the rule, but it need not be exclusive, and if 
 even there be some risk in deviating from it, the risk may be 
 worth running. 
 
 The author has boldly taken by the horns a most dangerous bull, 
 
 * III. pp. 83, 89, 101, ed. 1S17. See the whole of the first two chapters of 
 the IVth Book ; also the last chapter of the work.
 
 and I commend his attempt as a brave and honest one in this most 
 vital of causes. 
 
 I am not to be understood as necessarily agreeing with all that 
 is said or implied in the book ; nor do I intend to recommend it 
 for universal reading, nor attempt to define for whom it is suitable. 
 But I do believe that "this bullet has its billet," nay, its many 
 billets. 
 
 I have spoken of the rule now customary among us. Our 
 ancestors were not so mealy-mouthed : and we may, though with 
 hesitation, credit the author of (say) Joseph Andrews, with a sincere 
 moral purpose. But no one would seriously compare the coarse 
 daubing of that story with the delineation of high and pure 
 principle in these volumes, any more than those who know Henry 
 Solly would do him the injustice to compare his character with 
 that of Henry Fielding. 
 
 LYTTELTON. 
 
 Hagley Hall, 
 
 Aug. 4, 1874,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND 
 THE DOCTOR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " WHAT a jolly row ! " exclaimed a fat little urchin, who was 
 tumbling along in a race with the rest of Mr. Botherum's pupils, 
 as they rushed out of the school-room immediately after dinner. 
 
 " What's it all about, Tommy Diddler ? " asked one of the rush. 
 
 " Oh, there's going to be a fight." 
 
 "Hush, you young beggar," growled an older boy, "or I'll 
 knock your head off — don't you see old Priggins there ?" 
 
 "Between Gerry Arlington," continued the fat little boy to his 
 companion, in a lower key, "and the new fellow, Willy Grantham. 
 I am so glad ; Willy, you'll see, will thrash Gerry all to shivers." 
 
 " But I like Gerry," objected the lad addressed. 
 
 " Oh, he's very good for games and stories, and that sort of 
 thing, but you see he fancies he is so precious grand because he 
 lives in a fine house and his father keeps dogs and gardeners. 
 He's always giving himself airs, and cocking it over all the little 
 chaps that he thinks he can thrash — and Willy's bigger than he, 
 though he's in a lower form, don't ye see— and he won't stand 
 Gerry's cockiness — so the big fellows said they should fight it out, 
 and there's to be a ring behind the gardens : oh ! here it is, and 
 there they are ! my eyes, what jolly fun ! " 
 
 " I say," said one of the older boys, nudging his companion, 
 " isn't Gerry Arlington in a funk, that's all ! " 
 
 " All the more game of him," replied his friend, " to come up 
 so smart to the scratch. It'll be a stunner this time, oh golly! "
 
 2 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Stripped to the shirt sleeves, there the combatants certainly 
 stood, very unequally matched to look at. Willy Grantham was 
 half a head taller than his antagonist, who, however, looked as 
 lithe and active as a young tiger. But a deadly paleness over- 
 spread the smaller boy's delicately-cut features. It was evidently 
 no satisfaction to him to be set up there to pommell and be pom- 
 melled by his red-faced, sturdy, honest-looking foe. Had the 
 truth been told, Master Gerry probably was wishing he had been 
 more considerate and forbearing towards the new-comer, and not 
 claimed rights of dominion over him, which he could not sustain 
 without a battle. However, there was no help for it now ; any 
 amount of torture could be welcomed rather than disgrace. But 
 the worst of Gerry's sufferings, if he was suffering, were over when 
 the signal was given, and the blows began to fall fast and furious 
 on either side. Gerry was too proud and sensitive, as well as 
 ambitious, to be generally popular, but those of the boys with 
 whom he was on familiar terms, and the little ones whom he 
 patronized and protected, loved him greatly ; some believed him to 
 be a genius, a poet, a small hero of some sort, and worshipped 
 him accordingly. No doubt he could be very fascinating, but he 
 certainly did give himself airs. 
 
 So opinions were divided in the " ring." The majority longed to 
 see him have a good " setting down," " to take the conceit out of 
 him ; " many of his equals longed to see a stop put to his impudent 
 assumptions of authority over the lower forms. But the little 
 hearts of many of the smaller boys ached to see their favourite 
 so unequally matched, and after the fight had fairly begun, nearly 
 all, even Willy's own backers and Gerry's strongest opponents, 
 admired the desperate pluck with which the smaller boy took his 
 thrashing, and the daring activity with which, regardless of punish- 
 ment, he Hung himself at his antagonist's face and leaped within 
 the massive guard of Willy's long, stout arms. That doughty young 
 champion fought well and kept himself cool. There was nothing 
 fierce or vindictive in his heart, but he knocked his antagonist 
 about somewhat as the windmill did the knight of La Mancha. 
 
 " Give in, Gerry, give in ! " at length shouted several voices, as 
 the blood came streaming from his face, and he was being gradually 
 forced further and further back. But Gerry had no idea of " giving 
 in ; " he had never been beaten yet, and yield now he wouldn't, in 
 spite of the mauling he was getting. So at last some of the elder 
 boys admiring the little one's "game," and satisfied that he would 
 not again attempt unlawful usurpation over boys bigger than him- 
 self, rather apprehensive also that the master might find them out
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 3 
 
 and make a row, in which case they would all be punished together, 
 interfered at length, and separated the panting pugilists. 
 
 It was not too soon. Gerry was getting faint. Soon he was 
 conscious of being treated with unwonted kindness by some of 
 the upper form, and being tenderly washed at the pump. Next, 
 he found himself carried off to bed, while the doctor was sent for, 
 as one of the servants got alarmed on seeing the condition of her, 
 favourite, and straightway " peached." 
 
 However, no serious consequences ensued to him beyond two 
 black eyes, and an ugly gash over one of them. The following 
 day Gerry appeared in the playground with said black eyes, shook 
 hands with Willy, who was far from wishing to insist on any claim 
 to victory, but with generous and awkward good humcur accepted 
 his late foe as on equal terms. So as the masters in their hearts 
 agreed with the upper form in believing that the fight had been a 
 needful check to young Arlington's conceit and schemes of usur- 
 pation, and not having extricated themselves from the barbarous 
 notions of the necessity for occasional pugilistic encounters (theo- 
 retically forbidden at Beachum) the upper form escaped with a 
 well-feigned severe reprimand and things resumed their wonted 
 course. Gerry, to his great satisfaction, found himself however 
 considerably less snubbed thenceforth by the elder boys and more 
 popular generally. To show one's self thoroughly plucky was the 
 certain road to favour in the Beachum academy. In the meantime 
 Gerry had learnt a useful lesson, and had just enough common 
 sense to act upon it. But from that day he never trembled at the 
 thought of fighting. He had gone through the worst of it, had 
 come out of it much happier than he went in, and, as far as that 
 bugbear was concerned, found peace. Probably, also, this fight 
 took a deal of conceit out of him, and helped to turn his love of 
 dominion into a healthier channel. 
 
 It was a few days after the battle just recorded that, as two of 
 the elder boys were lolling together over the palings in the course 
 of a half-holiday, one of them nodded to an athletic youth who 
 was leading a pony along the road that ran near the playground. 
 On the pony sat a young lady. The youth wielded a thick stick 
 in a martial style, had a Robin Hood's feather in a very jaunty cap 
 on his head, and swaggered along the road, "as if he were Baying 
 to every one he met," observed a Beachum usher, "who the devil's 
 afraid of you ? " 
 
 " Pray, who's your swashbuckler friend?" asked the boy (fresh 
 from the perusal of " Peveril of the Peak") who didn't nod to this 
 youth, of the one that did.
 
 4 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Oh, don't you know him ?" was the reply. " He's the parson's 
 son — Harry Fortescue — lives up at the Rectory over the hill there, 
 and that's his half-sister — a regular charmer, she. The jolliest, 
 pluckiest young rascal, is the male animal, / ever met with. I 
 never saw such a young beggar for a row. He did something the 
 other night, Stephen" (the boot and shoe cleaner to the establish- 
 ment) "was telling me, which I confess I should have shirked 
 myself, and you don't give me credit, Jack, for funking much, 
 do you ? " 
 
 Jack having expressed a satisfactory opinion on that point, and 
 inquired further particulars, the first speaker continued thus : — 
 
 " Why, you know there was a lot of gipsies came into the town 
 the other night, and squatted among the low Irish in that beastly 
 hole all down by Providence Row, and Meg Cribb's yard." 
 
 " I know," nodded Jack, complacently. 
 
 " Well, the first night they were there they let -their donkeys into 
 several gentlemen's paddocks, and among others, into the lawn 
 of the Rectory. Young Fortescue, coming down betimes in the 
 morning, before the gipsies were awake, found Balaam among 
 the flower-beds, soon heard where he came from, and, by George ! 
 he marches my long-eared gentleman off to the pound, right 
 through the very thick of the gipsies and Providence Row ! There 
 they stood, boys and men, showing their teeth at him, and grasp- 
 ing their cudgels, but the devil-a-bit did he care. And he went 
 right through them all, got the donkey safe in the pound, and 
 marched back again, as coolly as if he had been in his dad's 
 garden." 
 
 " Were the scamps cowed, do you think ? " 
 
 " Partly that, and partly that sort of animal has a great respect 
 for pluck. But with a curious kind of chivalry, while they wouldn't 
 set on him in a mob, they determined to punish him a bit in fair 
 play. So they made a ring as he came back, set one of their 
 biggest lads before him, and invited him to strip." 
 
 " He thanked them, and whistled for the police, like a gentle- 
 man ? " 
 
 " Not he ! The chance was delicious to his soul. He cheer- 
 fully handed his hat and coat to a girl in the crowd — no doubt a 
 gipsy belle— and, Stephen says, went into the gipsy champion 
 like ' two-and-a-stunner.' Stephen says it was smashing work for 
 ten minutes, and then they dragged their man away, patted 
 Fortescue on the back, and swore he was the pluckiest young 
 bloke they had clapped eyes on for a moon's dance, asked him to 
 let them drink his health, and cheered till the street rang again,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 5 
 
 when he forked out half-a-crown and wished them good morning. 
 Wasn't it a rum go ? " 
 
 "What a lark!" rejoined Jack, thoughtfully. "Why, it must 
 have been almost better fun than our mill here the other 
 day!" 
 
 " Aye ! I was rather sorry to see poor little Gerry knocked 
 about so. But it'll do him good, Jack — it will. Yet he is a wonder- 
 ful young chap, and I love him — I can't tell you how. I love that 
 young quiz. He's game to the back-bone, and tells such first-rate 
 stories at night. But Fortescue's the fellow to back, you know, if 
 you come to that." 
 
 Here the talk was interrupted by an appeal to help make up sides 
 for cricket, and nothing more appears to be known of any of the 
 parties except two, who, however, turn up again four years later — at 
 which period the following chapter commences, during the pleasant 
 summer-time of the year of grace 1831. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 • " Well, you be'ant a-going to 'ave the 'osses no how, and that's all 
 about it, I never seed either on you afore" — and so saying the exas- 
 perated ostler suddenly wrenched the key of the stable door from 
 the grasp of a muscular young gentleman in a green riding-coat, 
 who instantly prepared to punish that faithful functionary's imper- 
 tinence by tucking up his coat sleeves, and letting drive a formid- 
 able fist at the object of his wrath. But the Fates were merciful, 
 interposing in the shape of the young pugilist's companion, a 
 remarkably handsome, bright-eyed youth, with delicate but classical 
 features and wavy chestnut locks, broad shoulders and active limbs, 
 singularly graceful of figure, but not nearly so tall as his companion. 
 This individual caught his friend's arm, exclaiming, " Nonsense, 
 
 Harry, don't make a fool of yourself — the fellow " 
 
 " Deserves a deuced good thrashing," roared the indignant 
 Rugbeian, fresh from the well-fought campaigns, which, as was 
 remarked in the last chapter, were the frequent exercises of all our 
 public schools thirty years ago. "Didn't his master promise us the 
 prads — isn't it our last chance ? — confound the beggar! Isn't he
 
 6 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 diddling us now because those dirty young Eton prigs have tipped 
 him five shillings to keep the door locked and swear the brutes are 
 out, that they may have 'em fresh for a lark to Greenwich ?" 
 
 " I tell you they be'ant there— don't I ?" snarled the ostler. 
 
 " Confound you ! then what is there ? " 
 
 "Why, you sec there be a brood mare as must be kept quiet." 
 
 " A likely joke, you lying dog — give up his two best loose boxes 
 to an old mare ! " 
 
 " Ah, but her foal's with her, may be." 
 
 (Green-coat in a towering rage) — " May be ! you're a cursed 
 
 . Never mind, Neddy," he concluded, with a sudden change 
 
 of manner, as the guilty horse-keeper edged away with hanging- 
 down head and arm ready to act on the defensive, ludicrously 
 uncertain whether to show fight or ask pardon, "you see I know 
 all about it, you dummy, and you'd go down at the third round, 
 but I won't cost you your place ; so there's a tizzy to drink our 
 healths for all the names I've called you, you lying old villain, and 
 don't expect to see us any more. Good-night, my hearty ! " So 
 saying, he flipped a sixpence good-humouredly into the man's hat, 
 and taking his friend's arm walked leisurely out of the livery stables 
 yard, not without looking regretfully over his shoulder and mutter- 
 ing, " I should have liked to knock a little honesty into him, 
 though, my Gerry." 
 
 "You are just as bad as ever, Harry. What is the good of 
 getting into rows with all these blackguards ?" 
 
 Harry faced round, planted himself firmly before his friend, and* 
 exclaimed in an injured-innocence tone — 
 
 " Gerald, when shall I have convinced you that man is born to 
 fight ? Don't you sec the great work ." 
 
 " I see the great crowd we shall soon have round us, if we don't 
 walk on. I do believe the ragamuffins, disappointed in your 
 knocking under to the ostler, are expecting the gratification of a 
 set-to between us." Which comical idea sent Master Harry off 
 into such a hearty roar of laughter, that the grim lookers-on, just 
 turned out at the end of their day's work from a neighbouring 
 foundry, hopeless now of hostilities, wheeled round disgusted, and 
 agreed among themselves that " them ere dandy nobs were but 
 white-livered monkics arter all." 
 
 "Well, my boy, what shall it be ?" said Harry, as they dawdled 
 away. " It's our last night together," he added, looking wistfully at 
 his companion, " for many a day, so as we can't have our beloved 
 steeds, shall we try some other stables ? or (looking a t his watch), 
 it's just six, suppose we get on the Woodford Coach, and have a
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. J 
 
 ramble through Epping Forest, or rush to Searles, and pull up to 
 Hammersmith, if the tide serves ? " 
 
 " That's the ticket, Harry ! Nothing like the river ! " (For 
 thirty years ago, Father Thames was sweet above Westminster 
 Bridge, and not swarming with steamers.) 
 
 So the two friends walked briskly along from the neighbourhood 
 of Finsbury Square to Cheapside, when behold ! they espied a 
 queer-looking, cumbrous vehicle like a corpulent gig that had 
 thrown out a wen on its right side — advantage of which deformity 
 being taken by a fast hackney-coachman, who was perched thereon, 
 and now lifted his arm to our admiring youths. 
 
 " Cab, sir — cab ? New cabriolet, sir ?" 
 
 " What on earth is that ?" quoth Gerry. 
 
 "Why, one of the new cabriolets, and precious convenient they 
 are, Gerry — spin away twice as fast as the old jarvies. Come 
 along. It would take us three-quarters of an hour, at least, to 
 walk to Searles', and an hour in a jarvey." 
 
 So in they jumped, and scrambled along at a wonderful pace up 
 Cheapside, and over Blackfriars Bridge, to the no small edification 
 of His Majesty's liege subjects, who had not yet become sufficiently 
 accustomed to these new and rapid whirligigs to let them pass 
 without sarcastic observations. 
 
 " Halt ! "—and the cab stumbled up to the famous boatyard, 
 where enterprising metropolitan youth once were wont to betake 
 themselves (perhaps still are) in large numbers at various hours, 
 according to the tide. 
 
 " Under three miles — two shillings the fare ; but drove well. 
 Give him half-a-crown, Gerry," quoth Harry, as he sprung 
 forwards to secure his favourite boat. 
 
 But Jehu hadn't driven hackney carnages for ten years without 
 learning what England expects of every hackney-coachman and 
 cabman — viz., not a habit of systematic contentment. 
 
 " Hi ! stop, you sir ! This won't do — my fare's three shillings." 
 
 " Oh, indeed — very well !" cried Harry, returning. " Give me 
 back the half-crown, then," and he took out his purse. The cab- 
 man, rejoicing in his easy and victorious swindle, returned the 
 half-crown, extending his hand for the three shillings. Harry 
 placed two shillings there instead, saying, with a quiet smile of 
 contempt — " that's your fare. We gave you sixpence extra for 
 driving well. Gerry, take his number. I'm going to summon 
 you, fellow, for overcharging." 
 
 The man looked as if he could have roasted the youm;- I'.n: l.in.l. r 
 alive, but, measuring his proportions first, got safely on to his seat,
 
 8 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 then cursed him by all his gods, and lashing his poor brute, shuffled 
 away in a shambling canter, righting very shy of young gentlemen 
 in green riding-coats for a week afterwards. 
 
 The river presented an animated scene. Nearly a score of boats 
 had pushed off within the last ten minutes, with every variety of 
 crew, from the simple sculler, and the awkward shop-keeper's 
 apprentice, up to the gallant " eight-oar " of the crack club. The 
 tide was excellent — would be running up for at least two hours 
 longer. The magnificent towers of Westminster Abbey stood out 
 in grand relief against the western sky, while the declining August 
 sun still shone brilliantly over the majestic stream, as the two 
 rowers, tranquil in all the pride of youth, strength, and happiness, 
 with vigorous strokes glided calmly and swiftly up the stream. 
 
 " Well, you did him there, my doctor, fairly enough," presently 
 observed Gerry, with a customary reference to his friend's strong 
 propension towards medical researches; "but you are too com- 
 bative. I should be miserable if I were always on the edge of a 
 row, as you are." 
 
 " And yet you took to your fighting kindly enough at old 
 Botherum's, didn't you ?" 
 
 "No. It knocked a deal of conceit and effeminacy, as well as 
 perhaps some of my cowardice, out of me, but it was always utterly 
 hateful to me." 
 
 " You cfbn't say so !" exclaimed Harry, as he turned round on 
 his seat to gaze on his friend with wonder and admiration. " Well, 
 then, I must say I behold you with sentiments akin to respect. 
 To fight as you did, and yet hate it— that's grand. / always 
 liked it." 
 
 "Ah, but it's not grand to funk it as I did. It wasn't love of 
 peace made me hate it, but sheer cowardice." 
 
 "Don't believe it; you haven't a shred of the coward in you, 
 Gerry. Now, I'll declare I'll tell you what some of the Beachum 
 fellows said to me that day when you left for good, as the coach 
 went off, and I was almost blubbering — 'There goes the pluckiest 
 fellow for a row with the snobs, or a smasher at foot-balling, we 
 ever did know at Beachum ! ' Don't blush, Gerry, if you tell lies 
 about yourself, I'll convict you. It's your artistic, amiable, quasi- 
 angel sort of inner man, that makes you dislike rows." 
 
 " Oh, gammon ! You know little about me, Harry, after all," 
 said Gerald rather seriously. "Why, I'd give all the amiable 
 fiddlesticks you ever discerned in mc, for one slice of your 
 dare-devil backbone, my doctor. But, hilloa ! pull, man, pull, or 
 we shall be under that barge. Ship your oar ! All right, but
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. g 
 
 it was a near touch," and he wiped the perspiration from his 
 forehead, for it was no joke pulling bow to Harry Fortescue's 
 stroke. " That comes of chattering instead of minding one's 
 business." 
 
 " We'll pull more gently, for we may as well talk, Gerry. We 
 can't do it this time to-morrow. I want to ask you if you don't 
 think that God meant men to fight — intended it, not as a mere 
 exercise of animal passion, such as impels savage beasts, but as a 
 great means of making a fellow noble — and all that sort of thing ? 
 Look at the manly virtues called forth by war in all ages — the 
 heroism, courage, fortitude, patience, self-sacrifice ! Why, the 
 noblest qualities of our nature, Gerald, would never have been 
 exhibited without Thermopylae and Marathon." 
 
 " Tell it to the Greeks, Harry, on the Stock Exchange ! " 
 
 "You dare! — You, the Byron -worshipper ! " cried Harry, turn- 
 ing round indignantly. 
 
 " Spare me, my fighting Bob ! It's the depth of my feelings 
 makes me sardonic, don't you see ? But as to Thermopylae — 
 cum omnibus aliis — well, those were wars of a defensive, patriotic 
 description. Grand, I grant — " (pause) "but pray, how many 
 Marathons in history compared with barbarous invaders' vic- 
 tories ? " 
 
 " Aye ; but remember, most wars of oppression, my boy, involved 
 wars of resistance too. Besides, it is not merely the having a good 
 cause to fight for, nor getting the victory, I fancy, that does the 
 good ; though, of course, I know a brave soldier is a better man 
 for fighting in a good cause. It is the having to resist what comes 
 against us to do us mischief — the habit and the power, you see, of 
 overcoming what would otherwise overcome and crush us. Oh, 
 my Gerry ! to be able to give a blow and bear one, that's something 
 worth living for ! Ha, — ha, — yep, — ho ! " and with a laugh and a 
 cheer, he gave two or three vigorous strokes that made the buoyant 
 wherry shoot like a swallow after a fly out of her previous course, 
 and menace another frail skiff in which five young men were 
 labouring untidily along. 
 
 " Easy ! easy ! " sang out the shrill voice of the small figure who 
 officiated as coxswain, while he started up in alarm. 
 
 "Sit down, will you !" growled one of their crew, in a surly tone. 
 " Do you want to send us all to the devil at once ?" And he put 
 out his hand to give the offending wherry's nose a vicious shove. 
 
 "Beg your pardon," cried Fortescue, gaily. 
 
 "Awkward rowing, now, without a coxswain," quoth the surly 
 young man.
 
 10 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," rejoined Harry : " our bow oar's a wonderful 
 chap — been coached by the Lord Mayor — got eyes in the back of 
 his head : don't you see ? Pull away, Gerry." 
 
 The other man answered with a grunt ; the rest looked too 
 fagged and serious to comment either on the joke or the transaction. 
 Gerald now recognised one of the party as a fellow student at the 
 London University, with whom he had become slightly acquainted, 
 and nods were exchanged. "A pleasant night for a row" — "I 
 believe you" — and so they parted. 
 
 " Did you ever see such a contrast as that bilious chap who 
 spoke to us, and the young fellow with the curly hair, behind him ? " 
 quoth Fortescue, as they pulled off. 
 
 " I don't know the two behind," answered Gerald, " but the 
 curly-pate is named Featherstone — comes to our classes." 
 
 "I like his looks. Is he the right stuff?" 
 
 "Seems idle, and too fond of larking. I think I've seen the 
 others too, among the college medicals, perhaps. But what an 
 intensely comical little animal was he of the tiller ! Should you 
 call them gentlemen ? " 
 
 " Yes, of a sort ; but if you are not bored, let me finish what I 
 was saying." 
 
 " Provided you pull steady " 
 
 "Aye, aye, sir. What I mean is this " 
 
 But just at this moment, strains of music came floating up the 
 breeze. " Listen !" exclaimed Gerald : " how beautiful ! " and he 
 seemed lost in the delicious enjoyment. No chance for reflections 
 on war then. Presently an eight-oared cutter came sweeping 
 round the point of Chelsea Reach. Gay ribbands floated from the 
 fair occupants of cushioned benches. The stalwart young rowers 
 looked over grim mustachios, alternately at the bonnets and at 
 their work. The music in the stern sheets came soft and clear 
 across the sparking waters. 
 
 " So will we sweep up the stream of life, Harry, to Fame, and 
 Love, and Victory," whispered Gerald, as the gallant craft washed 
 on its way, and was lost in the distance. But Harry answered not, 
 and once again they bent to their oars. 
 
 " Who do you think they were ? " said Gerald. 
 
 " Guardsmen, going up to the Star and Garter, to supper." 
 
 "But the ladies?" 
 
 " Ladies ! Ugh ! " Gerald turned up his nose, disgusted, but 
 Harry was now at work in a way that required all his companion's 
 attention, so they pulled on silently for about half-an-hour, each 
 absorbed in his own reflections."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. II 
 
 " Your childhood must have been a very jolly one, Gerry," at 
 length observed Fortescue, with unwonted deliberation. "What 
 with those grounds, and the dogs, and the pony, &c." 
 
 "You may say that, Harry! and then the pond, and the boat, 
 the dogs and pony, and the carpenter's shop! oh, Jupiter! they 
 were blessed days. I could wander about the grounds and fields at 
 dear old Hartland all day long, like a regular young nincompoop — 
 acting the stories I read, or building arbours on the ground, and 
 castles in the air." 
 
 " But didn't you want companions ?" 
 
 " Not a bit. I had lots of them when I went to school — rather 
 too many sometimes. But I had brother Richard, you know?" 
 
 " True ; I forgot him." 
 
 "And cousins often used to come and stay at Hartland House. 
 And then we acted plays ! Oh, didn't we do it in style ! 
 ' Bombastes Furioso ' was nothing to us ! Only fancy ! 
 
 'My name is Norval 
 On the Grampian Hills 
 
 And Gerry Bounce elsewhere." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" cried Harry, as his friend's merry laugh rang 
 out; " I know you were really half mad about that acting." 
 
 A long interval again. Steady pulling brought them into the 
 regions of Kew. When opposite the Duke of Buccleuch's — 
 
 " Gerald," quoth Harry, " suppose we drop anchor under that 
 willow ? The tide will soon be turning, and the moon will be up ; 
 I want to hear a little more of your petticoat days." 
 
 His friend willingly concurred, and lolling on the benches of 
 their wherry, in the warm, soft eventide, looking into the clear, 
 glowing sunset sky through the parted branches of the graceful 
 tree, with the broad, silvery stream, gliding ceaselessly past, the two 
 friends indulged in those bright yet dreamy expositions of their 
 respective views and anticipations, which are at once the charm 
 and the characteristic of youth. A couple of young fools, you 
 think, no doubt. But never mind — Men under fifty move the world : 
 older men only guide it. " Give me the guidance in preference, 
 nevertheless, if I can get it," say the wise men, and they take care 
 of their health accordingly. 
 
 It was a golden time ; indeed, the whole evening was one never 
 forgotten. The young men were just at that interesting and critical 
 period of existence ceasing to be hobbydehoys — flushing into man- 
 hood, full of hope and energy, instinct with noble aspirations, 
 having just passed the mystic age of eighteen, and Gerald Arlington
 
 12 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 being a little the elder. They had first become cronies while 
 Gerald was at the school (referred to in the first chapter) at 
 Beachum. Harry's father had been the incumbent of the parish, 
 and had resided there till his death. From this school Gerald had 
 been transferred, at the age of sixteen, to the London University,* 
 then just established, while Fortescue had been sent a year before 
 to Rugby, having previously been taught by his father, and some- 
 times, though rarely, being allowed to play with the " Botherum 
 boys," and often to invite one or two of them to tea. But the 
 friendship begun in the playground and in casual walks at Beachum, 
 was developed by visits to their respective homes in their holidays, 
 for they were attracted to each other so strongly that their parents, 
 having mutual respect, though not personally acquainted, could not 
 refuse to allow them to visit. Harry was now about to proceed to 
 Cambridge in the ensuing October, his late father's brother, a 
 beneficed clergyman, and his guardian, having designed him for his 
 own profession. 
 
 " Do you go down to Hartland to-morrow, Gerry ?" 
 " Yes, as soon as you're off to Beachum. And there I intend to 
 abide till the ' proprietary school in Gower Street,' as the Johti Bull 
 terms our magnificent London University, once again opens its 
 portals to receive my thirsty soul." 
 
 " You've got first-rate men there for your professors, whatever 
 John Bull may bellow." 
 
 " Splendid fellows ! Why, Harry, I never cared about those 
 commodities, Greek and Latin and Mathematics, at school, but 
 now! why those bare-walled class-rooms are like — are like — the 
 temples in Martin's pictures. And then the English language 
 and literature class ! Oh, Harry, Harry, I think I may be furnished 
 in time for doing something ! " 
 
 "Aye, Gerry, I guess you will." But the speaker's countenance 
 was shaded with a sorrowful expression. "You'll follow your own 
 bent. You know what you want, and I suppose your father will let 
 you do it." 
 
 " But you are precious glad you arc going to Cambridge ?" 
 " Oh, yes ; of course. But after that — the Church." 
 " Yet you've a considerable amount of that sort of thing in you, 
 /know. I mean Church notions. You have helped me, old boy." 
 "Have I? Well, I'm glad of it." And Harry gazed on his 
 friend's face with boyish affection, and then at the far-off sunset 
 clouds, till his face too lighted up with a glow of enthusiasm, and 
 he continued, " Yes, I believe I could fancy myself going out to 
 * As it was then termed— now University College, London.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1^ 
 
 India as a missionary, or something of that kind ; but, Gerald, I 
 can't bear being tied up so tight." The last words coming out 
 with a desperate jerk, as if it were a great relief to have said them, 
 but an effort to do so. 
 
 " I understand you — the Thirty-nine Articles, eh ? I don't 
 wonder ; but then, you know, I am a Dissenter" (with a slightly 
 self-satisfied air). 
 
 "Well, that, too, has always seemed to me so strange. I fancy 
 only shopkeepers and shoemakers being Dissenters. And your 
 father keeps his carriage ; and you go back to the Conquest with 
 your Kentish ancestors, don't you ? But are not Dissenters gene- 
 rally horribly vulgar folk ?" 
 
 " They are rather a queer set, I confess, though I don't see much 
 of them. And their ministers seem to me generally dreadfully 
 snobbish.* Ifjw don't like being a clergyman — bah ! I wouldn't 
 be one of our ministers for six thousand a year. They are very 
 learned, I believe ; and, what is more than many Church clergymen 
 can say, they are true to their conscience, often self-denying and 
 earnest. But then the rich people in their congregations always 
 snub them ; and, in fact, you know, Harry, they are quite an inferior 
 set of fellows, though, of course, with fine exceptions." 
 
 " Ah, it's a bad job either way," sighed Harry, philosophically. 
 " No matter, we can do some good in the world without being 
 parsons, orthodox or dissenting, I suppose." And he sprung to 
 his feet so vigorously that the little boat quivered and rocked like a 
 duck dipping herself. " Haven't we youth, and health, and hope, 
 Gerry ; and zeal, and" — catching hold of Gerald's arm with a grip 
 like a blacksmith's, and grinding out the words in his ear — "and a 
 will of our own, Gerry, eh ? Can't we take the world by storm, 
 and compel it to be on its good behaviour, eh ? I know things will 
 work out well." 
 
 " You have got faith, Harry. So have I. No, it's sight now ! 
 I can see (as plainly as I see arch beyond arch up there, stair 
 above stair, right away into the very palaces of heaven, through that 
 glorious sunset) — I can see the heaven which a man may make on 
 earth, if he only keeps his soul pure, and his love warm, and his will 
 Concentrated. I don't exactly know how I shall go to work, but if a 
 fellow can once get well trained and furnished, you know, only sec 
 what may be done to raise and ennoble the people by politics, or 
 literature, or art! Harry, what a privilege it is to live! Tell nu\ 
 
 * The Editor disclaims responsibility fur these sentiments of Master ( lorry's, 
 who, it must be remembered, was speaking forty years ago, and from a rather 
 limited experience.
 
 1+ GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 man, don't you think the devil may be crushed and the world sub- 
 dued ? May we not see a new and glorious era brought in ? Don't 
 old men talk a lot of stuff, and because they have lost their own 
 enthusiasm, and grown worldly and selfish, try to make us as 
 maundering and faithless as themselves ?" 
 
 " Right, Gerry, you're right ; and by heaven, we will do a bit of 
 the work they have left undone. But it must be by fighting," he 
 muttered. 
 
 "And see, Harry," continued his friend, "what means we have 
 for doing it. Look at this wonderful age in which, thank God, we 
 are born. How the nations are heaving and struggling. And here 
 are we with the grandest means of gaining power — the power which 
 springs from knowledge, and tolerably well-trained minds, and a 
 divine ambition to bless the world. Here are we, pressing for- 
 ward ." In the excitement of the hour, the young men were 
 
 gripping each other's hands, and stood gazing, as it were, into the 
 far-distant, glorious future. " Think what this wonderful Revolution 
 in France last year has done, and will do, for the world, Harry !" 
 
 " Oh, isn't it grand ? Belgium free. Italy soon will be — only 
 poor, poor Poland ! But she is sure to rise again." 
 
 " Certain. France and England must save her. And then only 
 see what a glorious thing it was to get Catholic Emancipation 
 carried at last ! What a wonderful fellow O'Connell is !" 
 
 "Ah ! to think of having such eloquence, such power as he has! 
 What a royal destiny he will accomplish for Ireland. And then the 
 repeal of the Test and Corporation Act. My father made a bit of a 
 speech at the great dinner given about that." 
 
 " Did he ? I don't exactly know what that was all about ; but 
 only look at this all-important subject of reform. It's rolling up 
 like a thunderstorm." 
 
 " Ye gods ! it will be a row ! I heard my father talking about it 
 with some great City dons, last year. He said then, the Whigs were 
 sure to come in, and so they have, and now Reform will be carried 
 out, like the Life Guards' charge at Waterloo." 
 
 " Hurrah ! Earl Grey and Harry Brougham for ever !" Then a 
 pause of enthusiastic meditation. 
 
 And then they chattered about Condorcet's " Perfectibility of 
 Man," and Jeremy Bentham, James Mill, and Maenuluv, the 
 Westminster Review and Morning Chronicle, Lord John and the 
 Examiner. But of the dearest idol in his secret foul Gerald 
 spoke not. A certain mad and passionate adoration of Lord Byron 
 and his poetry, which possessed our Gerald, was a thing too sacred 
 even for Harry's ears — though, as we have seen, Harry suspected
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 15 
 
 it. Besides, in company with his friend, the desire to communicate 
 good of some kind to others always seemed to overpower the 
 Byronic mania of seeking good things for himself. 
 
 " Do you remember, 1 ' he soon began, " that first sonnet of 
 Wordsworth's on Milton (the only thing of his I do admire), 
 ' England hath need of Thee' ? Oh, if one could be to England — to 
 the world — what" — and his voice faltered, and the eyes which 
 Harry glanced at were moistened, as they gazed long and yearningly 
 away to the far west, from which the brilliant colouring had faded, 
 but where a faint glow yet remained. 
 
 The silence was broken by Gerald. "Harry," quoth he, in 
 solemn sententious tones, " I — am — afraid — you are a bit of — 
 a — ninny. I'm sure — I am." 
 
 "You're more like a villain!" growled Fortescue; "a double- 
 dyed, sacrilegious villain ! Has all faith and reverence fled ? 
 
 ' Must we but laugh o'er noblest themes ? 
 Must we but mock ? — Our fathers bled.' 
 
 Oh ! thou perplexing boy, why wilt thou scoff when " 
 
 "Spare me, my Cato!" cried Gerry, wincing. "We mean far 
 better than we act. Ye gods ! bear witness !" And this time 
 he was in earnest. 
 
 Thus talking, then, the pleasant evening hours slipped away, and 
 the bright moonlight at length shining in a broad, sparkling path 
 upon the river, warned them it was time to be turning homewards. 
 Reluctantly they pulled up their little grappling-iron, and dipping 
 their oars in the stream were soon shooting rapidly down the re- 
 turning current. It had been a very memorable evening for them 
 both — one of those fair landing-stages in the upward journey of Life 
 to which most of us can look back through the long vista of years, 
 and which often exert more influence on our character and destiny 
 than events of a much more marked or apparently striking 
 nature. 
 
 " Now, Gerry, boy," said Fortescue, as soon as they were fairly 
 under way, " crown my bliss with a touch of the nightingale, will 
 you ?" 
 
 Gerry flung out his notes on the moonlight air, sometimes very 
 softly and anon rising into a rich volume of sound that went floating 
 away far and wide, while their oars kept time. Now it was an 
 original improvisation, and then some dear old familiar strain. 
 And wherever they came, people along the banks stopped their 
 work, their play, or their talk, to listen; and some cried. "Bravo! 
 angcore ! " and as the notes died away in the distance, others turned
 
 1 6 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 again to their occupation with a sigh that the pure, sweet joy which 
 had held them for a moment was gone. 
 
 " You can't think, Gerry," said Harry, turning round and looking 
 into his friend's glowing face, " how very glad your singing always 
 makes me, all the more that the gladness and the beauty come 
 from you, old fellow." 
 
 "You can't think how glad I am that I can do anything that 
 makes you jolly, King Hal," responded Gerry, with his heart in his 
 eyes. Theirs was a romantic friendship, not so unusual as some 
 may think, yet not met with every day. 
 
 Most of the Westminster boats had returned some time before. 
 Steady pulling had at length stopped the songs. Only the distant, 
 softened hum of the great city, and the rapid, regular dash of their 
 own oars, with here and there a hoarse bargeman's call, or the far- 
 off rattling of an anchor-chain, broke the silence that hung over 
 the river. But as they neared Putney Bridge they became aware of 
 a boat splashing ahead of them, and presently discerned a four- 
 oared cutter, making for one of the centre arches. 
 
 "Look at those fellows," said Gerald (who as bow oar was more 
 engaged on the look-out than his companion). " Did you ever see 
 such a set of louts ? They'll make a mull of it at the bridges, I 
 rather imagine." 
 
 " Why, it's our old friends," replied Harry. " There's surly Jack, 
 I'm positive; and there's our nice curly-headed Adonis. But they 
 are regularly beat. The dear little coxswain seems hearty, however, 
 to judge by his frantic vibrations. He is evidently convinced 
 the boat will move by the vigorous swaying of his majestic 
 corporation. But by the powers, Gerry, they are missing the arch ! 
 Hark, how they are jawing ! Good heavens, they're against the 
 pier! I thought so — there they go!" and a frantic cry for help, 
 mingled with oaths and volleys of abuse went up from the ill-fated 
 crew as the rushing flood bore them up on the piers of the bridge, 
 whence their crank}' craft speedily capsized. It remained a second 
 or two jammed up against the piles, and then rapidly drifted 
 through the arch, bottom upwards. Two of the five men could be 
 seen in the moonlight clinging to the piers. 
 
 " Hold on for five minutes," exclaimed Fortescue to these last 
 men, " boat's coming !"— for he heard the splash of a Putney boat 
 putting off. "Now, Gerry, through the arch for your life!" and 
 awfty they went under the darkness out into the clear moonlight 
 again, and just ahead of them there was the drifting cutter, two 
 men clingyig to it, the third, clutching convulsively at the rudder, 
 missed his grasp, and sank as the friendly wherry came up.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 7 
 
 "Back water!" roared Harry, "there, throw yourself on the 
 other gunwale, while I make a grab at him. Tis Curly-haired, I 
 vow ! Hurrah ! here he comes. Missed him, by Jove ! Now hold 
 on, Gerry. I must pop after him." Off went coat and boots, 
 and away went Harry from the wherry's bow, shooting clear 
 down, head foremost, into the muddy tide, which was bearing 
 everything along at a tremendous pace. Gerald's cheek paled, 
 and he kept asking himself why he hadn't got the start of his 
 friend and taken a header before him ; but he trusted in that 
 friend's cool courage and skill, and he knew he could now do 
 nothing but keep the boat ready to dart to the spot where Harry's 
 head might first appear. This was no easy matter, from the 
 extreme awkwardness of handling both great oars in the narrow 
 boat, but, to his infinite delight and thankfulness, he soon saw 
 his friend rising up a few yards ahead, supporting the insensible 
 body of the drowning man with one arm, while he grasped Gerry's 
 extended oar with the other. 
 
 " All right, my boy," remarked Fortescue, as quietly as if they 
 had been at whist. " All the sense, though, is soaked out of him, 
 luckily, or we should neither of us have seen the light again. 
 We'll soon bring him round." 
 
 At no slight risk to all parties the poor fellow was bundled 
 into the wherry, and while Gerald pulled for the shore, Harry 
 rubbed and chafed the life back into the dripping body. 
 
 By this time the Putney boatmen, having rescued the two men 
 on the piers, had pulled down to the other two unfortunate 
 navigators who still clung to the drifting cutter. The poor little 
 coxswain's strength seemed nearly exhausted, but despair gave 
 him new energy, and as he heard the sound of oars, he suddenly 
 began shouting, " Help ! help ! murder ! fire ! my gov'nor will — 
 
 give any fellow who " The rest of the promise was cut short, 
 
 for just as the Putney boatmen were within an oar's length of 
 him, his grasp on the capsized boat relaxed. One more cry, 
 " Help ! help ! the gov'nor will give — bub — bub — bub " — and 
 the poor little fellow's last words were lost in the gurgling waters 
 ere Harry, Gerry, or the boatmen could catch hold of him. 
 
 But these last-named individuals were equal to the occasion. 
 "Will he, then?" cried the hearty, gruff voice of one of the 
 pair. " Will the gov'nor do the handsome ? Why, then of 
 
 coorse " and in the twinkling of an eye, as one Used to 
 
 such little diversions, that amphibious animal just soused into 
 the water, holding on to the gunwale with one hand, and easily 
 grabbing the coxswain's jacket with the other, while his mate 
 
 c
 
 1 8 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 balanced the wherry on the other side. Then shifting himself 
 and his burden along its side, he rolled the half-senseless youth 
 into the stern sheets, and as he dexterously pitched himself in 
 after him, he finished the sentence (winking at Ham-) by 
 addressing the luckless navigator thus : 
 
 "Your respectable father, sir, I've no doubt, will tell us chaps 
 as how we've made a mistake, and will hobserve, drowning's 
 better nor a halter. No matter, young gentleman, you'll live an 
 honest life, sir, arter this, won't ye ? and not forget poor Jack ; 
 bless you, mother's darling," whereupon his honest face broadened 
 in the moonlight into a comical grin, and Harry burst into a 
 ringing laugh. 
 
 " Don't forget the bilious gentleman on the keel, Jacob," quoth 
 he, in a stage whisper, to the boatman. "And now for warm beds 
 at the 'Dog and Duck,' and a stiff glass of brandy-and-water. 
 Pull with a will, Gerry lad, for it'll be warmer there than here." 
 
 In half-an-hour — with the exception of poor Curly-head, who 
 was snoozing uncomfortably between hot blankets upstairs — the 
 whole party, wrapped in divers (no pun meant) strange garments, 
 were talking and laughing over the adventure in the snug bar- 
 room appertaining to mine host of the " Dog and Duck," with a 
 grand supper and a bowl of punch before them : coxswain unduly 
 excited ; bilious man as near the confines of hilarity as it was given 
 him to approach ; Harry and Gerald affable and humorous, but 
 slightly dignified and abstemious ; the remaining two in a cheerful 
 but somewhat cynical state of mind, evidently habitual. 
 
 The boatmen having been summoned to drink their new 
 acquaintances' health, and then duly instructed where to present 
 themselves next day for suitable compensation, the young gentle- 
 men gradually grew more sociable over their tumblers and pipi 
 
 " My name's Gaffer Fortescue," observed Harry, in a pause of the 
 conversation ; "and my mate is Gerry Arlington." 
 
 " Mine," responded the dark youth, " is Bob Nicholson, other- 
 wise called ' Grunting Bob.' That," pointing with his pipe to the 
 coxswain, " is Teddy Grant, otherwise 'Knowing Ned'; and the 
 handsome young men in the corner are Sammy Pierce and Tol-de- 
 rol Hackett, all of us great in our way, Ned especially. It's 
 wonderful what a deal he's up to till he tries — steering, tc 
 wit." 
 
 "And some chaps think they can row" interposed Neddy's 
 shrill voice. 
 
 "Then King Alfred, upstairs," resumed Nicholson, "and I are 
 the stars of the Jawing Club in Gower Street, as our drowned
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 9 
 
 friend can witness. Pierce and Hackett shine in dissecting cats, 
 treating ' resurrectionists,' and in small street rows. Where do 
 you hail from ?" 
 
 " Rugby. But where are you going, Gerry ?" 
 
 " To look after King Alfred." 
 
 Pierce went upstairs with Gerald, and with becoming gravity felt 
 Featherstone's pulse, pronounced him to be in a state of consider- 
 able febrile excitement, and sent the landlord to the nearest 
 druggist's, assuming his position of medical adviser with a dignity 
 worthy of his profession, and well suited to the blanket drapery in 
 which he was enveloped. 
 
 Fortearae took Gerald aside when he came down, and asked him 
 if he would mind offering to steer the cutter back to Searle's, while 
 he pulled stroke, to avoid further mishaps. 
 
 " They can be trusted, then, Jemmy, to get home safe in a 
 jarvey, as it's a bright moonlight night?" 
 
 " No, Harry, I want to stay with Featherstone. I don't think 
 he ought to be left. Pierce says he had been drinking hard, and 
 it will most likely be a day or two before he gets out of the mess. 
 None of his crew seem to know or care much about him. So, if 
 you'll steer, and give one of those watermen a couple of bob to 
 take our wherry back, and send word to Featherstone's friends, 
 I'll sit up with him to-night. Tell them they needn't come till the 
 morning. No. 95, Portland Place, you know." 
 
 "All right, Gerry, you can't do less ; but I'm sorry our last night 
 together ends in this fashion. Can't be helped, however. Write 
 to me soon, old fellow. I hope we may meet somehow — perhaps 
 at Christmas." And he shook his hand affectionately, with a 
 lingering grasp. " By-the-bye, Gerry,'" added Harry, plaintively, 
 " give us one song before you go, just to show these chaps what we 
 can do, if we try." 
 
 Gerald felt out of tune altogether, but he could seldom refuse a 
 request of Fortescue's, and struck up at once. It was one of 
 W. Mackworth Praed's exquisite bits of humour and sentiment 
 combined, just in Gerry's mental key, and then first coming 
 into fashion. Surly Bob and the rough young men, no less 
 than supercilious Ned, sat for the moment bewitched. They 
 had heard nothing like that for some time, they confessed, not 
 even at Evans*. It was not merely the voice, or the tune, or 
 the execution. It was something they could none of then: 
 understand, so they didn't try; but having attempted quietly .111 
 abortive cheer, murmured a general "thank yon," and remained 
 silent for five minutes after Gerry had left the room. Then
 
 2 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 they shook themselves together, spoke according to their kind 
 and shortly after the party broke up and went their ways. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 In the spacious drawing-room of No. 95, Portland Place sat a portly 
 gentleman, who might have seen sixty years, and looked none 
 the worse for them. The remainder of his family had retired to 
 rest. He was evidently rather fidgetty. His watch lay on the 
 table, and pointed to the hour of midnight. He wound it up — took 
 up a book — threw it down again — walked about the room — pished 
 and pshawed — and at last broke out : — 
 
 " Hang the young rascal ! It spoils all the pleasure of having 
 him at home, when he keeps his mother in a constant nervous 
 worry." 
 
 Just as the last words were uttered in Mr. Featherstone's most 
 emphatic manner, the door opened, and that excellent lady 
 appeared in her dressing-gown, bed-candle in hand, nightcap on 
 head. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Featherstone, I'm so disappointed! Hearing you 
 talking, I thought Alfred had certainly come home." And the 
 poor lady sat down, looking pale and miserable. " He must have 
 had some accident on that horrid river. I can't sleep a bit, so it's 
 no use trying. You must' go to Westminster " 
 
 " I ! at this time of night !" exclaimed the unhappy parent, look- 
 ing down at a rather gouty toe, and giving a short asthmatic 
 cough. "Why, Jackson's not gone to bed." 
 
 "Jackson!" retorted Mrs. Featherstone, with ineffable scorn, 
 " and your own son may be drowning ! To think of sending a 
 footman ! " Mr. Featherstone felt extremely small. 
 
 " My dear, I mean that he can just go to Searle's and see if the 
 boat has come back. But, you know, these young fellows generally 
 stop somewhere to have a little supper." 
 
 "Ah! I know it too well, — but never has he been so late Bi 
 ////>" (with an hysterical sob) "after going on the water, — and 
 you — you don't care a b-b-bit ! " (fairly weeping). 
 
 "There, there, Polly, don't cry. I'll send Jackson at oiuv to 
 Searle's, in a cabriolet," and the worthy father was hastening to the
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 2 1 
 
 bell, when a gentle knock and ring at the street door made both 
 husband and wife jostle on to the landing-place. Now, while the 
 decorous butler proceeded to admit, as was hoped, this troublesome 
 Master Alfred, Mr. and Mrs. Featherstone, with a natural revulsion 
 of feeling, prepared a formidable magazine of mingled severe 
 invective and tender reproach, to let fly at the offending prodigal 
 as soon as he should appear safe and sound in the hall below. 
 
 But the voice of a stranger made their blood run chill in their 
 veins. " Is this Mr. Featherstone's ?" he was heard to ask ; and 
 being answered affirmatively, — " Because I just called to say Mr. 
 Alfred will not be able to come home to-night — a little acci- 
 dent " 
 
 To rush downstairs, eagerly entreat instant explanations, and put 
 a dozen questions, to each of which they expected replies all at 
 once, was the natural proceeding of both parents, in spite of a 
 faint remonstrance on the part of Mr, F*., having reference to his 
 wife's costume. 
 
 " Oh ! no ; it's a mere trifle — boat upset, but no harm done — 
 badly steered, sir, you see. Mr. Featherstone got a ducking but 
 we soon fished him out. He'll be all right to-morrow, sir. A 
 friend of mine, Mr. Gerald Arlington, is staying with him at the 
 inn, as it seemed better your son should sleep there instead of 
 coming straight home. There's no occasion to trouble yourself 
 about him," continued Harry, as he saw the impatient anxiety 
 on the mother's face. " If you go over to Putney to-morrow 
 morning, and bring him back with you, it will be much better, I 
 think, with all deference, than disturbing him now." Mrs. Feather- 
 stone felt bitterly indignant with "the cool young gentleman," as 
 she called him ever afterwards. 
 
 "Arlington," mused Mr. Featherstone ; " is that a son of my City 
 friend ? " 
 
 "Baltic trade," observed Harry. 
 
 " Oh, then it's the same. Ah ! that is just the right thing, my 
 dear," rejoined Mr. Featherstone, turning with a cheerful smile to 
 his wife; "couldn't do better, Mrs. Featherstone. We are very 
 much obliged to you, Mr. — Mr. ? " 
 
 " Fortescue." 
 
 " Mr. Fortescue. Will you allow me to offer you any refresh- 
 ment ? No ? And you are quite sure my son is going on perfectly 
 well ? Very good, very good, sir. Many thanks for informing us 
 Good night, sir ; good night." 
 
 "I've no patience with you, Mr. Featherstone; to be compli- 
 menting the fellow in that way, when he has been ndariy helping
 
 2 2 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Alfred to his death — taking him out on that horrid river, and 
 getting him into all sorts of scrapes and dangers." 
 
 But after telling Jackson to order the carriage in the morning to 
 be at the door at eight o'clock punctually, Mrs. Featherstone 
 accompanied her spouse to bed, and both distress and anger died 
 away, let us hope, on the pillow. 
 
 At half-past seven on the following morning the spacious mansion 
 in Portland Place exhibited signs of unwonted bustle for that early 
 hour. Mr. and Mrs. Featherstone were swallowing a hurried 
 breakfast. A handsome girl, about twenty years of age, was yawn- 
 ing in an arm-chair, and a younger sister, with a pale face and dark 
 hair, was making tea. 
 
 "Then I may go, mamma? Do let me," pleaded the latter, her 
 large eyes looking up with almost tearful anxiety. 
 " You'll be sadly in the way, child, I'm afraid." 
 " Oh, yes, let Lily go, mamma," interposed papa. So she went. 
 Adelaide, the elder sister, having given all sorts of kind mess 
 to Alfred, and with lazy gracefulness gone through the pretence of 
 breakfast, betook herself to a sofa in the drawing-room, and pro- 
 ceeded to while away the hours with the help of the last new novel 
 and the Morning Chronicle, her father, like " his friend Arlington," 
 being a staunch Whig. 
 
 Gerald, meanwhile, had passed an anxious night. After tin 
 of the party were gone, he dismissed the weary landlord to bed, 
 and having armed himself with the only books the house afforded, 
 viz., some Sporting Magazines, and the •' Pilgrim's Progress," he 
 seated himself by Featherstone's bedside, and endeavoured to 
 read. Banyan's immortal work he glanced at with feelings of 
 ion, found the Sporting Magazines more attractive, but ended 
 with taking out of his pocket a well-worn copy of the " Beauties of 
 Byron." The church clock hard by struck two, and was answered 
 by Fulham, Chelsea, and the great, solemn, far-off boom i 
 Paul's. The Silence of which these sounds made him conscious 
 was startling and oppressive. He roused his patient according to 
 Pierce's instructions and gave him his medicine. That amiable 
 sufferer seemed rather stupid and drowsy, and soon went off again 
 into a heavy slumber. ( Jerald did not understand the warning given 
 by his flushed cheek and quick, difficult breathing, and began to 
 think he also might yield for a few minutes to the overpowering 
 desire of sleep. lie was just gone off in a doze — the tallow 
 candle had a particularly long wick — the mice began to nibble 
 under the floor, when suddenly Gerald started to his feet at a 
 hoarse shriek from the sufferer, who in agonised tones called for
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 23 
 
 help; and, imagining himself sinking under the rushing tide, struck 
 out frantically in all directions. Arlington strove in vain to hold 
 him down in the bed and keep the clothes over him, for he was 
 evidently delirious, and the fever was raging high, but to the 
 young nurse s great relief, the landlord now appeared on the scene, 
 attracted by the noise. To send his wife to help Gerald, and to 
 run himself for the doctor, was his ready solution of the difficulty, 
 ,probably not having met it then for the first time. The magic 
 words, spoken up a door-pipe into the apothecary's bedroom, 
 " Nob in a fever, sir, — ' Dog and Duck' — half-drowned last night, 
 sir," — brought that benevolent functionary with considerable 
 promptness. Had mine host put an "S" before the first word of 
 his appeal, would it have made any difference in the alacrity with 
 which the call was answered ? Possibly. Human nature is governed 
 by a mixture of motives, and is by no means perfect, uncharitable 
 inquirer ! as you yourself have good reason for knowing. But this 
 is incontrovertible, and thousands of poor sufferers will say " Aye," 
 — that more good is done gratuitously by the medical profession 
 than by any other class of the community — except curates and 
 dissenting ministers. 
 
 With the morning light came peace. The fever was subdued. 
 Gerald, exhausted with excitement and want of sleep, vacated his 
 post to the landlady, and got some desirable slumber. He was 
 awakened by the sound of anxious voices in the passage, and 
 many footsteps on the stairs. Springing up, he saw a handsome, 
 old-fashioned carriage and liveries at the door of the inn, and after 
 hasty ablutions, and such feeble Adonizmg as the circumstances 
 permitted, he sallied forth to the side man's chamber. At the 
 open door stood a slim young girl. At the sound of his footstep 
 she turned, and Gerald looked on a face that was certainly not 
 beautiful, and yet that was not likely to be soon forgotten by such 
 an impressible youth as the one who now stood beside her. 
 
 She hastily made way for him by entering the room where Mr. 
 Featherstone was standing in thoughtful contemplation of Alfred's 
 still flushed visage, _*id Mrs. Featherstone was bending over her 
 boy with tender solicitude, and endeavouring to adjust the pillows. 
 
 " Papa, I think this is Mr. Arlington," whispered the daughter. 
 
 Mr. Featherstone turned, and with stately gratitude took Gerald's 
 hand, pressed it cordially, and said, " We are sincerely obliged to 
 you, Mr. Arlington, for your kind attention to our son." 
 
 "Very much so," added Mrs. Featherstone, with an effort, and 
 in rather an austere voice ; " but we would rather our son had never 
 been tempted to join in these wild freaks."
 
 2+ GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "Mother!" exclaimed Alfred, in great excitement, "he had 
 nothing to do with it, except helping to save me, and then sitting 
 up to nurse me — he was not in our boat." 
 
 " Hush, hush, dearest ; I understand — he was not of your party. 
 Then he drew you out of the water, I see. But pray be quiet," 
 and then coming forward, with a frank and grateful look on her 
 handsome features, she shook Gerald's hand very heartily, and said, 
 "I cannot tell you, Mr. Arlington, how deeply" — but the voice 
 faltered, and Gerald hastened to say, in a hurried, awkward fashion : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am, but it was Mr. Fortescue who 
 saved your son. He jumped in. I only rowed. But we were 
 neither of us of your son's party." 
 
 "I am very glad to hear it," replied Mr. Featherstone, with 
 impressive emotion. "But 1 am also very glad to have made the 
 acquaintance of my friend Mr. Arlington's son, under circumstances 
 that do him so much honour. But pray who is this Mr. Fortescue ? 
 We must convey to him our most grateful acknowledgments. Is 
 he — is he — in good circumstances, may I ask ? You understand, 
 Mr. Arlington. Can one do anything for him, should you say ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ; his father was a clergyman, and he is going to 
 Cambridge." 
 
 "Ah, well, you must give me his address. We shall be most 
 happy to see you, Mr. Arlington, in Portland Place, or down at 
 Wimbledon, whenever you can make it convenient to accompany 
 Alfred. We are only in town now for a day or two — and perhaps 
 you could bring Mr. Fortescue ? I am sure, my dear, we should be 
 delighted to increase our acquaintance with these young gentle- 
 men." 
 
 " Very glad, I am sure, Mr. Arlington," replied Mrs. Featherstone. 
 nervously; "very glad. I wish the doctor would come. Leila, go 
 and see if the footman understood." 
 
 That young lady's little heart was undergoing strange com- 
 motions. She had come, filled with a vague interest in the 
 generous youth who had helped (perhaps chiefly) to save her 
 darling brother's life, and had doubtless been watching by his sick 
 bed through the long, dreary night ; while she was by no means 
 inclined to condemn him for joining Alfred in a water party, if he 
 had not been inciting him also to wine and late hours. She had 
 pictured to herself a tall, noble-looking youth, full of fire and 
 courage, blended with womanly tenderness, and her first glance 
 at the hero of her romance was not a little disappointed. She saw 
 merely a boyish-looking, handsome young man, gentlemanly and 
 refined, certainly, but not remarkable either for height or dignity,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 25 
 
 and her feeling probably would have been expressed by, " Is this 
 all, then ? " In fact, she described him afterwards to her sister, 
 with a rather turned-up nose, as " a beautiful, delicate, womanish- 
 looking sort of young man, you know, Adelaide." 
 
 But when she stole a second look at him as he came into the 
 sick man's chamber, she seemed to have a new idea on the subject. 
 Perhaps a sort of second hemisphere or " New World " was being 
 revealed at that moment, and came flashing right into her soul 
 from those bright, dreamy, deep blue eyes, and the dark eyebrows 
 and clear, large forehead above them, and with something almost 
 like a shudder she thought to herself, " No, that is not all." But 
 that mood soon passed. He looked so different from what she 
 expected, rather boyish, after all, and insignificant. And had she 
 not heard it was Mr. Fortescue who had braved death to save her 
 only brother's life ? 
 
 Then the family coach rolled away with its occupants, and 
 Gerald set forth to his beloved home, with his heart, also, fuller 
 than it had been for many a day. He wasn't a bit in love — but 
 there was something in that girl's pale face and wild, restless eyes 
 that haunted him like a spell. Perhaps it is not surprising that he 
 only just remembered in time that he had to call at his Alma Mater 
 in Gower Street, for some books to read in the vacation, which he 
 had left in his little cupboard in the dull cellars, magnificently and 
 satirically called " the Common Hall." (These, by-the-bye, were 
 the only blot on the establishment, at least in the eyes of many of 
 the ingenuous youth who crowded its classic corridors.) So he 
 wended his way thitherward, lost in profound speculations con- 
 cerning the character, disposition, and general pursuits of the 
 owner of those dark eyes, with the pale, classic-looking face, until 
 suddenly coming in sight of the splendid portico of the College, 
 all his enthusiasm flamed forth in a different direction, and he 
 entered the spacious forecourt of the building with feelings of 
 reverent delight. 
 
 Certainly the portico is one of the finest things in London, 
 and — Gerald was only just eighteen. 
 
 When the young student had procured his books, he could not 
 help pausing under the weight of the dignified thoughts, memories, 
 hopes, awakened as he stood amid the silence and deserted lone- 
 liness of the place. Yes, it was true, as he had stammeringly 
 expressed it to Harry Fortescue the night before — in that building 
 he had sprung up into what Fichte would call " the Blessed Life." 
 Not, indeed, into the Inner Sanctuary. Long and weary must be 
 the initiation services for all who are to enter there. Yet into the
 
 26 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Outer Hall, holy and beautiful as it is, he had entered while studying 
 within those walls. And as he passed the silent courts, and his 
 mind ranged through the various apartments, he thought how, 
 within that door, he had listened to the profound and far-seeing 
 commentaries of Professor Mackron on Herodotus, Thucydides, 
 Plato's Republic, and the sublime Phaedon. Within this door, he 
 had listened in delighted surprise to the acute and masterly ex- 
 positions by Professor Clavis of Sallust and Cicero, Horace and 
 Tacitus. How different from the dull school-drudgery occupied 
 with those immortal classics. And then, above all, within that 
 room, how nobly the great Cambridge senior wrangler, with his 
 huge Jove-like head— "so like," as certain irreverent of his pupils 
 asserted, "to an owl in an ivy-bush" — had taxed and unfolded his 
 pupils' strongest mental powers with his Conic Sections, Quadratic 
 Equations and Differential Calculus. There, too, had their De- 
 bating Society met week by week, and with as great an enthusiasm 
 as a young Athenian might have listened in the Agora, he had 
 witnessed, and panted for the time when he, too, might gain courage 
 to share in the glorious excitement of Debate.. Leaning by that 
 arch he had been wrapt in the stirring joy of subtle disquisition 
 with fellow students, and amid the shelves of that large library a 
 whole world of new and lofty thoughts had been opened to his 
 soul. Aye ! and in those lecture-halls, in that library, how many 
 minds besides his have been awakened to a sense of the dignity of 
 Study, of learning, of being linked with the wise and great of 
 bygone ages — awakened out of school-boy indifference, and mere 
 happy, animal life, to a divine consciousness of the grandeur of 
 existence — of life as it is when we take up our freedom of the 
 glorious Past, and enter the Brotherhood of the Sages and Heroes 
 of Humanity, bowing in reverential homage before their thr 
 Yes, great is the moment when we first behold them dwelling in the 
 Mighty Halls of the gods — still more when we wake to a con- 
 sciousness of sharing their life, when (linked with this reverence) 
 there stirs within us a divine ambition to be worthy of that 
 Brotherhood by emulating their great deeds. For then to us the 
 vast Coliseum of Human Life becomes not merely a crumbling 
 Temple of the Past, but an arena for the present and future con- 
 tests of Heroic purpose, within which innumerable witnesses are 
 gathered, and where ttte also are to strive mightily for our crown of 
 honour — a strife not for self-glorification, nor for brutal despotism 
 or destruction, but for the common weal of our race, so to prove 
 ourselves worthy of abiding in that Brotherhood of the bene:"., 
 of mankind for ever.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 27 
 
 But mingled with these thoughts were yet more joyful memories, 
 though growing out of some that were at once painful and humi- 
 liating. Within those walls had come to Gerald Arlington tempting 
 invitations and descriptions which, from his peculiar constitution 
 and powerful imagination, possessed no ordinary force. Coarse 
 vice had no attractions for the young student ; but to picturesque, 
 voluptuous vice his temperament and poetic nature gave terrible 
 power. There and elsewhere, during his brief college life, he had 
 encountered those ignoble temptations which disgracefully beset 
 the young men of all civilized nations — had been almost swept 
 away by them, as so many are — only by desperate efforts had con- 
 quered them — but now rejoiced with thankfulness to know that he 
 had come out from the fight with a clean soul, and could look back 
 upon them with disgust, but without shame. No ; not altogether 
 without shame. With the image full in his mind of that young 
 girl whom he had scarcely ceased to think of since first beholding 
 her in the little inn that morning at Putney till he reached the 
 College, he could not help feeling deeply humiliated to remem- 
 ber how fearfully strong those base temptations had sometimes 
 been. 
 
 No wonder that young Arlington — revolving thoughts like these 
 in that " London University" — lingered long within its precincts, or 
 that when at length he sallied forth he ventured to mount the steps 
 of the great portico, from which, being vacation time, there were 
 no dragon-eyed beadles or gowned professors to warn him off. It 
 was a beautiful da}-, and there was a strange combination of the 
 influences of Nature and Art, of the Historical past and the mighty 
 Present, for the romantic youth who stood by the lofty pillars and 
 looked between their fine capitals up to the clear blue sky. Though 
 London lay around, it seemed afar off, sounding only like a deep, 
 stirring undertone in the solemn yet joyful strain that rose and fell 
 in his young soul. It had been a strange happiness to stand on the 
 sea-shore at Beachum, in play-hours, and watch the ocean in all its 
 varied moods. He felt that he never could be sufficiently grateful 
 for having spent five years at a sea-side school. The vast bi 
 downs there, also, over which he had so often rambled, and the 
 spacious grassy playground, where during the last years of his stay 
 he had strutted the hero of his dreams, and in the poet's " fine 
 frenzy" of egotistic enthusiasm had acted out in foot-ball and 
 hockey the fierce struggles with which his imagination was filled 
 by "The Last of the Mohicans," or Segur's "Russian Campaign." 
 Yes, these had been great privileges! But how wonderful, lie 
 thought— oh! how blessed the change from that mere school-boy,
 
 28 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 chrysalis state to his present position ! Now he had come forth 
 into the world— the real, living, fighting, conquering, triumphant 
 world, whose harshest struggles were but the minor strain in a 
 glorious anthem — that world which had so grand a career before 
 it, and in which, he doubted not, he also was to live, and work, 
 and triumph. 
 
 But all things have an end. He must turn homewards, and after 
 leaving the old stage-coach at the turnpike gate, a pleasant walk 
 of two miles to the village of Hartland brought him to the great 
 gates of Hartland House. Here a hearty ring at the bell brought 
 not only the footman but half-a-dozen clamorous dogs and a 
 bounding boy of fifteen to greet him. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! old chap — come at last ! I thought it was you. I've 
 been wanting you ever so long. Such jolly fun for you. I've 
 been getting the black pony into our little cart, and slashing down 
 the lane and round the fields like mad. You never saw such a 
 lark. Come along, Gerald, do." 
 
 But Gerald was tired. 
 
 " Well, never mind ; after dinner, if it's not dark, will do : " then, 
 as they went towards the house, the lad continued : " Oh ! and 
 what do you think ? Aunt Carry is come, and she's going to stay 
 two or three months, so she'll be here all your vacation. And 
 Vixen killed a hedgehog last night, and Skelton (the farrier, you 
 know) has given me a new beagle — such a beauty ! Her name's 
 ' Magic' And I've got down your boats, and rigged up the 
 ' Red Rover,' and we can have some grand fun with pirates, you 
 know. Oh ! and by George, what do you think ? — best of all, that 
 jolly old King of ours has somehow or other asked for a holiday at 
 Eton, and so I don't go back to school till Monday week. Isn't it 
 prime?" and the boy capered about, an agreeable picture of 
 health and happiness. 
 
 But Gerald didn't feel so supremely happy as Richard at the 
 idea. He had just outgrown the enjoyment of all that delighted 
 the schoolboy, and he wanted to muse and dream, and read his 
 Byron, and study Plato, and feel himself a man. Once, beagles 
 were enchanting, and hunting with them was a passionate delight, 
 when he imagined himself a North-American Indian, and revelled 
 in a wild romance, just as the sailing his mimic Corsairs and men- 
 of-war on the beloved pond was also invested by Cooper's match- 
 less romances with a charm of ineffable brightness, only fully 
 understood in the contrast of after-years. But now the glory had 
 departed, and he grieved to find he didn't rejoice in the extra 
 holiday. Richard was a good fellow, but he sadly put him out
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 2Q 
 
 sometimes, and was always wanting him to come here or go there. 
 Then their tempers didn't suit very well, and Richard's schoolboy 
 tricks and satire ruffled Gerald's dignity, and often brought him 
 down from poetic regions and exalted moods with more velocity 
 than comfort. Still he had, of course, a brotherly regard for 
 "Dicky-boy," and Dicky certainly had a warm, boyish affection for 
 Gerald. They were Mr. and Mrs. Arlington's only children, an 
 elder and very beautiful sister, as already hinted, having died of 
 consumption when the boys were still young. 
 
 Aunt Caroline was an unmarried sister of his mother's, middle- 
 aged, and so charming a person, so accomplished and amiable, so 
 delightful in every way, that to those who knew her, but not her 
 history, it was a matter of great wonder that she was still Miss 
 Tylney. However, it is an uncommonly fortunate thing for their 
 friends and relatives when some such delightful creature is allowed 
 to remain, what a friend of ours calls an " unappropriated blessing " 
 — anglice, an old maid, and so to be the good genius of half a 
 dozen family circles, instead of belonging specially to one of her 
 own. Mrs. Arlington was still a lovely matron, many years from 
 the decline of life, but she had never quite recovered from the loss 
 of her daughter, and had ; 'aged" considerably the last two years. 
 Gerald was now in the place of the lost daughter to her, greatly 
 resembling his sister in character, and mutatis mutandis in features. 
 
 Mrs. Arlington's life was in her affections, her imagination, and 
 her religion — her character being well described by herself when 
 she once said that if not enjoying intercourse with her dear ones, 
 " she could always be happy with a novel and a sermon ! " 
 
 But her sister was a woman of really fine intellect, and had made 
 use of her freedom from domestic cares to cultivate it with great 
 assiduity. Hence her influence over Gerald was at once elevating 
 and strengthening in a high degree. 
 
 Gerald's father had made the Baltic and Russian business he 
 inherited from his father a vast and prosperous concern during the 
 great war. A leading city merchant in those days, when the 
 tremendous forces of steam were just preparing to unite with the 
 still greater power of combination of mind and money, in the 
 shape of huge Joint-Stock Companies, occupied about as com- 
 manding and interesting a position as a private individual could 
 well aspire to. 
 
 We must give a sketch of this gentleman, both for his own sake 
 and for the influence he had on his son Gerald's fate. 
 
 Mr. Arlington, in addition to conducting his own large business;, 
 had been chairman for many years of one of the principal Dock
 
 30 GERALD AXD HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Companies, and of the largest and oldest Insurance Company in 
 London, and had been hard pressed to take the chairmanship of 
 the Thames Tunnel Company. This latter honour he declined, 
 not having faith in its success as a commercial speculation, and 
 not having time or money to bestow on an undertaking which he 
 called "a mere plaything." But there was a fine vein of com- 
 mercial romance in his soul. He had a noble faith in the triumphs 
 of material civilization as subservient to the best interests of 
 humanity, and the quiet but genuine benevolence of his character 
 had found its suitable sphere in these mercantile enterprises, while 
 the aforesaid vein of romance met with congenial pabulum in the 
 marvels which engineering skill and genius were beginning to 
 effect, when heartily supported by men of business and capital. 
 He was, in short, something of a commercial poet and engineering 
 philanthropist, though not much resembling either Byron or 
 Howard, but writing his poems and transacting his benevolence in 
 various " board-rooms," as well as in a large, dingy counting-house 
 in a dirty little square in the heart of "the City." 
 
 Born in the same year as two rather more famous men, Napoleon 
 Buonaparte and the Duke of Wellington, the great events and 
 Greater men of his period had exerted no slight influence both in 
 moulding his views and stimulating his ambition, while the colossal 
 magnitude of the scale on which Government contracts were made 
 for oak plank and Russian hemp throughout the war, enabled him 
 to develop his spirit of enterprise in a merchant-princely style, that 
 would have rather astonished that esteemed ancestor of his who first 
 left the quiet country-gentleman life of his Kentish forefathers, half 
 a century before, to risk the cares and perils of a London merchant's 
 existence. Manifold are the forms which both poetry and philan- 
 thropy fortunately take in this world. Certainly no one who saw 
 the style in which Mr. Arlington would order a poor man to get 
 out of his horse's way, or would deal with a vagrant, or a trespasser, 
 or even with his unlucky coachmen, when caught in any dereliction 
 of duty, could have given him credit for much natural benevolence 
 of disposition. As for poetry, was he not for more than fifty years 
 all day long (holidays excepted) in the City? But he was a man, 
 nevertheless, in whom a high sense of honour and an unbending, 
 sometimes most offensive pride, were combined with a chivalrous 
 and tender respect for the fair sex generally, and his wife in 
 particular ; genial kind-heartedness shaken up with harsh im- 
 pcriousness ; genuine sympathy for all woes that he understood ; 
 and consummate indifference to evils that lay out of his direct 
 path. Add to these, an iron will, a stern, hard devotedness to
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 3 1 
 
 what he had once seen to be right, though all the world stood 
 aloof, combined, as in most powerful enterprising natures, with a 
 slight weakness for the crowd's applause and homage, and you 
 have the principal elements of this unquestionably remarkable 
 man's character. A strong, brave, high-hearted man, one of the 
 vertebrae — during fifty of the most trying years of England's national 
 existence — in the backbone of London commerce, which some 
 folks tell us is, or at that time was, the backbone of the world. No 
 wonder some of us remember him. 
 
 Such was the man whom Gerald Arlington called " father," and 
 who, as such, was pretty sure to exert a large influence on his son's 
 fate and fortunes. We leave him now, trotting as usual on his 
 favourite chesnut, with compressed lips, along the broad highway to 
 the great metropolis, soon after 9 a.m., while we return to glance at 
 his eldest son's occupation in the peaceful shades of Hartland. 
 
 Gerald had been explaining to his aunt that of course his father 
 would let him stay at least two or three years longer at the London 
 University, during which he should study the Greek and Roman 
 historians, Plato's Philosophy, Aristotle's Rhetoric, Cicero's Ora- 
 tions, and no end of Modern History. 
 
 " By that time," he continued, " I shall have mastered the 
 science and art of oratory and composition, besides having some- 
 thing to speak and write about." 
 
 " But how can you earn your bread by oratory and composition?" 
 inquired Miss Tylney, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Oh, in lots of ways. See what large sums successful writers 
 get. Then look at the wonderful power authors and orators gain." 
 
 " Yes, if they are men of iron constitution, as well as men of 
 genius and indomitable will, with private property of their own." 
 
 " That iron constitution is needed by barristers and statesmen, 
 not by authors. Besides, I shan't want much bread ;" and he 
 looked around him, and thought the idea preposterous of his having 
 to turn aside from the loftier objects of existence for the vulgar 
 pursuit of a mere livelihood. Was not his father owner of these 
 broad lands, and possessed of wharves and timber yards "down 
 the river," without number? 
 
 So they arranged their plan of reading, and Gerald retired to his 
 study in a state of as supreme felicity as mortal man can attain to 
 through the earthly media of youth, health, pure living, hard study, 
 hope, benevolent ambition, and romantic aspirations. 
 
 " Gerald is a fine young fellow," thought she, " full of pure and 
 glorious feelings, high purposes, but how is he ever to find his 
 right place in such a world as this?" With much that was noble
 
 32 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 and fascinating, she thought she saw in him no real increase of 
 that iron strength so needful to success. She did see in him an 
 overmastering imagination, a romantic lovingness, and an ambi- 
 tious benevolence; but these were evidently combined with a 
 feminine dependence upon the opinion of others, and a craving 
 desire for sympathy. Above all, she discerned, to her sorrow, that 
 shrinking from whatever did not suit his humour — from the stern 
 disagreeables of life — which she well knew is a source of terrible 
 weakness. Then his sanguine faith in others — ah ! and in himself — 
 in what the world could give him, and in what he could do for the 
 world! Terrible disappointments she knew must be awaiting him, 
 and heavy trials. " If I could but see him," quoth she to herself, at 
 last, " resolutely doing things which he didn't like, but which he 
 knew it was his duty to do, what a comfort it would be ! And yet 
 how well he has forced himself to drudge away at his studies since 
 he has been at College. He has so many beautiful qualities — such 
 a pure and loving heart — he ought to become a — what? I cannot 
 say. I see negatives rising up in every direction. But there is hope 
 in the College training. Two more years there will do much." 
 
 Gerald's favourite spaniel, disappointed by his young master's 
 absurd retreat to his study instead of going in search of rabbits, 
 frisked about among the flower-beds on the green turf, and with 
 beseeching eyes implored Miss Tylney to extend her walk to the 
 fields. But Fan's aspirations were doomed, like those of higher 
 creatures sometimes, to disappointment. The lady was lost in deep 
 and pensive thought, and passed on. As she mounted the steps 
 leading to the dining-room, she heard her sister calling from her 
 pet poultry-yard, " Carry, Carry ! do come and look at my new 
 silver-pencilled Hamburgs. They are such little beauties !" And 
 Aunt Carry went, gladdened at the thought that her sister was 
 beginning once again to take an interest in her feathered tribe, 
 which had been unvisited for many a long day after her daughter's 
 death, and with ever-ready sympathy entered into all the details 
 which had to be communicated. She was rewarded. A fine little 
 brood of ducklings, while the sisters were conversing, rushed 
 impetuously into the duck pond, and the poor hen-nurse, who had 
 long brooded over them with exemplary patience, fluttered and 
 clucked on the brink, with the feather-scattering distress usually 
 exhibited on such occasions. 
 
 "I am quite as foolish, without half the excuse," quoth Aunt 
 Carry to herself, as she turned from the poultry yard, somewhat 
 comforted (as not unseldom happens), by beholding the causeless 
 sorrows of her inferiors.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Here, Gerald, is something for you," said Mr. Arlington the 
 following evening, as he handed an elegant little note to his son. 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Featherstone want you to go to Wimbledon on 
 Saturday and stay till Monday." 
 
 Gerald's heart bounded with delight. This was the only thing 
 wanting to complete his felicity. Mr. Featherstone took him down 
 in his carriage after 'Change ; and a pleasant drive along the 
 Kingston Road, and across Wimbledon Common, brought them, 
 about 6 o'clock, to that gentleman's country house. Everything 
 appeared to Gerald of that exquisite tint for which our neighbours 
 have given us a proverbial expression. The Surrey Hills, and 
 distant Epsom race-course, with the finely-wooded rising ground of 
 Richmond Park were seen to great advantage. Alfred met them at 
 the door and shook Gerald's hand with hearty expressions of thanks 
 for his " dry nursing," the other night, and made himself highly 
 agreeable all the evening. Mrs. Featherstone was gracious and 
 hospitable ; Adelaide, stately, yet condescending. But Gerald 
 meditated most on the staid, retiring, little body whom everybody 
 else, however, seemed to think a personage of very small import- 
 ance. Conversation on the great topic of the day — Reform, varied 
 by music and singing by Adelaide; a game of chess with Alfred 
 filled up the evening very pleasamtly ; but Gerry's own vocal powers 
 were not discovered, and no particular opening was afforded for 
 increasing his acquaintance with " Leila the demure." 
 
 Happily, however, for his success in that line, Gerald rose 
 betimes the next morning, and strolled into the garden, which 
 was bright with flowers and the morning sun. Following the sweep 
 of the gravel walk, through smooth shaven turf and beds of flowers, 
 he presently descried the light drapery and slender form of that 
 young lady, as she busied herself in picking a few carnations 
 and roses. It was easy to offer assistance, and then to remark on 
 the weather. This was safe ground, as was also the subject of 
 gardening ; but Gerald grew more and more interested in the shy 
 young maiden, and began to think it would be very delightful to 
 make her communicative — so, with impetuous rashness, he softly 
 asked in that flute-like voice of his, " Have you ever remarked, Miss 
 Featherstone, the genuine love of beautiful scenery which Byron 
 shows?" No answer. Gerald hastily glanced at his companion. 
 She was lifting her great dark eyes, which gleamed from between
 
 34 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 masses of dark brown hair, glancing at him with a curious expres- 
 sion of mingled wonder, amusement, and yet with satisfaction, 
 that he should speak to her on such subjects. The situation teas 
 amusing, certainly, and Gerald's native sense of humour made it 
 irresistible. Sentiment was lost for the moment in his ringing, 
 musical laugh, but quickly regained its hold ; for his companion, 
 slightly colouring and yet just ready to laugh with him or at him, 
 looked almost lovely. So he returned to the charge with ardour — 
 
 " Oh ! Byron's poetry is magnificent. But perhaps you do not 
 admire him?" 
 
 " I have scarcely read anything he has written" — (a pause), — 
 "but I do like some poetry." 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad," replied Gerald, naively, feeling at the same 
 time that he had got on very interesting and difficult ground. " It 
 is so delightful to like what is beautiful. What poetry are you most 
 fond of?" 
 
 " I don't know. Alfred used to read some to me in the holiday.-, 
 but he seldom does now." 
 
 What a stupid fellow Alfred must be, thought Gerald. 
 
 "You read graver subjects, perhaps ?" said he. 
 
 "lam very fond of history," she answered. 
 
 Gerald responded with unfeigned delight. This was fascinating. 
 
 And while they were thus timorously advancing in their mutual 
 acquaintanceship, some very sweet and preeious memories were 
 floating up in Gerald's mind, memories of the dear sister who was 
 now sleeping in Hartland churchyard ; for there was something in 
 the quiet grace and subdued earnestness of the pale young girl 
 beside him that painfully and yet most pleasurably reminded him 
 of the beloved one. And she meanwhile was thinking of the warm 
 expressions of loving admiration with which Gerald had spoken of 
 Harry Fortescue the night before, and she longed to know more of 
 the character and tastes of one with whom Harry was so intimate. 
 Then at breakfast, Gerald again talked about his friend with i 
 admiration, and again Leila listened with both her ears. So that 
 when he left on Monday morning with her father and Alfred, and 
 she saw them depart from the drawing-room window, a close 
 observer might have detected a sigh. " I [e is the first young man,' 
 said she, unconsciously to herself, " who ever thought it worth 
 while to talk to me — at least, on subjects worth while talking 
 about." Poor little Leila. She did not receive much notice of any 
 kind, or get much companionship. She was not then either, by 
 any means, in general, a very attractive looking young lady; too 
 awkward, shy, and undeveloped, with pale, almost sallow cheeks,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 35 
 
 and sunken eyes. But then those eyes! Gerald, with an intuition 
 that did him credit, had been struck through and through with, 
 what poets would doubtless have called " a witch's orbs," wherein 
 he had discerned the promise of a whole heaven of poetry, romance, 
 and love. But Leila meanwhile concluded her reflections on his 
 visit by thinking to herself, " My brother's preserver must cer- 
 tainly have a fine character as well as a brave heart, from the way 
 in which his delightfully romantic friend speaks of him." 
 
 Meanwhile the days and weeks of that fair vacation sped brightly 
 on. The mornings were generally passed by the young collegian 
 in faithful study in his own room. The afternoons were occupied 
 with the fascinating pages of the new prophet, one Thomas 
 Carlyle, just then rising in cloudy splendour, and in perusing 
 Plutarch's Lives, or theWaverley Novels, varied by dreamy reveries. 
 
 But at last, one bright sunny day, that fatal frenzy seized him that 
 has numbered its victims by myriads. Under those magnificent 
 trees on the lawn he has taken pen and paper and begun to write. 
 Of poetry and songs he has scribbled various delectable fragments 
 already. But that day he was impelled to begin "a poem," the 
 primary idea whereof was chiefly compounded of Manfred, Faust, 
 and Utopia. And that which he wrote, though fantastical enough, 
 was full of a weird, musical beauty and wild pathos, mingled with 
 touches of humour, which gave promise of a power that might one 
 day take captive men's hearts. So while that weary world was 
 grinding on around him he kept writing away in his earthly 
 Paradise, dreaming of love and beauty, and a mighty power to be 
 wielded over the hearts of men, to lift them to a nobler life. 
 Was this ambition, or a divine yearning of love and pity ? or the 
 instinct of genius ? or the mere madness of egotism and conceit ? 
 Perhaps a union of all these. Time will show. For the present, 
 let him sit dreaming there — dreaming as thousands have done 
 before — yet working too — willing to work right faithfully evermore, 
 if only he might ivcrk in his own way. 
 
 Then, when the inspiration ceased, this fortunate poet strolled 
 amid beds of flowers across the lawn, down the park-like meadow, 
 between beautiful clumps of gigantic wych-elms, to the lakelet, 
 rippling radiant in the sunlight, less bright than the smile of hope 
 and "young imagination" on the dreamer's face, as he gazed on 
 the water and the sunshine glinting through the trees, and the 
 white-sailing clouds above whiter swans below, ami stepped into 
 the little broad-bottomed boat and thought to himself, " How 
 glorious a thing it is to live ! " Or the afternoon might close with 
 a game of cricket, or a canter through Epping For*
 
 36 GERALD AND HIS FRIEXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 One summer evening, the fair wife of a county M.P., describing 
 to her husband the round of calls she had been making, exclaimed, 
 '* Oh, but there was one such charming little vision — quite poetical 
 — at that dear Mrs. Arlington's ; her son, you know, who the girls 
 say is a regular poet and improvisator e, and sings divinely, and all 
 that kind of thing. Well, he was writing on the lawn, and I never 
 saw anything more beautiful than the whole scene ; and afterwards 
 I saw him cantering over Wanstead Flats, and I'm sure I don't 
 wonder the girls talk about him," concluded the lady with a pretty 
 mischievous twinkle in her eye, whereupon her husband burst into 
 a hearty laugh, and giving her a kiss and his arm, whispered 
 " Bosh ! " and then escorted her in to dinner. But he didn't laugh 
 more heartily than Gerry would have done had he overheard them. 
 
 A letter came one day from Harry Fortescue to Gerald, which 
 made him shout for joy. "Mother! Harry can come, if we ask 
 him. May I ? " 
 
 "By all means." 
 
 " Oh, won't it be jolly ! " 
 
 The proposed visit of Gerald's friend was mentioned to Mr. 
 Arlington after dinner. In answer to enquiries, Gerald replied 
 "that since his father's death this friend had lived with his half- 
 sister at Neville Court (that is, during the holidays), near Dorking, 
 and Lady Baines, a widow, his father's sister, lives with them. 
 That's where Aunt Carry goes so often, you know, father, and 
 where I've often been. Oh, it is such a splendid country ! " 
 
 Mr. Arlington smiled kindly at his son's enthusiasm on this 
 point. He loved beautiful scenery himself, and felt with satis- 
 faction that this at least was a happiness with which he need not 
 interfere. 
 
 " By-the-bye, Gerald, Mr. Featherstone was speaking to me 
 to-day about you. You seemed to have made a favourable im- 
 pression on that circle at Wimbledon — though perhaps I ought 
 not to tell you. Young men are apt to think sufficiently well of 
 themselves without hearing of anything to their advanta 
 
 Poor Gerry had a dim idea that he was rather the better for a 
 little encouragement. Possibly he was not altogether mistaken. 
 Passionately desiring excellence of every conceivable description, 
 no doubt he was sometimes terribly tempted — goaded, in fact — to 
 hope and believe he was obtaining it. But he was much oftener 
 in a state of doubt and even despondency as to his power of doing 
 anything well, or of making others happy, which was decidedly 
 enfeebling, preparing the way in fact for the very want of success
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 37 
 
 which he often morbidly anticipated. A little encouragement as 
 evidence of their possessing the needful power, would sometimes 
 be of immense value to minds of this temperament. But knowing 
 that vanity and conceit are tolerably rife, and most of us being 
 rather jealous of each other's progress, we occasionally omit to 
 praise when it is most required. 
 
 Harry Fortescue was to come on the following Thursday. It is 
 the Tuesday evening previous. Gerald had been working so hard 
 all the afternoon at erecting an arbour in the grounds, which he 
 proposed calling " L' Allegro," as a namesake of one at Neville 
 Court, that the usual ride had been omitted, and he is gone to take 
 it now after dinner under favour of a lovely twilight and the 
 harvest moon. Hence Mr. and Mrs. Arlington with Aunt Carry 
 are sitting alone in the drawing-room before tea. They have not 
 rung for candles, though the room grows darker and darker. Mrs. 
 Arlington seems bewildered as she looks alternately from the great 
 trees seen against the twilight sky to the fixed countenance of her 
 husband. His face has its morning sternness, instead of its usual 
 evening cheerfulness, and the moon gives just enough light to 
 make the tears glitter in Miss Tylney's eyes. But her lips are 
 compressed tightly, and she seems resolved to say nothing till she 
 can say what is right and best. Mrs. Arlington is the first to 
 break the silence. 
 
 "It is no doubt very proper that Gerald should earn his own 
 livelihood, and I suppose he must go into business, as you desire 
 that should be his vocation ; but — does it not seem a pity to take 
 him away from college just now" — (a pause) Miss Tylney felt 
 emboldened to speak. 
 
 " If I might give an opinion, I should say it was a very great 
 pity to check him just when his mind is opening up to so many 
 important subjects, and when he is really working with so much 
 earnestness." 
 
 " Caroline, we should differ as to the importance of the subjects 
 that are occupying his attention now, or that would occupy him if he 
 went for another year to the college. I do not intend he should grow 
 up a mere literary dilettante. He has not the abilities or stamina to 
 shine at the bar, and no taste for the medical profession. He has 
 not particularly distinguished himself at the London University, 
 and I have no wish to try and squeeze him into Government 
 employment. Why should 1 ? Where can he find a higher career 
 than that of a London merchant ? " 
 
 " But he has received so strong a stimulus during these last two 
 years, towards the acquisition of knowledge. You have no con-
 
 38 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 ception how eagerly he thirsts for all this mental culture and 
 information." 
 
 "And will he not have to study the finest sciences in connection 
 with his mercantile calling ? The science of a nation's well-being? 
 — Political Economy — the laws that govern those great transactions 
 of Production, Distribution, and Consumption, by which human 
 wants are supplied, wealth created, nations raised to dignity and 
 happiness ? Look at that noble work of Adam Smith's. See what 
 a position my friend Mr. Tooke, the large Russian merchant, 
 occupies, and the admirable essays he writes on Political Economy. 
 If Gerald desires to do something besides buy and sell, let him 
 emulate such an example as that. I wish he may. I never thought 
 of his being a mere tradesman." 
 
 "But Gerald has so much of a poet in him, dear," urged Mrs. 
 Arlington, with timid affection. 
 
 "Ah, Julia, that is a very fatal endowment unless he be brought 
 early in contact with the stern, hard realities of life. I only hope 
 I may not have made a sad mistake in letting him go (at the 
 urgent entreaty of you bo^h, you know), for a second year to the 
 London University. I ought not to have yielded, I believe." 
 
 " Poor boy!" replied Miss Tylney, " he will feel it very much." 
 
 "Oh no! not if you do not pity him to his face as well as 
 behind his back. Just try and help him to see how far better it is 
 he should buckle to at once." 
 
 " But I cannot," exclaimed Miss Tylney, with a vehemence 
 unusual to her. " I see that of late all that is best and highest in 
 him has been awaking, and now — " (her voice faltered almost to a 
 sob), "and now it will be all stopped, and I cannot tell you what I 
 know he will suffer. I would not mind that so much, but then he 
 would get used to it, and not have strength to rise above the 
 temptations to which young men are constantly exposed ; and he 
 will look for his happiness in low or frivolous amusement, and 
 become worldly and mean." 
 
 " Caroline," said Mr. Arlington, very gravely, " has all that been 
 the consequence, then, of my being brought up by my father to a 
 merchant's life?" 
 
 "No, no; but Gerald has not your character, your strength — 
 quite different endowments — my poor, poor boy;" and the tears 
 would come. 
 
 Mrs. Arlington was much distressed, but utterly uncertain as to 
 which was in the right. 
 
 " Say no more, my dear sister," said Mr. Arlington kindly, but 
 very decisively. " My mind is made up."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. tf 
 
 Miss Tylney rose and left the room. Mr. Arlington soothed his 
 wife, and again went over the arguments for the course he had 
 resolved upon. 
 
 " But I have so looked forward to his becoming distinguished." 
 
 " I trust he will be — as a high-minded, enterprising, public- 
 spirited man of business." 
 
 " But I meant as a writer, or speaker, or poet." 
 
 "Julia, Julia! let me pray you never to breathe such a wish 
 again. Of all the wretched destinies to which a man could be 
 doomed, such a career as you speak of would be about the 
 worst, especially for a young man of only moderate abilities, and 
 less perhaps than average health or strength. That could only end 
 in wretchedness, and probably vice, however gaily it might com- 
 mence. The life I shall make him live may seem wearisome and 
 disappointing at first, but it will become brighter every year." 
 
 " So cheered he his fair spouse, and she was cheered." 
 
 " Is he to go into your counting-house?" at length she inquired. 
 
 " No, he would get too much indulgence there at present. He 
 must pass the first two or three years somewhere else." 
 
 " Not away from London !" exclaimed his mother, in sudden and 
 exquisitely painful alarm. 
 
 " No, no. I knew you wouldn't like that; and I have arranged 
 with Mr. Grant, the ship-broker, who does a great deal of business 
 for us, to take him. He will come home every night. Now go, 
 dearest, and comfort your sister." 
 
 The sister needed it. She stood in her room, looking out on the 
 bright moonlight scene through her tears. "Well! what a fuss 
 about nothing at all!" exclaims some worthy Paterfamilias ; "all this 
 bother about taking a lad from a ' proprietary school' and putting 
 him into business. Why, it is done every day, and a good job too." 
 Query, what is worth making a fuss about ? 
 
 Hitherto the life of Gerald Arlington had flowed on in regular 
 and suitable development — suitable and progressive even according 
 to what seemed to his far-reaching, nobly aspiring guide, Miss 
 Tylney, the highest light to be gained. But now there was a new 
 and very different element about to mingle with it — one that looked 
 not suitable, " not developing, but terribly disorganizing, breaking 
 the very" back of his life — condemning him," she thought, "to a 
 mutilated existence;" and this at the very period when he needed, 
 and from the very hand that should have given him, the most 
 careful training. "Oh! it was cruel, and very, very Bad." So 
 thought ^Caroline Tylney. If she were right, it was no trilling
 
 40 GERALD AXD HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 error, rather a grievous sin, springing from blinded self-will on his 
 father's part. To blight a soul's life in this world, no matter how 
 humble its position in that world ; to misunderstand and misuse a 
 father's great and solemn power over the being and destiny of a 
 fellow-creature, even though, nay, because, it is your own child's, 
 this must be a very serious matter. 
 
 But was she right? Was not the father his son's truest friend? 
 Patience, we shall see, — though, perhaps, not in this world. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The Featherstone family, young and old, were not the people to 
 let Harry Fortescue's deed of heroism pass, uncommemorated, into 
 oblivion. One day while he was at Neville Court, the whole party 
 came down upon him in force. A splendid barouche and prancing 
 bays, gorgeous liveries, handsome old folks, graceful younger ones, 
 barking ecstatic dogs, all flashed upon the gaze of the quiet 
 dwellers in the Court, and created such a sensation in the Vale of 
 Dorking generally as the neighbourhood had rarely experienced. 
 Then amid the with-difliculty-repressed outburst of gratitude from 
 the papa and mamma, the haughty, yet condescending smile of 
 the beautiful eldest daughter, the rapt and reverent admiration of 
 the youngest, and the hearty, affectionate mirth of the rescued 
 Alfred, Harry was made the awkward-looking recipient of a magni- 
 ficent seal ring, with a Newfoundland dog engraved upon it by 
 Alfred's particular desire, and of a beautiful book of engravings, 
 chiefly from Yandcrwelde, Turner, and other great masters of 
 marine painting. Next came an invitation to a pic-nic on Leith 
 Hill, and the whole of a bright sunny day spent by Fortescue and 
 Leila Featherstone, in a state of exquisite madness, under the 
 glamour of bewitching dreams; she lost in hero worship for the 
 preserver of her darling brother, he over head and ears in love with 
 her eldest sister, who walked with stalely and elastic step in her 
 radiant charms, amused and just a little gratified with the rustic 
 admiration of her athletic young lover. Alfred Featherstone 
 enjoyed the charming scenery with a genuine artist's eye, but 
 found that telling Fortescue a little of his recent adventures was 
 much greater fun than sketching. This last-named young man,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 4 1 
 
 though not at all in a mood to relish the loose talk in which young 
 Featherstone at first began to indulge, was speedily fascinated by 
 the general style of the rollicking young relative of the beautiful 
 girl he was watching like a devotee, and began to think there 
 was a good deal to be learnt about the world he was living in of 
 which he had not yet dreamed. 
 
 Altogether,, as Harry walked hone in the starlight night, through 
 the quiet country lanes, with great dancing strides, from the "Red 
 Lion" at Dorking, where the Featherstones were staying, and 
 whither he had accompanied them to tea (his aunt and sister 
 pleading fatigue), he felt that he had entered on a new era of 
 intensified existence, through the potent spells of both brother 
 and sister, though whether altogether for good he was not quite 
 certain. 
 
 Very differently had the hours been fleeting past at Hartland on 
 that well-remembered day. Gerald had come in to breakfast after 
 a stroll with his dog, the morning after the conversation just 
 recorded between his father, mother, and aunt — came in bright 
 and hopeful as usual, full of life and energy, but he could not help 
 being struck with the silence which pervaded the breakfast-table. 
 Before his father went to town, he called him into the library, and 
 in a few words, but in which there was far more of kindness than 
 in his usual manner, Mr. Arlington told his son his plans for the 
 future and left him. 
 
 Gerald felt stunned. 
 
 Over his misery and lonely wrestlings of spirit that day we draw 
 the veil. He learnt the meaning of a few phrases he had never 
 understood before, read a chapter in Ecclesiastes, and Wolsey's 
 
 " Farewell ! A long farewell, to all my greatness ! " 
 
 and something much more mischievous in his " Beauties of Byron." 
 The iron entered into his soul. He thought with intense bitterness 
 of all the encouragement his mother had given him to aspire and 
 climb. Of his father he could think only with almost passionate 
 resentment. Then Miss Tylncy got alarmed, and took the other 
 side, and tried to reconcile her beloved boy to his fate 
 
 Harry came down to Hartland the following day. Miss Tylncy 
 contrived to give him a hint of what had happened, and to entreat 
 him to urge the view of the matter she had set before Gerald, lest 
 he might undo what little good she thought she had effected. 
 
 The young men sot off after luncheon for a walk to a line open 
 common, broken with old gravel pits, and studded lure and there 
 with picturesque stubby hollies and brambles. Harry sought to
 
 42 GERALD AND JITS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 amuse his friend at first by an account of the visit of the Feather- 
 stones at Neville Court. 
 
 "But the daughter, Gerald! Oh the daughter!" Gerald had 
 been so much more struck with Leila than with Adelaide, that he 
 thought his friend must refer to the former, and a momentary pang 
 of jealousy shot through his mind, making him answer irritably and 
 hypocritically, " Stuff! she is a regular little witch, like her name- 
 rather queer isn't she ? What the Scotch call uncanny, eh ?" 
 
 "Good heavens! Whom are you talking about?" exclaimed 
 Fortescue. "/mean Miss Featherstone — Adelaide! A magnifi- 
 cent — " 
 
 "Oh, I see," hastily rejoined his friend, greatly relieved. "Yes, 
 yes, of course — very fine girl." 
 
 " Fine ! Nonsense — noble ! superb ! " 
 
 "A dead smite. I see, Harry." 
 
 "No hope for me, my Gerry, I am irrecoverably gone." 
 
 " Well, she is — uncommonly — I don't know what it is, but — " 
 replied Gerald, absently, thinking of Leila. 
 
 "/know!" ejaculated Harry with vehemence — gesticulating in 
 a frantic fashion, which emotion he was at the less pains to conceal, 
 that he might brush up his friend a little and "scare away the blue 
 devils." 
 
 Thought Gerald to himself, " Harry's desperately in love — so 
 
 should I be, if . Why not tell him what I think of Leila ? 
 
 No, nonsense, no more of that for me now. Let him be happy. 
 I can be glad that he at least should be enjoying all that I can't." 
 And with what he felt to be a magnanimous effort, Gerry tossed 
 overboard all thought of Leila Featherstone, and drew Harry on 
 to talk about the delights of the picnic day. Thereupon his 
 friend ran on in a highly edifying strain, recounting Master 
 Alfred's wild talk and some of his gay adventures. Under other 
 circumstances all this would have had rather a dangerous fascina- 
 tion for our imaginative friend Gerry. But life was getting serious. 
 He tried to take an interest in it, but it wouldn't do. He only felt 
 annoyed at part, and disgusted with the rest, and after a while, 
 Harry dropped the subject. 
 
 But by this time they had reached the open heath. The fresh 
 bracing air stimulated Gerald to look his position fairly in the face. 
 and open his heart to the sturdily cheerful friend beside him. 
 There was full sympathy for him in that quarter — not as to the 
 particular grief ol~ being checked in his studies, for Harry had 
 never felt that ingenuous ardour for scholarly acquirements which 
 burnt so fiercely in Gerald — but in the general fact of his romantic
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR, 
 
 43 
 
 friend's being stopped in a career which Fortescue had once felt in 
 his inmost soul, as Gerald had tremblingly sketched it, to be a very 
 noble one, in which he had hoped to give the said friend humble 
 aid, and to rejoice in his glory and joys, though afar off. But he 
 had rather lost sight of Gerald's higher motives, and ideal visions, 
 and wanted besides to bring him down to practical common-sense. 
 So he said something common-place enough, about its being a 
 great bore that Gerry should be baulked of a scheme on which he 
 had set his heart, and which might have made " a really great swell 
 of him." 
 
 "Nonsense," exclaimed Gerald impatiently, "that's not what 
 frets me. Don't you see how my father's plan cuts me off from 
 that power for doing good which we both have so longed for ? I've 
 no talents for business, I shall never make anything of it, or rise as 
 he has done. It's all nonsense," he continued (while every atom 
 of Miss Tylney's consolation was swept away in the returning tide 
 of passionate grief), " it's all a great miserable mistake — one of the 
 most wretched, infernal mistakes my father ever made in his life !" 
 
 " Gently, John, over the stones," rejoined Harry, seating himself 
 on a little hillock, while his friend threw himself full length on the 
 turf. Now Fortescue had promised Aunt Carry to urge her view 
 because he believed in its justice. She had a very convincing way 
 of putting things, and he had a profound faith in her. But for 
 all that, he meant to propound his own recipe first. So after 
 a few moments' silence, during which Gerald exhibited rather 
 painful emotion, he continued in an affectionate but hesitating 
 fashion — 
 
 "Gerry, don't you care too much about all sorts of things ? It 
 won't do, I'm sure, to mind about anything in this way. Look 
 here. / don't want to go to Cambridge — I don't want to be a 
 clergyman. I would much rather go to the London University or 
 St. Bartholomew's, and study medicine — but I can't, at all events, 
 not now. What's the good of making a fuss about it. I must just 
 do what I'm told and make the best of it. A fellow can live a 
 brave, manly, jolly sort of life, Gerald, anywhere, I fancy. Don't 
 care so much about things. What docs it matter — anything? — as 
 long as one acts up to one's conscience ? If it's good, be jolly ! 
 and if it's bad, fight it!" — whereupon he squared up fiercely with 
 knit brows. Gerald smiled, half-sympathetically, half-sad Iy, and 
 then sedately shook his head. 
 
 "That's all right as far as it goes, Harry, but how is the world 
 ever to be mended if all men acted on that theory? lias it not 
 been reformed, purified, saved, by men who did care about things—
 
 44- GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 cared even to the continual wretchedness of their everyday lives — 
 and cared at length even to suffering a martyr's death ?" 
 
 " Yes, but they didn't mind about things which merely affected 
 their own comfort and happiness. Nay, nay, I know what you 
 mean," continued Harry, with increasing emphasis, for he saw that 
 Gerald's choler was rising again, " I know why you think you are 
 so savage at this break in your life, but I don't believe that your 
 power to do the good you aim at depends much upon your going 
 for a couple more years to the London University. I think you 
 have the power to make yourself felt without any more of that 
 training, if you take manfully the training which all the botherations 
 before you will give you." 
 
 " But Harry, Harry, how can a man do his work manfully as you 
 say, or make himself felt, when he's got a constant diabolical heart- 
 ache, and when, as to using all the faculties given him, he's like a 
 duck in a desert! It's wrong altogether. There's nothing so 
 wearing and weakening as continual pain and disappointment, and 
 I know how it will be with me — " 
 
 " Gerry," exclaimed Fortescue with vehemence, as he sprang up 
 from the little knoll on which they had been reclining — then 
 sinking his voice — "Brother, may I say one word to you, I have 
 long thought it — perhaps I'm wrong — but" (a pause), " I'm certain 
 you look a great deal too much for things to be all comfortable — 
 and that's no go, at all, in this world — not for men ! It'll do for 
 lap-dogs and women, but not for you and me. Gerry, will you for- 
 give me ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes — it's a day of humiliation ! Fasting '11 come next, I 
 suppose, and ashes; but you miss the main point, my friend — the 
 terrible loss of power in after-life from want of thorough University 
 training. All your discipline of circumstances, and wonderful 
 strength got out of difficulties, and so on, won't do instead of that 
 knowledge and intellectual skill which come from college training. 
 All the greatest men — the men who have really left some noble 
 enduring results of their work — have been men who have had a 
 thorough scholarly training." 
 
 "Get out with that rubbish, Gerry!" 
 
 "Aye — but I know I'm right — mind, I'm not speaking of men 
 like Cromwell or Columbus, who have wrought great outward 
 changes, or accomplished immense material improvements by 
 their discoveries, or engineering, or fighting, and so forth. And 
 I'm not thinking of men of mere intellect, nor of men possessing 
 infinitely greater intellectual and bodily strength than I have. 
 1 know I have not huge gifts in that line, Harry — but still I
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 45 
 
 believe I'm wanted. And what I mean is this. To move men 
 permanently, as well as powerfully, you must have knowledge — 
 classical, historical, philosophical. You must have music in your 
 soul, Harry, not jarring chords of misery — music such as that 
 with which Amphion built the walls of Thebes, and Orpheus 
 tamed the tigers, and without which I believe no great spiritual 
 ' Civitas Dei ' was ever yet built. Then you must have the 
 quick mastery of all your faculties, which only scholarly training 
 can give, to me, at all events — command of language, and above, 
 yet, with all this, you must have great ideas, such as are only 
 nursed in solitude. You cannot make the world feel that you 
 get at their souls — you cannot reach and renew — exalt their 
 inner spiritual life, Harry — without all this." 
 
 And he again flung himself on the turf, and groaned. Harry, 
 too, felt considerably moved, and for some time could not answer. 
 At length he said — 
 
 "Well, but granting all you've said (though I only half believe 
 it), see how much you will still be able to do in the way of 
 work, out of the counting-house. You say you are not to be 
 there till ten, and to leave at five. You may be at home by 
 six in the evening, and get four hours' reading before you go 
 to bed ; and one hour at least in the morning. Oh, wouldn't I 
 work if I were you !" 
 
 This was again a new and cheering thought to poor Gerald. 
 
 " And then," continued Harry, " if you become a great merchant 
 like your father through determined effort of will, you will have 
 far greater moral power than even he has, because of the greater 
 difficulty you will have conquered in becoming so. And if to 
 this you add all the mental acquirements and training which 
 six years at such a school as old Botherum's and then two 
 years at college have given you, and /aught you to know how 
 to get, and the college part of which your father never had, 
 only see, Gerry!" (continued Harry, insinuatingly) "what you 
 may not do." 
 
 This, and talk such as this, came with great healing to the 
 dejected student. And it was an infinite satisfaction to find at 
 all events that his friend believed he possessed the natural gifts 
 and power to do all to which he thus exhorted him. So gradually 
 Gerald brightened up, shook Harry's hand very warmly, girded 
 up his mind resolutely to meet his destiny and do the work, 
 whatever it might be, to which Providence might call him. 
 
 The following day, Harry returned to Neville Court, having 
 his friend in better spirits than he found him. As they stood
 
 46 GERALD AXD HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 at a corner of the lane near Ilartland House, waiting for the 
 coach to pass, Gerald said, — 
 
 " You have helped me, Harry, boy." 
 
 " And you me, Gerry. I shan't forget what has passed on 
 one subject — you know what. But young men in general have 
 very different notions on these matters from ours." 
 
 " Some have. But there are good and bad among them, I 
 suppose, even at Cambridge. We must pick and choose our 
 company, that's all . . . though I do wish . . . what's wrong 
 wasn't pleasant . . . and that what's right was always 'jucundus.' "' 
 
 '•' Now, isn't that just what I said yesterday on the common, 
 and what you half-murdered me for saying?" 
 
 Gerry's eyes twinkled with something of the old fun that used 
 to lurk in them ; and as he smiled, half in confusion, and 
 called his friend " a rascal " to hide it, Harry continued, with 
 vehemence — 
 
 " Besides, then there'd be no fighting, and life would be 
 insufferable ! But here comes the waggon. My ! what a seedy 
 team ! Bye, bye, old fellow. Keep up your cricketing." 
 
 "Write to me soon after you get to Cambridge, that's a 
 good fellow. Au revoir!" And so they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " Mr. Grant and his son will dine with us to-morrow, my dear," 
 observed Mr. Arlington to his wife shortly after Harry Fortescue's 
 visit. 
 
 At the appointed time father and son appeared, and in the latter, 
 Gerald recognised the unfortunate coxswain who had capsized the 
 boating party against Putney Bridge. A very lively, rattling young 
 gentleman he showed himself to be — with considerable mauvaise 
 honte in the presence of ladies, a certain vulgar assurance in his 
 manner to gentlemen, a delightful confidence In his own abilities 
 to perform whatever he desired, and a thorough good heart at the 
 bottom of it all. His father, Gerald's future employer, was a plain, 
 business-like man, who paid Mr. Arlington a good deal of deference, 
 but held his own ground with sufficient self-respect: a sincere, 
 solid Englishman, who might have been dull enough in a country-
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 47 
 
 town, but having been for thirty years a ship-broker in London, 
 was a shrewd and rather quick-witted observer of men and things 
 in general. 
 
 Gerald was determined to take an interest in the conversation, 
 and as it would be difficult to say in what his susceptible nature 
 and lively imagination would not have taken an interest, it is not to 
 be wondered at that under the skilful guidance of his father, the 
 talk that night opened up to him rather an enchanting view of all 
 the great and stirring interests connected with the port of London 
 and "City" affairs generally, so that he retired to rest actually 
 anxious to plunge into the vortex, and bear his part among the busy 
 workers and schemers of that wonderful world. 
 
 Hence when the time came, and instead of being seated in the 
 lecture rooms of his beloved college, he was perched on a high 
 stool, in a large counting-house, full of clerks, and continually 
 enlivened by the presence of bluff old sea-dogs fresh from the 
 Baltic or Canada, or found himself traversing docks crowded with 
 shipping, or hurrying through the long corridors of the huge 
 custom-house, the whole thing was so new, and for a time so 
 exciting, that he wondered at the intense reluctance with which he 
 had received his father's proposals. 
 
 There is an irresistible charm, for most young men, in action of 
 any kind, especially at first beholding and taking part in the 
 practical business by which the outer life of mankind is carried on. 
 And to have something actually to do with welcoming vessels home 
 that had really been " battling with the breeze," on the briny 
 ocean, to be conducting their actual commanders through the 
 mazes of the custom-house, finding real ships to suit real merchants, 
 and then starting ships, cargo, and crews fairly off to far distant 
 shores, this, after all, was work worth doing, and life seemed to 
 rise in dignity and value as the weeks sped swiftly away. The only 
 drawbacks were, first, the difficulty of fixing his attention on 
 matters of detail, whether at the desk or elsewhere, so as to avoid 
 continual mistakes, and secondly (though this befell not for some 
 weeks or even months) to avert his longing thoughts from all the 
 subjects that had previously been gaining so deep a hold upon 
 him. Neddy Grant was a very good fellow and helped him on 
 with right good will, being well pleased to patronize the 
 merchant's son, and with self-complacent superiority "teach the 
 young idea, &c." But it was rather a bore to hear him every now 
 and then, chuckling, with that abominable laugh of his, over one's 
 blunders in the " Long Room," or at divers erasures in " Chattel 
 parties," and in the " Letter Book." And in quiet intervals,
 
 48 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 especially when taking up his books of an evening at home, or 
 when meeting some of his old college companions, poor Gerry 
 after a time began to feel a passionate longing coming over him 
 for the forbidden fruit of student lore — an emotion not conducive 
 to steady harness-work in Leadenhall Street. But the ride up to 
 town on his favourite Gypsey, with the plunge into the whirl of 
 active business, each following day, and administering sly doses of 
 chaff occasionally, in his brighter moods, to the pretentious Xed, 
 for a time dissipated these vapours. So that Mr. Arlington spoke 
 with grave happiness of their boy to his wife and her sister, and 
 confidently looked forward to his running an illustrious City career. 
 
 But the social and political state of England at that time was 
 very dismal. Nothing but the splendid patriotism and determina- 
 tion of the Whig nobility and of the middle classes, the merchants, 
 and bankers of London, of the manufacturers of Birmingham, and 
 of the cotton lords of the north could have averted a catastrophe. 
 But while the skilled working classes saw these wealthy men thus 
 stand to their guns, they bided patiently the issue, and England 
 was saved from the horrors of tumult and bloodshedding, such as 
 had been recently experienced across the channel. The agricultural 
 labourers, however, poor fellows, were not so well able to sec 
 things in a hopeful point of view, and wrote the history of their 
 wrongs in terrible flame letters against the winter sky, under the 
 instructions of Captain " Swing." Gerald read Carlyle on " the 
 Signs of the Times" — pondered over the mournful wail uttered forth 
 in the memorable " Characteristics," and moaned in secret as he 
 thought that he was utterly losing the precious time of preparation 
 for bearing a worthy part in helping to save and exalt his un- 
 happy country. 
 
 Had the world been moving on harmoniously elsewhere, he felt 
 he could work on cheerfully, even among clerks and captains, bills 
 of lading and " light dues." But if "the times were out of joint" — 
 if wicked selfishness, dishonesty, and greed were everywhere under- 
 mining or openly overthrowing the edifice of social freedom and 
 happiness, if even his father's stout heart was losing its calm trustful 
 cheerfulness, was he doing right in grinding away in his narrow 
 mill ? 
 
 Occasionally a letter from Cambridge was Hung on his desk, and 
 swept him away at once into another world. For instance : — 
 "Cambridge, Caius Coll., 
 
 "Jan. 50, 183a, 
 '• My dear old fellow, 
 
 " What do you think about it ? All going on as well
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 49 
 
 as can be expected ? Your last was a model description of 
 yourself in a ' condition,' i.e., in a state of industrious cheerfulness 
 and dutiful devotedness. You'll be canonized some day, Gerald, 
 to a dead certainty, under the title of St. Leadenhall Street. 
 But hang it, man, don't groan over badly-baked pies in which 
 you have had, and were meant to have, no finger. There are 
 lots of troubles in the world, no doubt, but we are not the 
 Almighty, and I believe aren't responsible, nor are we competent, 
 it seems to me, to set them right. Work on like a trump, as you 
 are, Gerry, and your flag'll wave over the breach in no time. 
 (I've been reading Napier's ' Peninsular War,' and have half 
 resolved to cut the Church, and if my guardian obstinately refuses 
 to buy me a commission, I'll enlist as a private in the Dragoons — 
 Coleridge did, didn't he ?) No, I'm not come to that yet. But 
 I do believe in war. Still I know the finest fighting is against 
 invisible foes, and there's no grander work of that kind to be 
 done, I daresay, than by a true minister of Christ — only — oh 
 well ! I needn't bore you with moral reflections. I like Cambridge 
 a vast deal better than I did. I've got into a pleasant set, not 
 too rowing,* but far from slow — several Rugby fellows. And 
 what do you think ? Alfred Featherstone came up the end of 
 last term — wheedled his governor into it on pretence of getting 
 my sage advice and admirable example. But, by George, he's 
 a rum colt to lunge ! He fancies every morning he is going 
 to reform, and discovers every night that the flesh and the devil 
 have got too tight a grip on him. Respectable dad's money is 
 flying about like grape-shot among a storming party, and doing 
 about as much good. What do you advise, sedate and virtuous 
 Gerry ? What wretched beasts young men are compared with 
 their sisters .... and then I went to bed, for it was past 
 one p.m., and I keep morning chapel pretty well. You'll want 
 to know if I'm reading. I am — slightly. Are you ? Or do you 
 find sufficient to interest you in your 'Charter-parties' and 
 toddling about the docks ? I generally get breakfast over by 
 nine, having had a walk in these magnificent Trinity or St. John's 
 Gardens before breakfast. Then read, partly light and partly 
 heavy, till two p.m. Then boating, or walking, or riding. Not 
 much of the last. Costs a devilish lot, that fun. Then dinner 
 in Hall at four. Have some one to wine with me afterwards, 
 or go off with somebody. Then chess, or a novel, history, 
 &c, or a supper party, and about twelve to bed. Ton my 
 
 * Cambridge term for "rowdy."
 
 50 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 honour, Gerry, a man might do worse. The luxury of the thing- 
 is such a lot of plucky fellows — always some lark going on, if 
 you want a lark ; and if not. any or everything else a fellow 
 can possibly ask for under the sun. Then the Union debatings 
 are immensely good fun, and I mean to start as an orator 
 myself some day. The boatings seemed poor enough at first 
 after the Thames — but, by Jove! these fellows would bring gin 
 out of a jack-boot. They make the grandest fun out of their 
 wretched little ditch you can imagine, and make you put your 
 soul (and body) into everything you take up, from an after- 
 dinner chat up to reading for honours, or pulling stroke in the 
 University barge. Life — life — tip-top life ! is the word up here. 
 Plenty that's vile and nasty, but a wonderful deal that's game to 
 the back-bone, and in the best sense too. I've met with some 
 capital fellows, and we're as thick as thieves, but Gerry, my Gerry, 
 there isn't one or a dozen of 'em I wouldn't swop for the ship- 
 broker's clerk in Leadenhall Street. Will you ever come to see 
 me ? I stay up till the long vacation, and shall want to see you 
 very badly long before that. Been to Wimbledon since we parted, 
 eh ? By-bye, my dear old chap, and believe me ever (as well 
 as you can) yours sincerely, Harry Fortescue." 
 
 Gerald had kept this letter unopened till he had to go out, 
 which was not till the middle of the day, and so he read it 
 finally in the quiet and classic shades of Trinity Square, after 
 paying sundry dues to the dignified officials of the great Light- 
 House corporation hard by. Poor fellow! The letter gave him 
 some strange sensations, — a terrible longing for the wings of 
 a dove to flee to the classic shades of the Cam. He walked 
 round and round the square in a painful dreamy state, and 
 found himself at last opening the counting-house door in 
 Leadenhall Street, utterly lost in meditation. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Arlington," exclaimed Mr. Bramble, the head- 
 clerk, in a sharp, impatient voice, as he entered, " where arc 
 those receipts ? Mr. Grant has been asking for them twice. 
 You've been gone rather a long time." 
 
 Gerald clapped his hand to his pocket, but only found the 
 Cambridge letter — rummaged in every pocket — still no receipt.-. 
 The head-clerk's brow grew darker and darker. 
 
 " Mr. Grant wants to enclose them in a letter before h< 
 on 'Change." 
 
 "I must have left them at the Trinity House.'' murmured 
 Gerald, confusedly — "Til run back •"
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 5J 
 
 " Nonsense. You know it shuts at three. Are you sure you 
 paid the dues?" Gerald was no favourite with this worthy man. 
 His keen business instinct had scented out Gerald's weak points, 
 and he already prognosticated privately to his wife a gloomy 
 future for the young gentleman. " He'll not do, Mary — you may 
 depend upon it. But it's nothing to me." 
 
 Mr. Grant came out abruptly from his inner office. Poor Gerald 
 was hidden by the door. " Hasn't young Arlington brought these 
 Light receipts yet ?" he inquired, peremptorily. His looks were 
 directed by Mr. Bramble to the guilty party. " Perhaps I've 
 dropped them," quoth Gerald, in his confusion. " I'll go " 
 
 " Dropped them!" exclaimed Mr. Grant, sternly. 
 
 Search was made, but the letter had to go without the receipts 
 to Mr. Grant's great vexation, for the captain to whom they were 
 to be enclosed was to sail on a long voyage the next day. They 
 were duly found at the Corporation House on the counter, when 
 Gerald hurried there on the following morning, but of course, too 
 late to forward. Nevertheless, the misdemeanour would soon have 
 been forgotten by Mr. Grant, had it not been — only one of " a 
 developing series." 
 
 However, there was a new source of delight opening out upon 
 the young gentleman, and one which his father and mother rather 
 encouraged in reward for his endeavours to become a man of 
 business — viz., evening parties ; and though Mrs. Arlington generally 
 went to them with a heartache, thinking of the daughter in Heaven, 
 she rejoiced in her son's joy. He was in a state of wild but suppressed 
 excitement. At these routs and dances, fair young things went 
 floating about in muslin and pink, with their swan-like necks, and 
 innocent melting eyes, and ready laugh, and graceful steps till he was 
 dizzy with fantastical and poetical raptures. What with the music, 
 and lights, and flowers, and wine and late hours, added to all these 
 charming feminine phenomena, no wonder that so susceptible a 
 youth as Gerald found evening parties quite as interesting an exhibi- 
 tion of actual life as the captains, docks, and shipping — possibly 
 half as attractive even, for the .time being, as the College Lecture 
 Rooms. Sometimes these parties were in London — sometimes 
 in the country. But whenever they occurred, Gerald felt lifted by 
 them into a fairy realm of existence. And no wonder. Those 
 bewitching young creatures looked at him with no less curiosity 
 and interest than he at them. To have danced and flirted with 
 Gerald Arlington was secretly, sometimes openly, admitted to have 
 been worth a whole evening of ordinary partners, llr seemed to 
 have the power of divining by intuition what would amuse, interest]
 
 52 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 sometimes charm them ; and while his delicate gallantry flattered 
 them, and his humour sometimes made them forget all propriety 
 and actually laugh aloud — ("Indeed we can't help it, mamma!" 
 was occasionally the reply to maternal remonstrances ; " he 
 will say such funny things !") — they often felt that he was really 
 interested in them, was treating them like reasonable beings with 
 souls, and not on the more usual Mahomedan principle as grown- 
 up babies. Then he talked about poetry and novels " so deli- 
 ciously," and sang "with such fascinating sweetness and feeling ! " 
 In short, with the fair sex he was universally popular. To Gerald 
 himself the society of women was always delightful. But his 
 imagination filled any society with romance. Each evening party 
 brought new and charming mysteries to explore in the character 
 of his partners, and supplied all the materials of a thrilling 
 romance. Were not human beings, he reasoned, made for love 
 and sympathy ? — and happiness ? Was not every effort being 
 made on these occasions to provide happiness — pure and innocent 
 — and not for ten per cent, or dirty fees ? All disinterested kind- 
 ness ! Well, well, make what deductions you please, — smile as 
 you will, — for a long time Gerald felt there was something heavenly 
 about these dances and " routs," intensely wearisome and prosaic 
 as no doubt they often were to a considerable proportion of the 
 rest of the people present at them. 
 
 . . . . It is midnight — the witching hour when graves 
 yawn, and sheeted ghosts in gliding horror approach the appalled 
 spectator. Perhaps so. There might have been graves, and 
 ghosts and ghouls besides, in the world at that moment. There 
 were ghastly sights enough, no doubt, to be seen then, within a 
 few hundred yards of the house we are going to, especially if you 
 had rummaged about in some of the dens and alleys towards 
 Tottenham Court Road. But at William Featherstone's, Esq., 
 No. 195, Portland Place, there was little thought of anything of 
 that kind. Drawing-rooms and dining-rooms were brilliant with 
 wax lights ; rapturous dancing-music rushed and capered and 
 twinkled along like a stream of rubies and diamonds : gay and 
 many-coloured groups jostled and undulated about in all directions ; 
 smiles anil flirting and glad recognitions, scandalous gossip and 
 witty jousts, amiable small talk, and a few conversations here and 
 there in hushed whispers, which sent the blood mantling to the 
 cheek, or held it an instant in the heart till the lips grew pale ; 
 prosy old gentlemen fumbling over their hand at whist ; anxious 
 mammas and lively daughters wondering "if Mr. So-and-so knows
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 53 
 
 we are here." Ah, what a mad whirl a London ball-room must 
 seem to a philosopher ! But what business had a philosopher to 
 be there ? 
 
 A group of gentlemen stood near the door of the card-room. 
 
 "Will the king give Lord Grey carte blanche ?" said one. 
 
 " What ! to make peers ? God forbid ! " answered another. 
 
 " If not, the country is lost," remarked a third, taking a quiet 
 pinch of snuff. 
 
 "England will have seen her best days if he does," returned 
 the first. 
 
 " I believe that she is in more serious danger from ;" but she 
 
 never heard from what, for the speaker was interrupted by a huge 
 silver waiter bearing ices, and the music and dancing flowed on 
 swiftly and sweetly as ever. 
 
 A thoughtful-looking, handsome young man, with wavy brown 
 hair, not tall of stature but of rather distingue appearance, 
 yet evidently more full of life and enthusiasm than was usual 
 with young aristocrats of the day, was seated on the landing amid 
 myrtles and camellias beside a very pale maiden, in whom you could 
 notice nothing but her eyes and perhaps her hair — at least, if she 
 chanced to look at you, for both were too striking to allow of other 
 observations. But she had got an awkward trick of looking on the 
 ground when in company, probably to make up for the eager rest- 
 less freedom with which when she was alone those great dark eyes 
 rolled about in all directions, but especially towards the pictures. 
 "Is it our friend, Miss Leila Featherstone ; and can that be young 
 Mr. Arlington ?" enquired critical old ladies, peeping round a 
 corner. " Very improper, at all events," replied envious young ones, 
 glancing furtively as they brushed by. "What can they be talking 
 about ?" He is remarkably eager and animated — she is certainly 
 interested in what he says, but in a very quiet way. 
 
 " Oh, do read it," pleaded the youth with fervent excitement, 
 fully believing the myrtles were nearly impervious to human eyes. 
 
 " Mamma does not like my reading novels," sighed the maiden, 
 wholly unconscious of any eyes at all. 
 
 " But this is not like an ordinary novel. It is a picture of a life, 
 a grand, noble life, struggling on through all adversities, conse- 
 crated to the highest benevolence ;" a pause. 
 
 " What did you say it was called ?" 
 
 " ' The Disowned ' — by a man of the name of Bulwer. He wrote 
 ' Pelham' — very clever — but I don't recommend that." 
 
 " Have you read any of Schiller's works ?" 
 
 " No — but I long to read them all. Have you ?"
 
 54 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " I am reading Wallenstein," 
 
 " Do you like it ?" Then the dark eyes rose and beamed in upon 
 Gerald, as she answered earnestly with something of a sigh — 
 
 " Ah ! that is worth reading." 
 
 Adelaide Fcatherstone came sweeping grandly past on the arm of 
 a superb-looking cavalier, and scanning sharply the couple among 
 the myrtles, she exclaimed imperiously — 
 
 " What, Leila ! — don't you know you're engaged three or four 
 deep ?" Then stooping a little, she added, "Young ladies at their 
 own house should try and be useful, not sit gossiping in a corner." 
 Poor Leila started up, and, with a faint attempt at an excuse, 
 hurried away. Gerald rose mechanically, felt disconcerted, could 
 have sat down again and been sentimental, but three London 
 University men came lolloping along from the refreshment-room, 
 "talking to keep their courage up," and extremely glad to pounce 
 upon Gerald as a less difficult subject to deal with than " all those 
 girls." 
 
 "Why, Arlington, we haven't seen you for an age !" 
 
 "Stowed away in some greasy hole in the City, aren't you?" 
 
 " We've got some slap-up speakers in the Debating Society now, 
 old fellow. Can't you turn in some Wednesday night ? You 
 don't go humbugging about the docks by candle-light, I suppose?" 
 Gerald recognized the second speaker by his highly saturnine 
 visage as Bob Nicholson — the other two had been his class-mates 
 also. At this moment Alfred Featherstone, who was in all his glory 
 that night, and had run up from Cambridge on purpose to grace the 
 ball, came cheerily up, looking gayer and handsomer than ever, his 
 flushed face and sparkling eyes betraying a little over-excitement, 
 perhaps, which might have been safely dispensed with. 
 
 " Here we are ! Teddy Grant, too, I declare ! all except the 
 hero ! But we'll drink his health, I vow. I say, Teddy, fish out 
 Pierce and Hackett, and come along; you are sure to find 'em 
 hunting in couples." 
 
 " More likely at the feeding trough," remarked Nicholson, with 
 his amiable smile. Down they all went, however, to the supper- 
 room, which was being vacated by the ladies, and drank Harry 
 Fortescuc's health with more hilarious honours than would be 
 relished at the present day. Then they talked eagerly over the 
 diversions in which they had severally indulged according to their 
 opportunities during the past winter, and tried to plan " some 
 spree" for the following day, as they had happened all to meet 
 again. Nicholson and Gerald, however, for very different reasons 
 declined to join. The one would enjoy everything, and the other
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 55 
 
 nothing; but Gerald was in captivity, and Bob lived in a tub. 
 Soon the music broke out again more merrily than ever, while 
 three drunken dustmen (who had been duly enjoying the public- 
 houses provided for them by the Licensing Justices) reeled past 
 under the windows, and swore it was "a shame there should 
 be so many blasted rich people in the world, kicking up such 
 a h — 11 of a row at that time of night;" and their wives sat 
 watching and trembling for them at home, till the rollicking 
 three flung open the respective doors of their miserable rooms, 
 and then it would, doubtless, have stopped the music and dancing 
 in Portland Place, for a minute or two, if the crying and cursing 
 that followed could have been heard among that elegant crowd. 
 
 At length the carriages rolled up to the door, and carefully 
 cloaked and shawled, deferentially or tenderly waited on, the 
 fair young damsels, chaperoned by their mammas and papas, 
 were handed to these equipages, and swiftly borne away to lay 
 their tired innocence to rest in sheltering, happy homes. 
 
 The young gentlemen departed in twos and threes, some of 
 them disdainful of cabs so fine a night ; and gin-primed castaways 
 lay in wait for them at corners ; and Peel's " New Police" stalked 
 solemnly along ; and a dozen wretches as usual huddled together 
 for warmth under the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, and two of 
 them, new comers, half asleep, kept a drowsy eye open for an 
 hour or two for the chance of seeing somebody "a-pitching of 
 theirselves" over the parapet, "looking for damp lodgings, my 
 girl!" But that night they were disappointed, and fretfully 
 enough complained " ihere was no games going on now-a-days, 
 
 things were grown d n slow," and that " some of us had been 
 
 done brown — that's all." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 About five o'clock the following day the two Miss Feathcrstones 
 were languidly reclining, half asleep, by the drawing-room fire. The 
 shadows were falling fast through the February London fog. It 
 was the hour when the thoughts of young ladies (and young gentle- 
 men, too, if they have the chance) wander back with a soft and 
 pensive longing to the memories of the ball of last night, and linger 
 with a tender interest upon the looks and words of the partners of
 
 56 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 their departed joy. No wonder if at such a season young ladies, too 
 weary to read, work, draw, or even to practise the last new song, 
 should just look in upon each other, that is, the more robust among 
 them, and talk over the fairy scenes of the previous night, and 
 compare their mutual charming experiences. The two Miss Grants 
 from Gower Street (Ned's sisters), pleasant, stylish girls, taking as 
 much after their high-bred mother as Ned did after his more 
 plebeian father ; and soon after a third young friend from Harley 
 Street (exceedingly pretty and a remarkable flirt) happened to call 
 in Portland Place, at the time aforesaid. 
 
 So they all gathered their delicately-sandalled feet, or fur-tipped 
 boots on the fender, and commenced an agreeable chat. It was a 
 great relief to them. They had felt a certain depression of spirits 
 during the day, consequent, perhaps, on dancing with charming 
 partners till three o'clock that morning, and to all of them life 
 seemed dull and slightly sorrowful. Papas and mammas, brothers 
 
 and sisters, were very good in their way, but . But what ? 
 
 Don't be ridiculous and pretend that these excellent and exemplary 
 young beings wanted to be always dancing with young gentlemen 
 not closely related to them. Oh, dear, no ! But sweet and pensive 
 memories are apt to intrude when the body is weary and the heart 
 is benevolent, and the shadows begin to fall at eventide. 
 
 "Adelaide, it was a great success," remarked the eldest Miss Grant. 
 " Adelaide, you were a great success," added the pretty young 
 flirt, Miss Rivers, " as, indeed, I may remark — lest nobody else 
 should remember to say so — I believe I was myself." 
 
 " Of course," assented the younger Miss Grant, "and you had 
 some very nice people there, besides ourselves." 
 
 " That Signor Abruzzi is a fine-looking patriot, isn't he ?"' quoth 
 Adelaide. 
 
 " Oh, do tell us all about him !" exclaimed Miss Rivers. " He is 
 perfectly enchanting." Then followed a short account by Miss 
 Featherstone of an Italian refugee, exiled for his noble devotedness 
 to his oppressed country — "a Count in reality, but prefers dropping 
 the title — may have to earn his livelihood by teaching." Miss 
 Rivers vowed she would learn Italian of him at once. 
 
 " Well, I think Robert Nicholson worth two dozen men who are 
 only good to look at," said Anne Grant (the elder). 
 Fanny Rivers. " Oh, what a confession ! " 
 
 Anne Grant. "Not at all. He is sarcastic, exceedingly ugly, 
 looks as if he never ate or laughed, except at his friends' expense; 
 and if one mayn't indulge a tender reminiscence of such a partner, 
 you might as well be "
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 57 
 
 Bessy Grant. " Married at once." Divers other young gentle- 
 men were praised or quizzed, till Anne Grant said — 
 
 "Talking of bores, did you notice Mr. Pierce and Hackett (I 
 always think of them as one person) trying to talk to their partners ? 
 That is always my evening's entertainment, if I happen to meet 
 them." 
 
 Adelaide. " No, no ; I didn't notice anything about them — horrid 
 creatures ! I can't think how Alfred can cultivate such betes noirs" 
 
 Then followed remarks on Miss So-and-so's absurd toilette, and 
 the rather forward behaviour of " that Miss Smith. Surely it was 
 time she had learned better, considering how long she has been in 
 the habit of going to parties." 
 
 "Ah, well!" sighed Bessy, "zve shall be old maids ourselves 
 some day, perhaps ! " 
 
 " I shan't !" ejaculated Fanny. Then a meditative silence. 
 
 Anne Grant. " Talking again of bores, as is my wont — woe to the 
 victim ! — I didn't see that extraordinary admirer of yours, Adelaide, 
 who was so desperately epris de vous the day we met him at Wimble- 
 don last July. Mr.— Mr. " 
 
 Adelaide. " Whom can you mean ?" 
 
 Leila (very quietly). " Mr. Fortescue." 
 
 Anne. That's the individual. How was it possible you could 
 have a dance and he not be there to make us sport ? Yet stay — I 
 feel a shuddering awe. He never stooped so low as to perform 
 a hop. Leila, my dear, you need not fix those indignant eyes 
 upon me. Please don't — they burn." 
 
 Leila (pathetically). "Miss Grant!" 
 
 Anne. "Well, dear, I won't, for your sweet sake, if you protect 
 him ; but [aside'] he is a bear, and, Addy love, one might do worse 
 than — lead him." 
 
 Adelaide (bridling up). " Let yonder little one reclaim and polish 
 such uncultivated swains. I'll none o' them. However, we did try, 
 merely out of that gratitude which will impel every Featherstone 
 down to the third generation to patronize him, — I say we did try, 
 didn't we, you silly little Lily, to get him up from Cambridge with 
 Alfred ?" 
 
 Fanny (softly and timidly). " Is Mr. Alfred returned to Cam- 
 bridge ?" 
 
 This was the question of the session for Bessy and Fanny. All 
 three visitors were dying to ask it from the first, but didn't dare. 
 At least so Miss Featherstone felt maliciously sure. But \ 
 ladies frequently fancy all their young friends must In- in love 
 with their handsome brothers.
 
 58 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Adelaide. "Yes, alas! gone back this morning. Ah me ! Papa, 
 only let him come up on that condition. He is to read so 
 hard ! " 
 
 Anne. " That would be an interesting sight" (pensive silence). 
 
 Leila (gazing unconsciously at her pretty little feet). " I think it is 
 rather suspicious that nobody has dared to mention the pleasantest 
 young gentleman in the room." 
 
 A burst of refined laughter, mingled with gentle purring groans 
 and ironical velvety cheers, the most discordant sounds in fact 
 which such sweet little ladylike mouths could emit, greeted this 
 rash observation. 
 
 Leila. " Of course, excepting our respective brothers." 
 
 " Name, name, name!" still resounded through the room. 
 
 Leila (much alarmed). "Oh, what have I done ? Forgive me ! 
 forgive." 
 
 " No, — no — no ! — Name ! " 
 
 Fanny (rising and kneeling before the culprit). " On my bended 
 knee, I pray thee speak. I've lost my heart " 
 
 Leila. " Tis Mr. Gerald Arlington." 
 
 Adelaide. " You goose !" 
 
 Bessy. "You duck! We all agree with you in our hearts." "I 
 know I do," thought Miss Grant, and perhaps Miss Rivers, to 
 themselves. 
 
 Fanny. " Well, I'll say this. That young man would never suit 
 my notions of domestic bliss — but — all my acquaintances say he's a 
 poet and a wit, and dreadfully fascinating when you don't look at him. 
 I fear I might become too much interested in him if I could only 
 hear, not see him — indeed, I may hint that I am acquainted with 
 several unhappy girls in that predicament. Well ! I say I might 
 care a little about him were any great misfortune to befall me, so 
 that I were to become serious and poetical, and given to moonlight 
 dreams. Further than that I cannot at present go." 
 
 Bessy. " Rather too elaborate a confession, my dear. Neverthe- 
 less, you have expressed the general sentiment, Fanny, with great 
 correctness. He is dangerous and delightful, though, perhaps, a 
 trifle insignificant to the outward view. I think he had better 
 emigrate." 
 
 Rap-a-rap-tap at the front door. 
 
 Omnes. " Oh, how delightful ! There's somebody else !" 
 
 Enter Miss Shirley (highly aristocratic and superior young lady 
 from Berkeley Square, not quite so young as three or four years 
 ago). 
 
 Adelaide. How kind of you ! We shall be so much the better.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 59 
 
 The gossip was growing scandalous. Pray, be seated. You know 
 Miss Rivers — the Miss Grants — ourselves." 
 
 Miss Shirley. " Your circle forms the pleasantest spectacle I have 
 witnessed since last night, Adelaide. You all look so cheerful, my 
 dears, doubtless because you've been doing wrong. I went to our 
 parochial schools this morning, and, being virtuous, expected to be 
 happy. But I was not." 
 
 Fanny. " Tender memories !" 
 
 Miss Shirley. "It's too bad to make one acquainted for an hour 
 with charming people whom you haven't a chance of ever seeing 
 again. Well, my dear, who was the last victim ?" 
 
 Fanny. "That alarmingly fascinating being whom I heard 
 quoting Byron to you in the refreshment room — Mr. Arlington, the 
 poet." 
 
 Miss Shirley (clasping her hands tragically over her face). " Oh, 
 Fanny ! it is my fate !" 
 
 Fanny. " Don't — I am beginning to cry." 
 
 Miss Shirley (recovering her natural simplicity). " There ! of 
 folly, enough. If you have been maligning him " 
 
 Leila (timidly and imploringly). " You will defend him, dear 
 Miss Shirley, won't you?" 
 
 Miss Shirley. " I rather think I will. He was the most charming 
 partner (not engaged, by-the-bye, to any — — present — is he ?) 
 (looks round anxiously), yes, the pleasantest partner I've had, Lily, 
 for many a day — alack ! the men are so slow in general ; your 
 brother, Adelaide, of course, excepted." 
 
 Adelaide (half aside). "Humph! perhaps somebody might like 
 him as a partner for life." (General sensation.) 
 
 Fanny (sollo voce). " Slow to propose ?" 
 
 Miss Shirley, " Well, if Lilybell here, from more extensive 
 observation than mine, can generally recommend him, I am inclined 
 to say he is just the man." 
 
 Miss Grant (unconcernedly, merely as adding to the general 
 stock of information). " Do you know he not only quotes, but 
 writes such beautiful poetry ?" 
 
 Fanny. " Oh, yes. I guessed as much. But I've had heaps of 
 lovely verses from lots of my adorers." 
 
 Leila (tossing back her curls). "Ah, but you know he sings 
 cnchantingly, too, and makes one laugh — and laughs himself." 
 
 Miss Shirley. "I can bear witness that he has an alarmingly 
 sweet and musical voice, Lily, and when he whispers soft beautiful 
 dreams in one's ear — ah ! (sighs). Now, Fanny, just go on talking, 
 will you ?— as fast as you can — it's the pace that kills, as my brother
 
 60 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 remarks — I want to confess privately to Adelaide that I came on 
 purpose to learn all I could about that young man. You see, my 
 love (to Adelaide), it was rather an event in my life. I was talking 
 languidly to that great guardsman — what's his name — Captain 
 Sheldrake— dreadfully slow, of course — when I noticed just before 
 mc what seemed rather an ordinary young gentleman, with his back 
 towards me, when suddenly he turned and looked right at me — 
 stared, I should have said, concerning anybody else. And then, 
 Leila, I felt I was being blinded. His looks positively dazzled me. 
 He was just answering his companion with a half-playful smile, yet 
 in a half-sighing sort of way." (Suppressed titter from Fanny and 
 Bessy.) "Yes, you may laugh, little people, but I told you, you 
 were not to listen — never mind — it relieves your feelings, my dears, 
 to laugh — and mine to talk about it. For oh ! that smile, Adelaide 
 —I assure you I never saw its fellow ; yet I fear he's juvenile. Tell 
 mc quick, who is he ? What is he ? Where does he come from ? 
 You are sure he's not appropriated ? I'm glad we're in the dark." 
 (But Leila saw she was blushing.) 
 
 Adelaide (taking Miss Shirley's little hand caressingly). " My poor, 
 beautiful darling, and all of you dear - lovely ones, I compassionate 
 you from the depths of my heart. I couldn't speak before, you 
 were so deliriously candid and ridiculous. But I believe Mr. 
 Gerald Arlington is engaged." 
 
 More than one young heart round that cheery fire stopped for an 
 instant at this announcement, playful as had been their raillery, 
 then fluttered on painfully. After a brief pause Miss Shirley spoke 
 (with well-feigned coolness, but as Leila felt sure, with real 
 emotion). " Very well, then, I shall go in for a nunnery and old 
 maidenhood" (whispering Adelaide, but so that Grace could hear). 
 "You are right to tell us. Honestly, that man is the only one 
 I ever met worth caring about. What a pity he's such a mere 
 boy." 
 
 Fanny (seriously). " If he really is engaged, and won't emigrate, 
 then it is not safe to let him go about loose. He ought to be tied 
 up. But " (to herself), " after all, Mr. Alfred for me." 
 
 Three or four faintly clapped their hands in would-be mis- 
 chievous glee, Bessie Grant exclaiming — 
 
 " Fiddle-de-dee ! you're as silly as three ! But— -you are caught, 
 too, Nanny." 
 
 " That is possible," replied Miss Grant, with mild dignity ; " but 
 if I sum up and give judgment, I venture to remark that from all I 
 see and hear of the young man in question, Gerald Arlington is an 
 individual whom no young lady with good taste could help being
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 6 1 
 
 charmed with — and — and " — (she exclaimed, as the derisive cheers 
 re-commenced) " and whom no girl need be ashamed of admiring." 
 (Cries of "Bravo!" "hear, hear!" "go on again!" &c, from all parts 
 of the circle.) But at this juncture Mrs. Featherstone entered, with a 
 stately smile of greeting, and thereupon the conclave soon broke up, 
 at once saddened and comforted, returning to their homes and rooms 
 to meditate on the "Vanity of Human Wishes." 
 
 "Who told you Mr. Gerald Arlington is engaged, Adelaide?" 
 inquired Leila that night as they were brushing their back hair. 
 
 " Oh, nobody in particular, my dear," replied her sister. " But, 
 you see, it's always best when young ladies are too much fascinated 
 to let them think the dangerous one is not to be had." 
 
 "Oh!" said Leila, rather shocked, but not unused to such 
 replies. 
 
 " Besides," continued Adelaide, in a more exculpatory tone, 
 " I have heard it hinted at in several quarters. Why ? do you 
 suffer?" 
 
 " By no means," responded Leila, calmly, her thoughts wandering 
 dreamily to the banks of the Cam, and picturing sometimes her 
 darling brother, sometimes that brother's preserver. But they came 
 back to Miss Shirley, of whom she thought, with a tender and 
 reverent compassion somewhat resembling that she felt for Ellen 
 Fortescue, and sighing, she fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 As good (or ill) luck would have it, soon after the entertainment 
 described in the last chapter, Gerry was invited to dine at Mr. 
 Grant's ; that gentleman, be it remembered, residing in Gower 
 Street. It was a pleasant, sensible family circle, quiet enough, 
 but for the enlivening power of Master Ned, who being up to 
 everything, and knowing a great deal more than everybody else, 
 prevented any specially discreditable amount of ignorance or 
 dulness accumulating in the social circles, whether domestic or 
 general, wherein he moved. His two amiable and sprightly sisters 
 felt a friendly interest in him, which perhaps blinded them some- 
 what to his infirmities, though occasionally, it must be confessed, 
 they laughed at, as well as with him. Mrs Grant, fortunately, pos- 
 sessed a high opinion of his moral and intellectual qualities, while
 
 bZ GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOC 1 OR. 
 
 two or three little brothers and sisters loved him heartily and believed 
 in him entirely. 
 
 There was purposely no company, that all parties might become 
 better acquainted. Gerald had been highly entertaining at dinner- 
 time, and when the ladies had retired to the drawing room, their 
 conversation naturally turned on the agreeable qualities of their 
 father's guest and clerk. But, downstairs, alas ! Mr. Grant was 
 unconsciously overtaken in his usual nap. Gerry had been 
 lidgetting restlessly on his chair, refusing the wine Xed pressed 
 upon him, when he suddenly observed, in an under-tone, "Do 
 you know, Ned, this is Wednesday evening ?" 
 
 " Well," responded the sagacious Ned, " I didn't urge the con- 
 trary." 
 
 " And it's the University Debating Society's night," continued 
 Gerry; "did you ever go there ?" 
 
 " I should just think I have, too ; Freddy Featherstone took me 
 once. But they're a sad set of muffs, you know." 
 
 " Are you inclined just to look in for a minute before tea? I can 
 introduce you." 
 
 " Like it of all things, my boy ; come along." 
 
 Fatal enjoyment for poor foolish Gerry ! The old college mania 
 came rushing over him — sweeping all before it, as he entered the 
 well-remembered hall, and first right-hand lecture-room. He saw 
 the room crowded with eager, animated youthful faces, and received 
 sundry nods of recognition, and silent shakes of the hand, and 
 listened to the masterly, albeit juvenile efforts of the leading 
 speakers. It was a debate on Lord (then Mr.) Grey's Reform Bill 
 of 1808. Speaker after speaker drew forth his stores of historical 
 and constitutional lore. Patriotic sentiments, classical allusions, 
 impetuous appeals, stirred up thrilling memories or made answering 
 echoes in other hearts besides Gerald's. It was a period of intense 
 political excitement — such as had hardly been known since the day 
 when France had once before shaken Europe from centre to cir- 
 cumference. And it was excitement of the same wild, hopeful kind. 
 The ardent dreamers of glorious visions, filled with all the brightest 
 scenes and forms that Liberty and Philanthropy can jointly gene- 
 rate, had not then seen the end of Louis Philippe. They only 
 knew that once again in the history of Despotism there were mag- 
 nificent opportunities opening up for brave hearts to win their 
 country's freedom and right the wrongs of their oppressed brothers 
 — and earn deathless fame for themselves. Education was one o\ 
 the great watch-words oi' the day. The foremost men in every rank 
 of the educated classes, who had long been eminent in various ways
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 03 
 
 for the promotion of all liberal measures and reforms, members of 
 the peerage and the House of Commons — barristers, merchants, 
 solicitors, and physicians, men high in science, literature, politics, 
 and art, had come forward, under the leadership of Henry Brougham, 
 to establish "The University of London," as a nursery for the 
 aspiring youths who, untrammelled by "Thirty-nine Articles," were 
 to lead the van of Progress and Reform when their noble sires 
 should be gathered to their rest. Hence, in the class-rooms of that 
 classic building, whither Gerald and his companion had turned their 
 steps that night, but especially in the Debating Society, were 
 gathered the sons and brothers of many whose names were then 
 resounding or beginning to be heard in the great roaring world of 
 London, in St. Stephen's, in reviews, in the daily press, and through 
 the country at large. Fired with an enthusiasm, and filled with prin- 
 ciples or sentiments of the truest patriotism or the most dema- 
 goguish licence, which they caught up in the family circle, or in 
 the gallery of the House of Commons, in the leaders of the 
 Morning Chronicle or the last Westminster, the enthusiastic 
 young orators of Gower Street rose with the occasion, and 
 hurled their mimic thunderbolts, sported their biting sarcasms, 
 or urged their kindling appeals with an ardour, and sometimes 
 an eloquence, that gave bright promise of a noble future, if only 
 these evident gifts were to be consecrated to God and Duty by 
 a higher influence. Gerald was fairly carried away in a tide of 
 rapturous — cynics would say, ridiculous — enthusiasm, and was 
 only roused from dreams, too exquisitely delightful to last, by a 
 rather squeaking voice in his ear: "I say, Grunting Bob came 
 out strong then, didn't he ? but tea'll be waiting." Then — plum}) 
 down poor Gerald fell— a thousand fathoms deep. No chance 
 of rising again to the surface. The illusions of happiness that 
 had at first gilded his entrance on City life had for some time 
 been gradually melting away. This transient glimpse into the 
 Paradisiacal world, wherein he had before been revelling, brought 
 before him, with vivid colouring, all that he was now cut off from — 
 all for which he hoped to live — and he returned to Mr. Grant's in 
 rather a different frame of mind from that in which he had left 
 it. The ladies were looking somewhat eagerly for his return, 
 but found him, though still interesting, decidedly dull. Bi 
 even went the length of wondering what had made him become 
 so stupid. No great need for wonder, however, for he went 
 back to business the next morning with a very heavy heart. 
 Don't laugh till you've tried it. 
 
 Had you been coming over Tower Hill the following d.\y aboitl
 
 ')+ GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 one p.m., you might have met a young man hastening down to 
 the .St. Katherine Docks with the last bills of lading for the 
 skipper of a fine teak-built East Indiaman, just clearing out for 
 Bombay. And it is very likely you would have noticed him. For 
 is he not evidently a handsome young shipbroker's clerk, or 
 something of that genus, in haste ? True ; but as he passes you 
 his step slackens. He is thinking much more deeply than is 
 usual with shipbrokers' clerks, and which he had clearly no 
 business to do, just then. Why, he is actually standing still, 
 gazing at the towers of the Tower, and now even at the light 
 white clouds in the blue sky above the river. Is the fellow mad ? 
 See, his fist clenches, his brow is knit. He remains stationary 
 full fwe minutes. What portentous resolve is he making ? See, 
 he dashes his heel on the ground, very like Rumple-stilt-skin, 
 and again hurries on (for the teak-built Indiaman, if kept waiting, 
 might be easily provoked to swear). But his brow is cleared now ; 
 and if you could compare him with the rather soft looking, dreamy 
 youth, who sat but lately among the myrtles at a certain ball, 
 you would say it is that same youth suddenly grown into a man, — 
 strong now (he thinks) in brave resolution, lofty hope, and purpose 
 of self-denying enterprise. 
 
 " Alas, this is sad gammon," remarks Mr. Charter-Party Ledger. 
 Ah ! so it may be, Mr. Ledger. Let us hurry on. 
 
 It is only the shipping clerk of Messrs. Grant & Co., remem- 
 bering what his friend Fortescue had lately said about working 
 over-hours, and — resolving to work. 
 
 Work at what? At "bills of lading" and "charter-parties," 
 "manifests," and "clearing out" documents, at arithmetic and 
 book-keeping ? We rather think not. Night after night the ship- 
 broker's clerk began poring over Hallam's " Constitutional History 
 of England," Demosthenes' " Ilgft tou <rrs(pa.vov" and Locke on 
 " The Understanding." He had never quite thrown such books 
 aside, but now he took to the old game again in earnest. " This 
 will answer better," said he to himself, "than going on with 
 my dramatic romance." And he stuck to his resolution pretty 
 closely. But every now and then a passionate fit of inspiration 
 seized him, and the beloved romance was drawn from its hiding- 
 place, and he worked away at it till far into the small hours. 
 Especially was he liable to be thus overcome on bright moonlight 
 nights, when he would wander about with a pocket Byron, and 
 fleet far beyond not the " flammantia mcenia mundi,*' but the dull 
 foggy bounds that usually hemmed him in till he was weary and 
 sick of them even unto death — the death of his soul.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 65 
 
 "Poor simpleton!" said Mr. Bramble to his wife, after this 
 course of proceeding had brought certain results, "what on earth 
 could make him fancy he would be able to read such stuff as 
 that at night, after running about like a dog in a fair all day, 
 from Leadenhall Street to the Custom House, with a raid into the 
 docks, and back again to Leadenhall Street, then work at his desk, 
 and then, perhaps, on 'Change with his master, or ' Ned, the 
 Knowing?'" There were many shipping clerks, not a few 
 captains and sailors, crimps, wharfingers, Jews, and emigrants, 
 passing and repassing over Tower Hill every day, not one of them 
 thinking about Hallam, Demosthenes, or the " Human Under- 
 standing." Why could he not be as sensible and practical as 
 they? "Conceited young whipper-snapper!" Mr. Charter-party 
 Ledger again exclaims. Well, when we see what came of his 
 resolutions, both Mr. Bramble and Mr. Ledger will open their 
 eyes wider still. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 [LEILA FEATHERSTONF, TO HER BROTHER ALFRED.] 
 
 Neville Court, March 15th, 1S32. 
 
 Dear bo1t Fred, 
 
 You gave me leave to write. Nay, you actually condescended 
 to urge me to send you a detailed scrawl, concerning this my first 
 flight from the parental nest. So I sit me down to make a journal. 
 Isn't it gran d ? Ah c m ! 
 
 Wednesday, 13th. — Arrived in this charming abode about one 
 p.m. — brought by their carriage. Met on the doorstep by these 
 dear, darling, venerable ladies. [They were certainly more than 
 thirty years of age.] Oh, Freddy, they are so nice. But I 
 know they must think me horribly shy and stupid. I do feel so 
 awkward with them. I felt most at ease, that is, just at first, with 
 the comfortable old housekeeper, who is such a grand lady. But 
 I'll just give you a sketch of yesterday's proceedings, or you'll say 
 " Bother the little minx, why don't she get on with her twaddle," 
 which, however, would be very vulgar, if you did. 
 
 Well then: March 14. — Late breakfast; roamed about these 
 beautiful grounds for an hour before Miss Fortescue appeared. 
 But Miss Tylney, I think, had been up a long time. About eleven 
 
 E
 
 66 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 p.m., says Miss Fortescue to your excellent little sister, " Shall we 
 take a walk, Lilybell ? I want to call upon a poor woman. You 
 don't mind seeing sick folk, do you ?" I answered heartily enough 
 that I should like such an expedition with her, of all things; that I 
 visited some poor people regularly when I was at home, &c. " Is 
 it Mrs. Shalford ?" enquired Miss Tylney. "Yes," was the answer. 
 " Since you were last there, she has been much worse, and now I 
 am afraid she is dying." 
 
 Now, Freddy, good night. 
 
 March 16. — So, soon after, we sallied forth. The cottage was 
 pleasantly situated at the edge of a common. Three children 
 were just coming home from school, and their father, who worked 
 for a wheelwright close by, came from the yard when he saw us 
 approaching. 
 
 " Good morning, Robert," said Miss Fortescue, in a kindly voice, 
 which I thought it did the man good to hear. " Is your wife a little 
 easier to-day?" 
 
 The poor man only shook his head, and, drawing his coat sleeve 
 across his eyes, would not trust himself to speak, but stood holding 
 open the garden gate respectfully for us to pass through. We went 
 upstairs, and found the sufferer in bed, very weak, but grateful, she 
 said, " for all her mercies, and not least for the comfort this dear 
 young lady has been to me and the poor children." Ellen read to 
 her, as usual, a chapter or two from the old Book, which you know, 
 Freddy, for all you say, has been comforting some besides her for 
 many hundred years; and then Ellen knelt down and offered up a 
 prayer, which the dying woman said seemed to carry her in the 
 spirit right up to the very throne of God. I thought so too, and 
 that it seemed to leave one kneeling there in grateful, adoring love, 
 and indeed it filled one with such a blessed sense of divine forgive- 
 ness and protecting mercy, that when we rose and looked on her 
 wan, yet flushed face and brilliant eyes, I didn't wonder — something 
 of the glory of Heaven seemed reflected there. But you'll call me 
 an enthusiast or visionary, or something of that sort. Never mind, 
 dear, I don't care a button about anythingjw* call me, provided, as 
 Billy, the garden boy, once remarked, "You don't call me too late 
 for dinner !" 
 
 " Ah, there is Jessy," said Miss Fortescue soon after, as she put 
 out her hand to a very pretty, sweet-looking child about twelve 
 years of age. ■ " I was afraid you were not with us." 
 
 " She's been across the common," feebly explained Mrs. Shalford, 
 " to get me a little book I fancied I should like to see again, as a 
 neighbour once lent me. Jessy would go anywhere, day or night,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 67 
 
 for mother," she added, looking in the girl's face with a faint smile, 
 and drawing her affectionately towards her. Poor Jessy's heart, I 
 think, was very full, but our presence helped her to command 
 herself, and her face brightened up when Ellen observed, " Well, 
 she seems to be a famous little housekeeper. Both cottage and 
 children all look so nice and clean and tidy." 
 
 "Ah, ma'am," whispered her mother, at the same time making a 
 sign to the children to leave the room. " But what will become of 
 her when I'm gone ? It's a hard thing for a poor lamb like her to 
 be left so young. Eh, sure, Miss," turning to Ellen, " you may 
 think you know what it is, but 'deed and it's a sore different thing 
 for a poor girl or a rich one to lose their mother. Yet it's a crying 
 matter I know both for one and t'other ;" and the tears would come. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Shalford!" said Ellen, softly, "Jessy shall not want 
 a friend while I can be one to her. By-and-bye I daresay we can 
 take her into service at Neville Court." 
 
 " God in heaven bless you, Miss ! You see the little ones won't 
 miss me like as this un'll do, and father may chance marry again 
 by-and-bye. There's no saying. Many on 'em do. For all we've 
 been true and loving man and wife fifteen year, maybe he'll get 
 one as 'ull take care of the little ones. But second mothers don't 
 suit so well like with the elder — ah ! well-a-day (trying to keep 
 down a sob) if it had pleased God to spare me a little longer — but 
 there, there — may He help me to say His blessed will be done!" 
 Then I can't remember what came next, end I daresay you don't 
 care ; but I recollect that, as we left the cottage, we met a fine 
 hearty-looking lad about fourteen, full of health and bashfulness, 
 whom Jessy welcomed with a kiss, and said, with a bewitching little 
 sisterly pride, — 
 
 " He's been all the way to Horsham, please you, Miss, for farmer 
 
 B and slept there last night. Arn't you tired, Bobby-boy — 
 
 come in. Your dinner's a-waiting." Bobby received an encourag- 
 ing shake of the hand from Ellen, and a sixpence to get a little 
 book to read from to mother. As we walked away, I asked if he 
 were Jessy's brother. " Oh no," she answered, " the lad is Mrs. 
 Shalford's nephew, and they took him to live with them, good souls 
 as they were, when his mother died, and the father went off with a 
 party of haymakers, four years ago." 
 
 What a deal of true generosity and self-sacrifice there is, Alfred, 
 among the poor— that is, the sober, honest poor. Well, wc went 
 on. Two or three other calls were made and some tracts ex- 
 changed. 
 
 But where are we coming to now ? thought I, as we neared a
 
 68 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 dirty cottage, and I said, rather thoughtlessly, "What a horrid 
 piece of business this looks like." 
 
 Ellen shook her head sorrowfully, and said, " I didn't mean to 
 have brought you here, but I believe we had better call," so she 
 knocked at the half-open door. 
 
 " Oh, don't come here, Miss," exclaimed a woman's shrill voice, 
 " this is no place for the likes of you, and that drunken brute a- 
 lying there, curse him, and never a bit has he brought home for 
 three weeks, and the childer half-starved and I a-working like a 
 slave !" 
 
 Somebod} 7 , who I suppose was the woman's husband, looked up 
 at us from the chair on which he sat huddled together, like a sack 
 of potatoes, with an expression, half-maudlin, half-fierce, and I 
 almost wished we hadn't come. Five or six poor little dirty things 
 clustered about us, timidly touching our gowns, and looking wist- 
 fully up in our faces. 
 
 " George," said Miss Fortescue (hushing the woman's tongue 
 with a silent appeal) "you've broken your promise." 
 
 " Aye ; I've been and done it," was the growling answer. 
 
 " But you mustn't use me like that, George. It's very unkind. 
 I'm not going to let you drop down to a drunkard's grave. You 
 are to become a sober, happy man." 
 
 " Devil a bit. What's the odds ?" 
 
 " Why, a great deal. It makes a great difference to all who care 
 for you." 
 
 " She doan't care for me — jaw — jaw — jawing away from morning 
 to night. Not a bit of peace wi' her." 
 
 " And who makes her jaw ? " said Nelly, with such firmness. 
 " Shouldn't you scold if you had a wife who went on as you do ? 
 Come, come, George, give up the drink — don't we all care for von ?" 
 
 " I b'lieve you docs. I'll see about it, my lady. Just get this 
 old 'ooman to mend her temper, and I'll be hanged if I doan't 
 mend my ways." 
 
 Gradually the soothing influence of Ellen's words and manner, I 
 suppose, had an effect upon the whole household. We helped the 
 poor woman " to set things to rights," made the most of what there 
 was in the cupboard, and put a saucepan on the fire to make a meal 
 for the whimpering children, with the help of Ellen's basket, and 
 in the meantime stopped their pitiful cries of " Mammy, a bit o' 
 bread" — by a few little biscuits. The man straightened himself 
 up, stumbled into a dark corner for a spade, and muttering some- 
 thing about, " No good going to brickyard to-day," walked with an 
 unsteady gait into a bit of potato ground, and began digging.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 69 
 
 " Ah ! " said his wife, wiping her eyes, and curtseying as we 
 left the cottage, " if I could only talk him over as you does, miss !" 
 
 "Be kind to him, Polly. It's no use scolding," said Ellen — 
 " You'll help most by loving and praying. Be patient, and with 
 God's help you may yet see him a good husband again." 
 
 " The Lord in Heaven grant it — for I'm nigh spent. But bless 
 you, dear soul, God in His goodness bless you, my lady, for all 
 you've done." 
 
 Well, that was very nice of her ; but do you know, Freddy, all 
 this made me feel so wild and wicked I wanted to begin whooping 
 like a Cherokee Indian, and dancing a war-dance ! Why is there 
 so much wickedness and misery in the world? One can't be 
 peaceful and good while others are so bad. But, oh dear! I'm sure 
 I'm as bad as any of them, at least in my heart. But this won't do. 
 
 As we wound our way towards Neville Court through a copse of 
 bright green larch, and down primrose -banked lanes where the 
 sunlight came glinting between stems and boughs, on to bright 
 grassy nooks and corners, I ventured to ask Miss Fortescue who 
 taught her how to deal so well with such cases as these. 
 
 " Next to the Great Teacher," she answered, "it was Harry, boy 
 Harry. He has such a kind, frank, fearless way with him. I saw 
 that these folks would let him say anything to them, and so I deter- 
 mined to take a hint." 
 
 Oh, I was so glad I had asked— for I know you like to hear 
 anything in Mr. Fortescue's praise. But I thought to myself, would 
 not our rector have said that she should have tried to awaken the 
 man's fear or love of God, and she only spoke of his having treated 
 her badly. So I managed to get this out also in my elegant way, 
 as you viciously call it. But I find I may talk to her almost as 
 frankly as I can with you, Fred. She answered — 
 
 "Well, Harry had been with me once to some of these places, 
 and when we were coming home he said, ' I don't fancy you can do 
 such a fellow as that (meaning William Stokes, who was quite as 
 bad as that brickmaker) much good by talking religion to him. 
 You must first make him feel a little gratitude and confidence 
 towards yourself, I think. You arc a great deal more real to him 
 than God is, or will be for many a day.' I confess I was a wee bit 
 shocked, but in thinking it over, Lily, I thought he was right — I 
 have since felt quite sure that he was.' 
 
 I answered that I believed so too. The higher love, I sup] 
 will follow. Do you know, Alfred, I think your friend Mr. 
 Fortescue will be a very useful man some day. 
 
 In the evening I heard Miss Fortescue and Miss Tylney dis-
 
 70 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 cussing your friend Mr. Arlington. Ellen was just a little laughing 
 and replying to her friend — " Perhaps, yes — I mean, love, that 
 his powers always seemed to me so disproportionate to his — 
 aims." 
 
 " In fact you thought there was a want of power — eh ?" 
 
 Ellen, I thought, evidently did hold that heretical opinion. 
 
 Then I heard Miss Tylney say, with a bit of a sigh, " Perhaps it 
 is so. But this I can say, that I doubt if a more thoroughly unselfish, 
 self-sacrificing nature ever breathed" (pause). 
 
 Now, there's a lot of important information for your instruction, 
 warning, and guidance, my dear. And now, my provoking, unsatis- 
 factory, yet too much-beloved fraternal relation, once more, good 
 night. 
 
 [Leila's journal continued next day with an account of how Miss 
 Fortescue had been attributing all her efforts to help the poor to 
 Miss Tylney, and what little power she had of dealing with them, 
 humanly speaking,] to that fine brother of hers, who must be a 
 first-rate hero, Freddy, Pm quite sure, and I strongly advise you to 
 cultivate him. You want a little more of the heroic in you, you 
 know, Fred, if you'll confess it. 
 
 Then came the long, delicious twilight, and the soft, sweet tones 
 of the piano, as Miss Tylney played bits from Beethoven, or impro- 
 vised; and Ellen's trilling notes occasionally rose on the evening 
 air till candles appeared, and then one of them read from the 
 " Gerusalemme Liberata," while the other and myself worked, till 
 the servants and head gardener, who live in the house, came in to 
 prayers. Then we all retired, and the hush of night came down 
 
 " On hall and bower and moon -lit tower," 
 
 and I leaned out of my bed-room window and thought I was surely 
 in Paradise. Oh, Freddy, may I confess to you what an exquisite 
 contrast the life here presents to that at home. Here, all is so 
 peaceful — there, all seems so unrestful ; here, all is kindness and 
 love — there, ah! so often we are jarring on each other's feelings, 
 crossing each other's purposes, striving after something or other, 
 or scolding somebody or other. I don't mean that you, brother 
 mine, are ever unkind to me; but I know I'm often naughty, and I 
 often feel irritable and cross, and lose my temper. There seems to 
 be so little to soothe, and heal, and to lift one's thoughts above the 
 weary, jangling world. Even religion seems harsh and hard at 
 Wimbledon. But fie, 1 mustn't talk so, even to you. I sadly 
 want, in reality, to be home again to teaze you, and to worn- 
 Adelaide, and defy papa ! (Mi, dear, what a terribly long, foolish
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 7 1 
 
 scrawl of a journal I've been writing for you. Won't you scold ? 
 Well, but it is not much crossed. Good-bye, darling Fred, and 
 ever love your own little 
 
 LlLYBELL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Gown ! Gown ! Town and Gown Row ! Hurrah for a shindy !" 
 exclaimed half-a-hundred athletic young gownsmen, as they rushed 
 one night from their various colleges up the King's Parade, in 
 Cambridge, along which there rolled a hoarse, confused murmur of 
 tumult and struggling wrath, swelling to a much fiercer roar as- you 
 approached the scene of conflict. By the light of the gas-lamp at 
 the corner of St. Mary's Passage, might be seen a huge crowd 
 swaying hither and thither, while furious blows were being freely 
 interchanged in all directions. Sometimes the tide of battle seemed 
 to be victoriously carried up the wide alley, which at that point 
 comes at a right angle into the street, and louder shouts of "Town 
 for ever !" proclaimed the temporary defeat of the gownsmen. 
 Great hulking fellows from the Cam side were laying about them 
 lustily ; and many a youth who had stood his ground with iron 
 resolution in the pugilistic ring at Eton, Harrow, or Rugby, found 
 it was a different thing to stand face to face with the savage 
 "bargees" of Cambridge when their blood was up. The under- 
 graduates were giving ground fast when they heard a lusty cheer 
 from somewhat finer-toned throats than had been dinning in their 
 ears for the last quarter of an hour : a reinforcement of collegians 
 appeared, charging down upon the infuriated democracy, and came 
 hurtling on through the dense mass with irresistible force. 
 
 " Hurrah ! Here's Fortescue and his lot," exclaimed a handsome 
 undergraduate, with one eye closed, and who, though evidently 
 getting blown, was still standing up manfully to the fray, our friend 
 Alfred Featherstone to wit. 
 
 " Is he ? by !" shouted a jolly old bargeman, " then he's 
 
 too late to help you, my hearty," and down went our handsome 
 friend at last on a door-step; while Fortescue and the rest of his 
 party, having got through to their friends, now turned and I 
 charging back again down the alley. Fortescue's height ami Length 
 of arm gave him a comfortable superiority in such a melt- , and his
 
 72 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 intense enjoyment of the whole thing kept his tongue going with 
 divers jests, illustrative of his good humour rather than his wit. 
 Whether he took or gave a blow, there was always a joke, and 
 brawny fellows, with grimy faces, staggered back or went down 
 (when there was room) before his huge fist, hardly knowing whether 
 he hadn't hit them by mistake. 
 
 " Come on, Featherstone !" cried Fortescue, as he worked his 
 way down the alley from the place where he first saw his friend 
 surrounded by bargemen ; but Featherstone was past hearing. 
 " Come along, old chap ! Here are four-and-twenty blackbirds — 
 (thump, thump) — and we'll bake them in a pie — (thump, thump, 
 thump). Hark! how the darlings — (thump and slight recoil, and 
 a blow on his own skull that made his teeth chatter) — now the pie 
 is opened — (thump, thump) — cracky ! how they sing ! Come on, 
 Freddy, boy ! — the little dog laughed — Freddy! — to see such sport! 
 Go it, ye cripples !" 
 
 But the bargemen's party were getting tired of the fun. This 
 new reinforcement of gownsmen, coming fresh to the encounter, 
 was too much even for their pluck, and as the Cantabs behind 
 rallied up, shouting wildly, " Down with the bargees ! Down with 
 the snobs! Gown for ever!" pressing vigorously upon their 
 amphibious opponents, the latter "executed a strategic move- 
 ment," and retreated sullenly, though unpursued. 
 
 Oh, the joy and madness of battle ! The mighty gladness of 
 strong, brave animal nature, feeling its power, exulting in its 
 strength and endurance of pain — Animal? Yes; but something 
 higher too. Self-forgetfulness, contempt of pain — not so much the 
 pleasure of mauling your opponent as of facing danger, defying 
 it, conquering that which would tread you down and debase you by 
 oppression. 
 
 Yet sorry work after all. Not very gentlemanly, nor exactly con- 
 formable with Christian morality. Bloody, brutal work at the best. 
 What was it all for ? Nobody could tell. How did it begin ? 
 Nobody knew. Ah ! this fighting wants a very good cause to white- 
 wash it. Too often the uppermost feeling becomes one of savage 
 hatred to your opponent, and a maddening thirst to crush him out 
 of existence. Fortescue escaped this diabolic stage of the com- 
 plaint by the genial good humour with which he took as well as 
 gave all that the fortune of war could inflict upon him. But it was 
 treading on the edge of a precipice. 
 
 "Where's Featherstone?" quoth Harry, as he sat down on the 
 pavement and leaned against a house front. 
 
 "Carried heme, as you'il have to be, old bov. Look here
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 73 
 
 Brazeby," said the speaker to another Caius man. " My ! what a 
 cut ! We must get the darling to the doctor's." 
 
 " Aye," returned the other, " he's a bit faint, I think. Feather- 
 stone's taken home as still as the shutter he lay upon." 
 
 "The deuce he is!" exclaimed Fortescue, springing up, but 
 soon sinking down again : "I must go and see after him, then !" 
 
 " Nonsense ! Featherstone's got plenty to see after him," cried 
 Brazeby, in a tone of immense vexation, as Fortescue tried to shake 
 off his friends, for they saw how pale he looked. " And here, I 
 swear, come the proctors and bull-dogs again ! We must lift you !" 
 
 " Go to the devil !" ejaculated Fortescue, as he wrenched himself 
 away from them, and, clapping a handkerchief to his bleeding 
 wound, set off at a round trot by a back way to Emmanuel, which 
 was Featherstone's College. The others took to their heels. 
 
 "In for it again!" quoth that fast young gentleman, as Harry 
 cautiously approached his bedside, " but not quite dead yet. But 
 it's all my own fault. I began the row. No matter. Never say 
 die. Hold up your tail, my doggy, and at 'em again." 
 
 "You're the boy for backing! old Freddy," responded Harry, in 
 a soothing voice, as the watcher sent by the doctor made indignant 
 demonstrations to him from behind the curtain, expressive of the 
 necessity of his either quieting Alfred or taking himself out of the 
 room. But Harry could tranquillize a patient like Alfred (and soon 
 did) better than fifty watchers or doctors to boot. Finding the 
 surgeon was expected to look in again about nine, he determined 
 to wait till he came, and sat down by the fire holding his aching 
 head in the easiest position discoverable. 
 
 The time went heavily on. Harry was in no mood for reading, 
 nor were the books in Alfred's library much to his liking. The 
 prints on the walls, moreover, were better suited to a low casino, 
 than to the taste of a man brought up by a father like Harry's. At 
 length he remembered a letter was in his pocket which he had 
 received that morning from Gerry Arlington, but which a boating 
 expedition had prevented his reading with much care. He pulled 
 it out and meditated on its contents. If anybody likes to read it 
 also, there is no particular objection to their doing so, though it 
 may be a waste of time. 
 
 [GERALD'S LETTER.] 
 
 " Ilarlhnd House, 1833. 
 " Well, my boy, how's the world wagging with you? Judging by 
 your epistolary statements, I opine that you are in the sixth heavens, 
 and it's an abominable shame if you don't think so. Oh ! my dear
 
 74 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Harry, what wouldn't I give to be in your shoes! The glimpse you 
 give of University life is enough to drive one mad, were there not 
 something higher and better still than having all things just as you 
 wish them to be. I can't imagine more perfect happiness in this 
 world of imperfections, for a time at least, than such a life as yours. 
 The only question is — what's to come of it all ? Can anything 
 worth having come out of such an extremely jolly way of passing one's 
 days ? You'll think I'm doing the good boy with a vengeance, but 
 I've had my eyes opened a bit this winter. And you helped me. 
 The shop won't do by itself. There's a terrible deal of gammon in 
 it. I remembered all you said about working out of office hours, 
 and I'm going at my work, as my father used to make me put my 
 pony at the leaping-bar — when he saw me in a horrible stew at the 
 prospect ! There's no good fiddle-faddling about it. I shall sink 
 into a mere slave of business in office hours (or perhaps a vile ' hog 
 of the Epicurean stye' out of them) if I don't work like a trump at 
 Greek and History in the night watches ; but it's no joke, Harry, 
 giving up all society just as you begin to understand its charms. 
 I'm glad I went to a few parties, because now I know what I'm 
 giving up. But I shouldn't mind that a button if I could only have 
 two or three of the best hours of the day for Hallam and Demosthenes, 
 et qiiibusdam aliis. But oh, Harry, it's hard climbing a mountain 
 with four or five stone on your back — hard to feel your mind all 
 snarp and clear of a morning when you have to bother about office 
 work, and all muddy and fagged at night when you sit down to the 
 work which alone can enable you to play well your part in the 
 great solemn drama of England's destinies. And then my physique 
 gives symptoms of objecting to this mode of" proceeding. No 
 matter. What man has done, man may do. I will work on and 
 conquer. 'J will!' What glorious words. Is not this a 6ne 
 sentence I met with lately? 'Distinguish with exactness in thyself 
 and others between wishes and will in the strictest sense. Who 
 has many wishes has generally but little will. Who has energy of 
 will has few diverging wishes. Whose will is bent with energy on 
 one must renounce the wishes for many things. Who cannot do 
 this is not stamped with the majesty of human nature. The energy 
 of choice, the unison of various powers, for one. is alone will, born 
 under the agonies of self-denial and renounced desii 
 
 " Heaven knows that's a doctrine I want preached to me. If 
 ever there was a wretch cursed with 'many diverging wishes,' 1 
 know where to find him. But I've bored you enough with my 
 
 * La-rater's "Aphorisms."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 75 
 
 troubles. I guess you had to crunch up one or two of that genus (I 
 mean impertinent wishes) when Featherstone came to town to their 
 ball in Portland Place. Didn't I honour your abstinence. But it 
 was an exquisitely delightful party, and — shall I torment you ? — ■ 
 Adelaide Featherstone looked magnificent. I don't quite know 
 what to make of her sister. She's dreadfully tantalizing. There 
 was a noble-looking girl there, of the name of Shirley, and I had 
 some very interesting talk with her. Ned Grant's sisters are nice 
 girls. Fanny Rivers, too, was there. She is a sweet little thing, 
 and dances beautifully. And then her smile, when she thanks you! 
 but I must think you as great a fool as myself to run on in this 
 style. However, I've given it all up, so try and respect me still. 
 I've been reading some more essays of Carlyle's, as I walk to and 
 from London. They are so splendid — one on Burns, in particular, 
 and another on the ' Signs of the Times.' Best of all, perhaps, 
 one called ' Characteristics.' You must read them — and especially 
 some things by a Dr. Channing, of America. It is such noble 
 writing! There are three essays I would specially recommend, on 
 Napoleon, Milton, and Fenelon. Now it seems to me he has 
 more of the true spirit of religion than any author I ever read. But 
 perhaps you would think him a sad heretic. I'm very glad you get 
 such treats on Sundays at St. Mary's. I go as usual to the old 
 chapel, whereof I know you have a most irreverent recollection, 
 and, as usual, I wish it contained a few more worshippers. But 
 mind, I had rather go there than to the parish church or a 
 cathedral, with such a parson as they've generally got — though it be 
 crowded. ' So much the worse for you,' I fancy you saying with a 
 Mephistopheles sneer, whereupon I meekly shut up, beg you to 
 remember all church parsons are not like one you early learned to 
 honour, and subscribe myself with a sigh that gradually changes 
 into an imprecation on myself for a fool, and a benediction on you 
 for your ignorant attachment to such an egotistic lubber as 
 " Your tolerably sincere friend, 
 
 " Gerry Arlington." 
 
 Harry sat and mused. The letter gave him pain, so did his 
 wound. Certainly he wasn't quite in the sixth heavens now, but 
 his thoughts were considerably the more painful of the two. Here 
 was he, with all the immense privileges in his grasp for which poor 
 Arlington was sighing in vain, and what was he doing with therh 
 How was he preparing himself for the great work of life? 
 
 The doctor came, gave Alfred some physic, bound up Fortescue's 
 head, and seeing he was also very pale and faint, gave him his arm
 
 76 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 as far as the gate of Caius, meaning to depart before he could be 
 seen. But the porter opened suddenly, and seeing Fortcscue in 
 such company, having heard of the row, and knowing his character, 
 scanned him suspiciously, preparatory to giving evidence next day. 
 Sick and sorry our hero stumbled up-stairs into his dark and cheer- 
 less room, struck a light, and sank into an arm-chair, got a glass of 
 brandy-and-water and tried a cigar, but that only made matters 
 worse. Then he tried to rally his spirits, informed himself dis- 
 tinctly that he was a fool, that this sort of nonsense wouldn't do, 
 that he had had a jolly good lark, and mustn't now be " singing 
 small." But to no purpose. The vision of his poor friend toiling 
 on dismally by day, and painfully by night, fretting his nerves to 
 fiddle-strings, and doing it all that he might be faithful to noble 
 resolves, whereunto he, Fortescue, was as solemnly pledged as his 
 correspondent, but which he now knew in his heart he was 
 miserably failing to keep — this image of the friend he loved with all 
 the strength of his nature haunted him like a ghost, and through 
 the night kept rousing him from brief feverish slumbers. If at last 
 he rose and knelt in the dim light which a waning moon cast upon 
 the floor of his room and asked for forgiveness and help whence 
 alone they could be granted, if he then and there solemnly resolved 
 once again to take to reading and self-denial, and then went to 
 bed again and slept, in spite of his gyp, the sleep of the just till 
 the sun had been up five hours — if all this did take place, it is no 
 business of ours — and so we had better bow and pass on. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Featherstone soon recovered, and some beneficial effect seemed 
 
 to have been wrought upon him during the hours in which Harry 
 buttered his toast,, and read Carlyle to him according to Arlington's 
 advice. But the repentance and good resolutions of both young 
 gentlemen seemed probably coming too late. Searching investi- 
 gations were being conducted into the late affray, and condign 
 punishment threatened. Both Featherstone and Fortescue had 
 been before the authorities one morning, and were sitting in de- 
 cidedly very low spirits, smoking, in front of the empty grate in 
 the rooms of the latter, while wailing to hear their sentence, which
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 77 
 
 they anticipated would, perhaps, be expulsion — at the best, rusti- 
 cation. 
 
 (Knock at the door; notes delivered by self-contained Gyp. 
 Open and read. Both to the same effect.) 
 
 " Severe reprimand ; but first offence. Punished already to some 
 extent by contusions. Not to be expelled — not even rusticated — 
 this time. Trust this may be a warning. No second forgiveness." 
 
 " Thank God ! " said Harry, and drew a long breath. 
 
 "Jolly companions, every .:me," sung out Alfred; "now let's 
 have out the brandy— and then! — a constitutional." 
 
 It is a warm, sunny day in June. The birch and mountain ash 
 gently wave their graceful sprays in the summer air over many a 
 fair garden. The young birds hop blithely amid the leafy screen 
 of various elm and beech trees in old parks and forest glades. The 
 sunlight sleeps calmly on the turf, the heather, and the gorse of 
 Southern downs, and sheep are nibbling on those breezy hills far 
 away. Sparkling trout streams run dancing along their pebbly 
 beds on lonely Yorkshire moors, or in leafy Devonshire by Lusc- 
 leigh Cleeve or wild, glorious Dartmoor, where a sense of infinite 
 peace and serenity steals into the soul of some solitary fly-fisher, 
 as with a volume of Wordsworth or Isaak Walton in his pocket he 
 wanders on the live-long day. In a shady nook of Trinity Gardens 
 sits on a bench a tall young gownsman of Caius, reading thought- 
 fully, known to us as Harry Fortescue ; and a reading man of that 
 college tells a quiet don, with whom he is taking a meditative stroll, 
 that a great improvement had come to pass in that quarter since 
 the last Town and Gown row. 
 
 Yes, a sweet and blessed day in fair gardens and college grounds, 
 and also, no doubt, on breezy downs looking away to the blue sea 
 — a very heavenly day for all whose minds and hearts were then in 
 tranquil harmony with its calm and loving splendours. A young 
 gentleman, not altogether in that condition, is walking hastily down 
 Lime Street (on the shady side when he can), accompanied by a 
 broad-shouldered, sea-faring man, who, to judge by his appearance 
 and conversation, did not think too meanly of himself or his office 
 as Captain of the Indian Queen. Across Fenchurch Street, between 
 carts and waggons; down Mark Lane, amid groups of excited corn- 
 factors and farmers; into Tower Street, amid waggons and porters; 
 down Water Lane, amid clerks, errand boys, and porters again ; 
 then debouching upon Thames Street, amid fish-fags, tide-waiters, 
 labourers, carmen, clerks, errand boys, waggons, and porters again 
 — Mr. Grant's clerk, with his thoughts far away in Elysium, and
 
 78 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 his nautical companion nursing his self-importance, kept their 
 persevering and rapid way. They enter the Custom House, mount 
 to the first floor, pass into the magnificent " Long Room." The clerk 
 is recalled by the sight to a sense of actual existence. Down he 
 drops from a world of imaginary poetical scenes and historical 
 visions — clown from thoughts in which Wallenstcin, Thekla, Man- 
 fred, and the Bride of Abydos, in addition to sundry creations of 
 his own peculiar and fantastic dreams, were playing their heroic or 
 loving parts — down he plunges like Phaethon into scarcely less 
 confusion than that hapless charioteer. The Indian Queen has just 
 arrived from Miramichi, with a cargo of yellow pine, and requires 
 " reporting." The taciturn and conceited master duly takes the 
 sacred volume in his rough paw to make oath that he is not attempt- 
 ing to defraud His Majesty of England by any illicit proceedings 
 in the smuggling line, and perhaps from a dislike to the very greasy 
 cover of the said volume, perhaps by an accidental mistake, kisses 
 his dirty thumb instead of the book. His conscience is, at all 
 events, thereby relieved, and he turns cheerfully to survey the scene. 
 The Custom House official takes but little notice of the kissing 
 process, and is soon absorbed in perusing the papers respectfully 
 presented by the ship-broker's clerk. Said clerk watches him 
 rather nervously. His mind has not been so diligently fixed on the 
 preparation Of the papers in question as to make him feel quite 
 secure at that moment concerning their reception. Other clerks, 
 with captains in tow, come up. Above the broken hum of voices 
 is soon heard, in sharp, querulous tones, the Custom House digni- 
 tary calling, "Grant's clerk! Here, sir, what do you mean by 
 bringing your manifest in that state ? It's not the first time, nor 
 the second ; and why haven't you brought all his papers. 
 Here, take your manifest back, and get it properly filled in !" All 
 the captains and clerks in the neighbourhood looked scornfully or 
 compassionately at poor Gerry, who, in no slight confusion, took 
 the rejected papers, and made way for more fortunate applicants. 
 The captain of the Indian Queen drew himself up in silent indigna- 
 tion (with a half-repressed oath), while his great red face grew 
 redder than ever under a sense of his humiliating position. For 
 these hardy sons of the sea are as bashful as children under the 
 gaze, of a few landsmen, though they pretend to despise them 
 nevertheless. The comparative solitude of the greater part of their 
 lives, and their absolute supremacy while afloat, makes them 
 curiously sensitive to the pressure of public opinion when ashore. 
 It was some relief to him to see the young chap with whom he had 
 come to this detestable Custom House, himself covered with con-
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 79 
 
 fusion ; and, while full of resentment at the injurious treatment he 
 was receiving, the Captain began to reflect on the brokerage he should 
 have to pay for this futile attempt to " report " him ; hence he gave 
 quite as surly an answer as might be expected, when Gerald, after 
 looking in vain for his mistake, appealed to the Captain for assist- 
 ance. With desperate energy Gerald turned again to the irritated 
 official, saying — 
 
 " I can't see what's wrong, sir." 
 
 " What business has Mr. Grant to send a clerk, I should like to 
 know, who can't do his work ?" exclaimed that gentleman. " Go back 
 and ask him to send us somebody who knows his business. You're 
 making a fool of this man, dancing him down here to no purpose 
 in this way." 
 
 " D d shame," growled the captain in savage disgust. Then 
 
 came a silence of moments which seemed hours to Gerald. Through 
 the great windows of the Long Room, so thickly plastered with 
 soot and dust, that they scarcely required blinds, struggled the 
 early summer sunshine. In the College Corridors, Gower Street, — 
 in Trinity College Gardens, Cambridge, — by Dartmoor trout streams, 
 on breezy Sussex downs there was peace and freedom. Why not 
 here? Gerald looked round despairingly, with a sensation of 
 intense suffering. What was life worth? What was he worth? 
 He and his life both seemed a wretched mistake. His father and 
 Mr. Grant, what would they think of all this sort of thing ? 
 Recollections of the London University, of splendid lectures, hard 
 study, of animated debates, of high resolves, and heroic purposes — 
 of both Houses of Parliament, of Fox, Chatham, and Harry 
 Fortescue — came tumbling up, much as they do when one is 
 drowning. How was he climbing the Eternal Hills ? A curious 
 heap of mingled exaggerations, and distortions, and truths, but all 
 intensely real. Somebody touched his arm. A good-natured clerk, 
 belonging to a rival establishment, who had witnessed Gerald's 
 confusion, having completed his own business, came up to him and 
 said, " Let's look at it." Then a few seconds served to detect the 
 omissions. " You haven't been down to the letter office, to make 
 your post-office declaration, you see ; and you have left out — " 
 
 " Oh, I'm extremely obliged to you," answered Gerry, gushingly. 
 — " Thank you, I see, I see." 
 
 A few minutes set everything straight. The sacred mysteries of 
 "reporting" were duly transacted. Mr. Grant's client and his 
 clerk sailed hastily forth from the Custom House back to porl 
 in Lime Street; Captain giving himself great airs meanwhile. It is 
 true Gerald had reported dozens of ships successfully, but one
 
 80 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 failure in twenty wouldn't do. Captain had an interview with Mr. 
 Grant before the latter went on 'Change, and Mr. Grant had 
 interview with Mr. Arlington next morning, when his letters had 
 been read, and his first round of calls had been completed. 
 
 " You see, Mr. Arlington, I shall lose my clients at this rate. 
 These fellows are abominably proud and fanciful, many of them. 
 Some are thoroughly good-natured, others are regular gentlemen ; 
 but others, again, are glad of an excuse for showing the rough 
 side of their tongue, and then they talk these things over at their 
 ' houses of call,' you see." 
 
 "Yes, it won't do," replied Mr. Arlington thoughtfully; "I 
 must have some serious talk with him. I don't think he has been 
 well lately. But if you would excuse him for three or four days, he 
 could have a run in the country and come back fresh for his work." 
 
 " By all means ; certainly. Any more ships, Sir, for the Baltic, 
 or the Bombay Coast, wanted at present ? I have two ready to 
 charter — one copper bottomed — 600 tons — just the thing for teak." 
 
 " No, not yet, thank you. The timber trade is in a very 
 miserable state, thanks to that Tory majority that keep up the 
 timber duties," replied Mr. Arlington, with a very wrathful smile. 
 
 " Hemp or tallow?" suggested Mr. Grant. 
 
 " Ah, that's what our friend Lee " (his managing clerk) " is always 
 driving at. We'll sec, Mr. Grant. Good morning." 
 
 As the shipbroker departed, Mr. Arlington turned to contem- 
 plate the fire with something very like a heavy sigh. He knew 
 that the only thing to retrieve certain severe losses incurred years 
 ago through too much kindness to relations was to make a good 
 hit in the latter of the articles alluded to by Mr. Grant. He saw 
 with prescient eye a fine opportunity coming, but he knew he had 
 not now got the requisite capital. He had done exceedingly well 
 " in corn" for two years running, but that was over now, thanks to 
 a fine season. His credit was still good. The Reform Bill had 
 been carried, and revolution at all events postponed. Lee was 
 of a very sanguine temper, and having everything to hope and 
 nothing to fear from bold speculations, kept urging his employer 
 to enterprising proceedings. Mr. Arlington was much engrossed 
 with the London and Birmingham Railway affairs, and the London 
 Docks, and the Atlantic Steam Navigation Company, and became 
 necessarily more dependent upon the said managing clerk, who 
 hated the dull slow timber business which, as his employer truly 
 remarked, " was being cut up more and more every year, and would 
 scarcely get a living for a parish pauper." " But," continued Mr. 
 Arlington to himself, " Featherstone's doing exceedingly well in
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. Si 
 
 tallow. Why not persuade him to do a little more in it on joint 
 account ?" At all events, he would talk it over with him con- 
 fidentially, and show him the prospect. Considerably relieved by 
 this idea, he ordered his horse round, but sent a note to Mr. Grant 
 before leaving town to say he should like him to talk to Gerald 
 and see the effect before speaking himself — the stern, loving heart 
 shrank from the task. 
 
 On the following morning, when Gerald entered his box at the 
 counting-house, a letter with the Cambridge post-mark lay upon 
 his desk, and very gladly he paid up the requisite eightpence. 
 Gladly, and yet how sorrowfully, for the contrast between what he 
 was doing and what he wanted to be doing was daily becoming 
 more oppressive. The letter contained a pressing invitation from 
 Fortescue to come and see him for a week at Caius College, and 
 have " no end of chatter, walks, rowing, and ' Trinity audit !' The 
 men would be leaving in scores now, and he should have no 
 difficulty in getting him a bed-room in the College." It gave a 
 vivid picture of the writer's energetic application to study, and 
 concluded with an emphatic appeal to his friend to come and 
 confirm him in his good resolutions. He meant to stay up and 
 read for more than half the Long Vacation, but " must have a little 
 lark in a mild way with his old friend first for a week or two, just 
 to wind him up again," while he was quite sure Gerald was worry- 
 ing himself to death in " that beastly Lime Street," and had better 
 escape before the grave closed over him. 
 
 Just as the shipbroker's clerk was shaking his head dismally over 
 this epistle he was summoned to his master's room. " You'll catch 
 it, I'm afraid," whispered Mr. Bramble drily, as he brought the 
 message, not without a certain sour satisfaction, for the poor man, 
 as before observed, had often been disgusted as well as incon- 
 venienced by Arlington's mistakes. The worthy Bramble was not 
 mistaken. Mr. Grant spoke rather severely at first, and dwelt on 
 the moral aspects of the case till Gerald was extremely uncomfort- 
 able, but was disarmed by his clerk's evident repentance and 
 distress, and finished by offering him a week's leave of absence. 
 " It is rather sooner than 1 meant, but you don't look well. Perhaps 
 you had better take a fortnight. I will arrange with Macdonald to 
 do your work, and you must do the same for him by-and-bye." 
 
 Mr. Arlington would certainly rather have had his son go in any 
 earthly direction than Cambridge, but could not find it in his heart 
 to obstruct. So on the following day Harry's eccentric but gifted 
 friend was spinning along the Woodford and Epping Road on the 
 box of that exceedingly neat vehicle which forty years ago took 
 
 v
 
 82 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Cambridge gownsmen to their Alma Mater on that line of road. 
 He sat absorbed in the perusal of an alarmingly fascinating book, 
 the reading of which some weak-minded but fast young gentlemen 
 had averred in Gerald's hearing to constitute "an era, sir, in one's 
 life," viz., "Vivian Grey." Oh! the joy of that ride! something 
 never to be forgotten. London, and its strifes and toils, its horrid 
 problems and throttling burdens, left behind, as utterly as if they 
 were sunk in the fathomless past for ever. Bright sunshine, balmy 
 airs around him, a cheerful coachman, natty-going nags, doing 
 their work with a will, picturesque country, an intensely interesting 
 autobiography of a youth as romantic and ambitious and absurd, 
 though by no means so generous as himself — above all, Harry and 
 Cambridge, in the distance, approaching every hour. Well, youth 
 is buoyant and very hopeful ! Thank God for youth. Then the 
 hearty affectionate greeting and cozy dinner, and the walk in 
 Trinity Gardens in the cool summer evening, and all the dreamy 
 fascinations of the grand old University seen by Gerald for the 
 first time. It was like a vision of the "Arabian Nights" in the 
 midst of prosy, practical Old England. But the " forms of young 
 imaginations " are not local or national, and there is no poetry or 
 romance equal to that which comes out of keen practical life, 
 brought into contact with the wild daring of imagination and youth. 
 
 After much exalted talk concerning Earl Grey and the Reform 
 Bill, Coleridge, Shakespeare, Kant, Goethe, Schiller, and Carlyle, 
 the two friends subsided in due course to a lower level, in the course 
 of which Harry inquired after old acquaintances. 
 
 " What about the little coxswain, for instance ? Isn't he, at least, 
 a gladness and delight to you, Gerry ? Try this cigar — oh ! what ? 
 you haven't yet learnt to appreciate the fragrant weed ? Well, I 
 believe you are right. Half the men here, I am certain, damage 
 themselves desperately with it. But it's a wonderful comfort, after 
 all. But, about Ned the Knowing. Leadenhall Street can hardly 
 be the desert you represent it, with that gay partner in your toils ?" 
 
 " To laugh with, or at, did you mean ? Oh, he's excessively 
 comical and extremely obliging, and dreadfully conceited, and if I 
 weren't so deucedly seedy there, it would often be capital fun. It's 
 the finest thing in the world to hear him talk about the parties 
 and picnics he goes to, and the splendid girls he's been dinning 
 with." 
 
 " Lord !" ejaculated Harry. " But the medicals — do you ever 
 see them ? There was some good stuff there, 1 fancied." 
 
 "What! Pierce ami Hackett? Yes, I've met them two or three 
 times at Grant's. Grunting Bob I beheld one night last winter at
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 83 
 
 the Haymarket, dissolved in tears — not at the ' Gamester' — (oh ! 
 what a splendid actress Fanny Kemble is ! I saw her debut. No, 
 not at her) — but at the farce which followed it. What a sarcastic 
 beggar the fellow is. On the other hand, what about our Alfred, 
 Harry ?" 
 
 " Well, he's a jolly good fellow — rather too fast," replied 
 Fortescue. " Gone down, now, you know." 
 
 " I believe," began Gerald with effort, but continuing crescendo, 
 thinking the time had come for confiding his own love affairs to 
 Harry's sympathy, "that little sister of his, Miss Lily, will be the 
 saving of him, if anything can be." 
 
 " Leila ! Pooh ! I don't think much of her." 
 
 Gerry, taken by surprise, answered nervously and with ques- 
 tionable veracity, " Oh, no, no more do I ; but still there's some- 
 thing " he could not get any further, the effort half-choked him, 
 
 then he felt sore and subsided. 
 
 But Harry rattled on in romantic rhodomontade about the elder 
 sister, and his friend had time to recover. 
 
 Once or twice they put on the gloves, just for the sake of " Auld 
 Lang Syne," as Harry said, but both felt they had got rather 
 beyond that now. " Yet it's good exercise," quoth Gerry, con- 
 descendingly, as he wiped his damp brows. 
 
 " You gave me a stunner once," cried his friend, throwing the 
 gloves in a corner. " D'ye know, you're the only fellow that's too 
 quick for me, Gerry, in a mill. If it wasn't for that, and your 
 tremendous big shoulders " 
 
 " You'd pretty soon knock me on to the North Pole," replied 
 Arlington, with pardonable slight self-complacency, as he admiringly 
 surveyed his friend's Herculean proportions. 
 
 One or two more talks during this delightful visit must be 
 chronicled, and then we have done with fascinating Cambridge for 
 the present. 
 
 "We've had a splendid talk this morning, Gerry," said Harry, 
 during a tramp along the Trumpington Road one rainy day. " Do 
 you know you always do me a deal of good when we get on the 
 moralities ? My poor dad would give you his blessing ; he was a 
 Christian soul — few like him." 
 
 " I thank God for that, my doctor; and don't fancy the benefit's 
 all on one side. I want you as much to keep me straight." 
 
 " The best return, I believe, I could make you, Gerry, would be 
 to help you out of those queer Dissenting notions of yours. If you 
 could but know and love the grand old Church of England and its 
 liturgy as I do."
 
 84 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Yet you shrink from the thought of being a clergyman ?" 
 
 " Oh," replied Harry, sadly, " that's because of subscription 
 to the Articles. My father's mind was racked with doubts. I've 
 known him suffer such agony as you can't conceive from the horrid 
 fears and scruples as to whether he ought not to leave the Church, 
 and whether he ought to encourage his darling wish of seeing me a 
 clergyman. Sometimes, when he has thought me asleep, I've heard 
 him praying and sobbing in his great misery. It was enough 
 to " (Pause.) 
 
 " But if these Thirty-nine Articles are such shocking things, 
 Harry, as I believe they are " 
 
 " No, no, it's not exactly that," interrupted Harry, hastily. " It's 
 not so much that he objected to them, at least not to many of them, 
 but what he complained of was having to sign them all, and declare 
 'his unfeigned assent and consent' to everything in the Prayer 
 Book, and having to read the Burial Service and that horrid 
 Athanasian Creed, and having no power to leave out an ounce 
 of anything, — and he said all this mischief came from the Act 
 of Uniformity and black ' St. Bartholomew' in 1662." 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 "Oh, don't you know all about the two thousand clergy- 
 men ejected from the Church of England, August 24th, that 
 year?" 
 
 Gerry took a jump, and exclaimed, "Why, that's what we come 
 from, I vow!" 
 
 " We! who's we?" 
 
 "Why, we Dissenters, we English Presbyterians! I remember 
 all about it now, my boy. I've heard Aunt Carry speak about it, 
 but never saw into the matter so clearly before." 
 
 " I suspect my dad knew and thought more about it than yours, 
 Gerry." 
 
 Tramp, tramp, splash, splash, water above, water below, on they 
 tramped in silence. Harry in silent enthusiasm; Gerry, succumbing 
 at length to atmospheric influences and thoughts of Lcadenhall 
 Street, grunts out, "Precious dull road this of yours." 
 
 " Dull ! Bless you, I never think about that," cried Harry. 
 
 " If I were cantering along on my little Gypsey, or walking over 
 purple heather, with a mountain or two in the distance '' 
 
 " Gerry, that is insufferably weak of you. What used you to 
 preach to me, you old hypocrite ? That we must subdue the 
 outward, triumph over it, be independent of it — to be sure it was a 
 great lesson, but not to teach only," and, flinging out his arm, he 
 cried, with a mixture of zeal and mock enthusiasm, " Oh, the
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 85 
 
 grandeur of rising above these petty accidents, and wretched little 
 clogs of circumstance. Look here. You read a stirring history of 
 what brave men did five hundred years ago in Guelderland and 
 Bohemia, or what they did last June in Greenland, Bengal, or 
 Panama. Doesn't it crowd your brain with thoughts and plans 
 for doing, with God's help, good work of your own, as bravely and 
 successfully ? That used to be my Gerry's tune." 
 
 " Aye," replied his friend, rather pensively. " Just as one used 
 to make wooden swords after reading ' Ivanhoe,' and sally forth to 
 attack the thistles." 
 
 "Bah ! there you go again !" and Harry shook his fist threaten- 
 ingly at his friend. " But I tell you this — I remember you used 
 to say you wouldn't give twopence for a boy who had never 
 longed to be a knight errant and to bring back the age of 
 chivalry. (Quentin Durward though, by-the-bye, was my favourite 
 hero.) And, ah ! Master Gerry, then you led one on from that to see 
 the real knightly work to be done noiv. Do you know," and he 
 lowered his voice as if half-ashamed of himself, " I have been 
 reading the lives of Martyn and John Williams. What a glorious 
 work they did ! " 
 
 Gerald looked at his friend with no little interest, but also 
 surprise. "You don't mean you would like to be a missionary- 
 preach to naked savages, and be eaten by your converts ?" 
 
 " Not exactly," returned Harry, with another demonstration of 
 his fist and a shade of real annoyance, for he was a good deal 
 more in earnest than he liked to show. "No, for I haven't 
 enough faith or religion, or whatever you call it." 
 
 " It would take a good deal for that work, I guess," answered 
 Gerry, rather dismally. There was always a curious conflict going 
 on in his mind between his airy aesthetic tastes and romantic 
 fancies, and his genuine desire to relieve the distresses of mankind. 
 The former sought for artistic enjoyment, the latter urged him to 
 self-sacrificing effort. But it was a critical point in Harry's life, 
 and a " double-minded man " like Gerry could give him no true 
 effectual help. Gerry was a very lovable, noble-hearted friend ; 
 but Harry needed then far more than that. 
 
 As they returned from their " constitutional," they met an under- 
 graduate friend of Fortcscue's. " Will you come and wine with 
 us after hall, old fellow ?" quoth Harry. A gracious acceptance 
 being given he called after him, "and bring a friend." So after 
 a snug little dinner in Harry's rooms, he and Gerald welcomed 
 two studious youths, and the party sat over their wine and weeds 
 round the open window looking forth upon the kospi/t'um-hke rows
 
 86 GERALD AND HIS FRIEx\ T D THE DOCTOR. 
 
 of stone buildings,* and on the old trees and the turf, and the 
 jack-daws ; and rich pabulum was poured into the poor London 
 clerk's hungering soul, for the whole party were in a frame of mind 
 and body which no traditions of a golden age can be considered to 
 equal. And what Gerald so richly enjoyed thus for a week, scores 
 of young fellows at England's Universities enjoy month after 
 month for years. Care and grief, wasting toil, disappointment 
 and defeat, remorse, bereavement, might all be awaiting them in 
 the years to come, — were, alas ! at that moment busy enough around 
 them then. But what a lot was falling meanwhile to their portion 
 — something to be thankful for, I trow ! 
 
 And doubtless there is at least " one " in " ten " who " returns to 
 give thanks," conscious how much they have to be thankful for. 
 Yes, its a glorious thing, that University life ; but even over that 
 life there's the "old serpent's trail," in more ways than one. 
 
 It was Sunday evening, and the young men, sitting on a bench 
 in Trinity College gardens, mused pensively on their approaching 
 separation, which was to take place the following morning. They 
 had been both to St. Mary's and to King's that afternoon, and 
 Gerald, profoundly sensible to the influences of the place, yielded 
 to his better self, and was mourning unaffectedly over the bar- 
 riers which divided him from the Church of Latimer and Jeremy 
 Taylor. 
 
 He told Fortescue how his heart yearned towards a true " Holy 
 Catholic Church " — a veritable and blessed " Communion of 
 Saints" — told him how deeply he longed to see the end of all 
 barriers between sincere Christians. 
 
 "I can't sec why we shouldn't all belong to one Church, Harry." 
 
 " So thought Archbishop Sheldon, and therefore he got the 
 Act of Uniformity passed; and there has been more dissent and 
 wrangling, and seared consciences and broken hearts since, as I've 
 often heard my father say, than ever before." 
 
 "Well, it's beyond me," replied his friend, "but tell me more 
 about your father. I suppose he hadn't much time, with all his 
 parish work, to give to you." 
 
 "Hadn't he, though!" exclaimed Fortescue, and the young 
 fellow's eyes glistened, and he raised his athletic form from the 
 bench where he had been reclining, his whole frame trembling 
 with excitement. " Time ! Gerald Arlington, he gave himself up 
 to me as never father " his voice quivered. 
 
 " I want to know more about him, Harry," said Gerald, 
 
 * The College and the Inn were closely united in former days — now it's the Inn 
 and the Drinkery that are allied.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 87 
 
 gently. "Can't you tell me a little of him ? You often said you 
 would." 
 
 Laying his hand on Arlington's arm, Harry began in a hurried 
 way : " Oh, my dear fellow, I could never tell you what my father 
 was to me. But I'll try a bit, if you like. He lost my mother 
 when I was about four years old. She was quite young when she 
 died; they had only been married about five years. Though so 
 young at the time, I can never forget his grief. After the funeral, 
 he had come up to his bed-room and didn't know I had been 
 stowed away in my crib to cry myself to sleep. His entrance, 
 though he came on tip-toe, woke me, but I lay quite still, until I 
 could no longer bear to hear him sobbing, and when he heard me 
 calling, ' Father, father,' the poor man's trouble was terrible to see. 
 I thought those days of wretchedness would never come to an 
 end. But all at once, he seemed to have conquered his misery. 
 He had always been active in visiting his poor folks, but now he 
 took to playing cricket and quoits with them, and without slacken- 
 ing his attentions as a pastor, took to boating, riding, and fishing, 
 besides. But go where he would, he took his little boy with him, 
 sometimes clapping me on the back of an almost invisible Sheltie, 
 called ' Minimus,' and making me scamper after him across the 
 beautiful commons and heathery hills, or bowling to me and the 
 other lads, with indomitable patience by the hour together, on the 
 village green. He was a dear old dad !" 
 
 " Had you any sisters?" 
 
 " Only my half-sister, Nelly. Her mother was an Irish Viscount's 
 daughter, and had been married before, and left a widow at two- 
 and-twenty. My sister was her daughter, and a dear creature, 
 Gerry, she is : no doubt of that. But haven't seen much of her 
 altogether — not half as much as would have been good for me. 
 After my mother's death she went to live at Neville Court, the 
 family place in Surrey, with an aunt who has taken precious good 
 care of her. Capital old lady, though a bit of a qucrity. I shall run 
 down for a week or two this vacation, and that'll be jolly, I vow." 
 
 " I suppose your father taught you entirely himself?" • 
 
 "Yes, in the classics, history, and so forth. An old dominie 
 came from Marston for the mathematics. I never went to school 
 till I was fifteen, and then I think my father just gave up the fight 
 with his troubles, and said, ' I'm beaten now.' In two years he 
 was in his grave. God rest him !" 
 
 " I can't think how you became — at least home-bred boys arc 
 generally such " 
 
 " Soft sawnies — true, but I was well knocked about among the
 
 88 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 farmers' boys, and the sons of the gentry in their holidays. After I 
 was nine, my father never protected me. He taught me to box, 
 among my other accomplishments, and desperate fights I used to 
 get into — generally for fun, though. He never let me fight in a 
 passion, if he could help it. I did thoroughly enjoy the wild life 
 I led down there, but the descriptions of school existence, which I 
 got from some of the Eton and Rugby fellows when they came 
 home for vacation, made me bother my good dad, I fear, a little 
 too much to let me go with them. So at length he gave me up, 
 and the last light of his desolate home went out. I didn't know 
 what I was to him, Gerry," he added, in a husky voice, " or I never 
 would have gone. Yet it was the right thing, no doubt, for me." 
 
 So he ran on as long as Arlington's questions urged him. At 
 length they rose, and as they walked back to their college to tea, 
 Gerry remarked, "I'll tell you what it is, Harry, that I specially 
 enjoy in you, with all deference, and I wish to Heaven you would 
 give me the secret. You are never down in the mouth, old boy — 
 don't seem to know what the ' blues' are. I do honour a man who 
 is always cheerful. I don't mean always jolly. That's quite another 
 pair of shoes, and comes of treble X or brandy-and-water, pretty 
 often. Besides, those drinking fellows arc as seedy as hemp, and 
 as flat as a balloon when the gas is out of them." 
 
 " Behold the secret, then, my gentle youth," replied Harry, with 
 dignity, as he took out a cigar-case and began to light. " Gerry, 
 the great mistake in your life is, that you won't smoke." 
 
 " You be hanged ! It's a vile habit, doctor. I tried once, you 
 know, and am as certain that it's only a milder form of opium- 
 eating as that it did me a precious deal of mischief." 
 
 " Gammon," remarked Harry, between the puffs. 
 
 " Why, you yourself," answered Gerald, " said the other day that 
 lots of fellows here damaged themselves by it " 
 
 " Ah, in excess. Many would be worse without it." 
 
 " May be, because they've nothing better to keep the devil down 
 with. But, depend upon it, smoking's a capital thing to make a 
 nation of sawnies or sensualists in three generations. There'd 
 have been no Reformation in Germany, nor Elizabethan age or 
 * Great Rebellion' in England, if fellows had smoked then as they 
 do now. Why you, of all men, know we can't shirk our fighting 
 without being sneaks, and all these drags are only dodges to save 
 us from trouble and fighting, and make us lie down to be tickled 
 and whipped. I guess you learned how to be always cheerful in 
 some other way than through that nasty stink." 
 
 " By George," cried Harry, laughing, " T believe you're right!"
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 89 
 
 Then in a soberer tone he continued, "Well, look here, my friend ; 
 I learned to be cheerful, like many other things, of him who is 
 sleeping in Beachum churchyard. I told you how miserable he was 
 after my mother's death. Years after, as we sat one evening on the 
 top of Lockerby Hill, and watched the sunset, he gave me a glimpse 
 into all that had passed in his inner life at that time of woe. He 
 had taken a huge, long walk one evening, some two or three months 
 after the funeral, and came to that very spot where we were then 
 sitting. There he knelt down and prayed God to take him, and so 
 save him from suicide, for he dreaded touching his razors or going 
 near the river. But ' a spirit of power, and of love, and of a sound 
 mind,' he said, came sweeping clown on his soul from the Holy One, 
 and he rose up and said, ' I'll have no more of this,' and went on 
 his way, ever after that, calm and strong, doing his parish duty with 
 glorious heartiness and enjoying what he might till, ten years later, 
 he sent me to school. He seemed to fling all his misery away, or 
 to have it flung away for him (something of both, I suppose), and 
 kept only a calm, holy sorrow in some inner fold of his heart, which 
 he never looked at, except now and then, by firelight, or in the deso- 
 late night watches. At other times he laughed, talked, read, 
 played, and became quite a hearty, rather jovial sort of individual. 
 No, I don't mean that," said he, smiling at Gerald's perplexed 
 physiognomy, "for he kept little company, and drank nothing 
 but water ; but only a very cheery gentleman, full of life ami 
 animal spirits, and so he made me the same. God bless him for 
 that." 
 
 "Did he seem to like his pulpit duties ?" 
 
 " I believe you — the preaching part; but I've told you about the 
 other. After my mother's death he touched the folks' hearts as he 
 had never done before. He was not always at his case among the 
 prayers, I thought, but I don't know. He was a true and faithful 
 pastor — that I do know. And I would there were many like him — 
 and I would he were here now ! " 
 
 That pleasant evening, like all tilings bad and good in the world, 
 came at last to an end — doubtless to the reader's relief. So did this 
 Cambridge visit. 
 
 % It was the last evening of Gerald's visit. Both he and Harry 
 were reflecting on that inevitable fact somewhat sorrowfully next 
 morning at the breakfast table — Gerald, in fact, being exceedingly 
 dismal — when the gyp brought a letter for Fortcscuc, whose Hashing 
 eyes as he read its contents suggested to Gerald the quarter whence 
 it came. 
 
 "Well," quoth Harry, as he handed over the epistle to Gerald,
 
 QO GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "that's queer. I suppose I mustn't go. But oh ! Jupiter, what a 
 temptation!" 
 
 The letter was an invitation from Alfred Featherstone and his 
 parents to join them in an excursion next month to the Lakes. 
 
 Gerald's sympathetic heart bounded with joy. Harry was wild 
 with rapture, but he pretended and tried to take it very quietly. 
 
 " Mustn't go, did you say, Harry? Ah! you had settled to stay 
 up and read — read very hard. Of course, you think I believe you'll 
 do it ?" 
 
 And Gerald laughed a sardonic laugh, such as disappointed 
 young lovers laugh in Adelphi dramas, or in his favourite Bulwer's 
 early romances. But he rejoiced greatly amid his own gloom at 
 his friend's joy, and knew nothing was more likely to keep that 
 friend straight. 
 
 " Go ? You must go," he said. 
 
 " Well, I think it's very probable," at length replied Harry, with 
 a serious air, as of a highly conscientious man anxious to discover 
 the perplexing path of duty, "that— that — I might be able to work 
 much better after such a thorough change." 
 
 So they took a final row " in the ditch," as Gerry insultingly 
 termed it, and then a farewell stroll in Trinity Gardens. 
 
 "Will it be better or worse in Leadenhall Street after this?" 
 inquired Harry, in reply to Gerry's enthusiastic acknowledgment 
 of " a very jolly visit." 
 
 "Better! A hundred times, old boy. You'll see how I shall 
 work " — (was he referring to his nightly studies, or to the Custom 
 House ?) — "and I'll do my duty in Leadenhall Street," he added, 
 with a touch of remorse, as he drew a hard breath and set his teeth ; 
 "and what's your last word about yourself, Harry ?" 
 
 " This — that when a man truly loves and honours a woman, God 
 rolls back the primal curse, and the devil flies howling!" 
 
 A little before three p.m. the two friends were shaking hands in 
 front of the " Beehive Hotel," the coachman appeared, and the 
 visit was at an end. 
 
 " Write to me from the Lakes," said Gerry, as he turned to his 
 friend. 
 
 " I will ; and Heaven bless us both ! Good-bye, my hearty ! M
 
 C7ERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. QI 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was a fair summer evening, and the party in yonder boat, gliding 
 along the western shore of Windermere, under the shadow of Wray 
 Castle, seem to think it so. 
 
 The elderly gentleman and his wife are undoubtedly Mr. and Mrs. 
 Featherstone, so that handsome girl (who would be in an elegant 
 attitude, even if standing at a wash-tub) and that shy, fawn-like 
 maiden opposite to her must be their two daughters. There's no 
 mistaking the rugged-featured phiz of the stalwart " stroke," nor 
 the genial frank expression on it, softened at that hour with an 
 indescribably touching and romantic influence, such as fine-natured 
 manly fellows wear when desperately, hopefully, or even half- 
 dcspondingly in love. Bow oar, of course, is hilarious, handsome 
 brother Alfred, delighting himself with occasionally catching crabs 
 on purpose, and at suitable intervals, in a variety of ways, alarming 
 his respected mamma. 
 
 Harry Fortescue was not naturally romantic. No ; decidedly 
 not. But that evening the earth seemed to him steeped in hues of 
 Paradise. He breathed a different air from aught that had ever 
 touched his lungs before, and the blood went bounding through 
 his veins. Had he not been walking with Adelaide Featherstone 
 for an hour over those beautiful hills above Bowness, lingering 
 far behind the rest, and finding that she listened to him with 
 increasing interest — that the haughty look of indifference gave 
 place to a pleased smile, and a softer glance than he had ever 
 seen in those bright eyes before ? Had she not let him clamber 
 up a dangerous bit of rock (not without protest) and bring her a 
 lovely spray of fern, which she had admired ? And did she not fasten 
 it in those rich dark tresses that swept so fascinatingly down her 
 beautiful face ? Would she not answer at length to his passionate 
 devotion, and let him take her to himself, and whisper, " My 
 own — my wife!" 
 
 The boat touched the shore. Leila had nimbly skipped out after 
 Alfred, and watched Fortescue hand forth the rest — watched, shall 
 I say, with something like a sigh, the enraptured look of Adelaide's 
 adorer, as he bent low before his queen, steadying the boat with 
 one hand, and glancing timidly up at her face while she leaned 
 upon the other. Yet there was not a particle of jealousy, scarcely 
 a shade of envy, in her heart. But she knew her sister better than 
 Harry Fortescue did, and so, while she hoped for his happiness,
 
 Q2 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 she doubted and trembled rather more than to most people would 
 have seemed necessary. Adelaide was very amiable at tea, had 
 never appeared to greater advantage ; but when the sisters were 
 parting for the night she made a remark upon her admirer which 
 sent a sharp retort to Leila's lips, and an hour later hot tears of 
 indignation filled the poor child's eyes as she mused over them, 
 and all the events of their tour, in her little room beneath the 
 quiet light of the stars. " He is so good and noble," thought she, 
 "and Adelaide will' never make him happy — I shouldn't mind if 
 only — but she doesn't care for him a bit. . . Oh, Mr. Fortescue, 
 if I could give you her whole heart it should be yours. If she 
 really loved you, I know you would make her all that is good and 
 noble. . . But it seems so very sad he should be loving and 
 caring about her, and she only making fun of it all. . . ." 
 
 Then she prayed for them — it was all she could do, except 
 crying, and this was decidedly less likely to be of use than her 
 prayers. 
 
 One more scene. 
 
 It was a picture worth looking at, if you cared for those con- 
 cerned in it. Our two fair damsels, with their gallant attendants, 
 to wit Harry assisting Miss Fcathcrstone, and Alfred petting "any 
 little Lilybell," went clambering over boulders and heather, stone 
 walls and dilapidated hedges, sometimes catching a lovely glimpse of 
 blue Windermere, and then rejoicing in the dark majesty of Fair- 
 field or Loughrigg Fell. At length they halted in a little field 
 above Ambleside, that commanded a magnificent view of the gorge 
 formed by Nab Scar on the right and Loughrigg on the left. The 
 sun had just set behind Steel Fell. Dark masses of cloud hung 
 heavily over the whole range of mountains from Red Scree to 
 Coniston Old Man, but a bright glowing strip of sky still stretched 
 away between dark cloud and darker mountain, into which the 
 jagged peaks and edges of rock and 'fell' rose sharp and clear. 
 Beneath this line of light, which gave a bright weird wildness to 
 the distant scene, the mountains and valley lay in purple shadow, 
 through which could be dimly seen the yet darker lines of inter- 
 section, with here and there black masses of foliage, formed by 
 picturesque groups of Scotch firs. The young wanderers stood 
 long watching the grandeur of the scene. All the better part of 
 Alfred's nature came out in these quiet walks with Leila, but 
 Adelaide's company too often only seemed to provoke him into a 
 display of sarcastic worldlincss. lie and his younger sister had 
 had very pleasant chat that evening, chiefly about Schiller and Art. 
 Carlylc's beautiful biography of the German poet (introduced to
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 93 
 
 their notice some time before by Gerald) was warmly admired by 
 both, and Alfred had been giving his sister some notion of the 
 harmonies of colour, and their relation, as he conceived of it, to 
 poetry and dramatic art. But now they gave themselves up in 
 silent happiness to the influences of the place and hour, and were 
 not sorry to see Fortescue gradually leading Adelaide away towards 
 a grove, at the side of the hill. 
 
 " Well, my little sister," quoth Alfred at last, " and what do you 
 think this sunset, sky, and earth are like?" Leila never felt shy 
 with him as she did with everybody else (Nelly, of late, excepted; 
 They had been play-fellows as children, and to him she could pour 
 out the repressed enthusiasm of her imagination. 
 
 " Schiller makes me think it like the crowning glories of a great 
 patriot's life— or of a devout lion-hearted Crusader. ' So stirbt ein 
 Held' . . . you remember — " 
 " Go on," said Alfred. 
 
 " It makes me think of my hero," continued Leila, still gazing 
 on the sky and mountains, " as having been full of stern valour, 
 desperate daring, massive strength ; that is the dark mountain 
 ridge yonder, and yet above it all such a mild, lofty, buoyant 
 hopefulness, such up-looking reverence, such a glowing light of 
 faith in his heart, of almost playful cheerfulness— you see it all 
 there in that sky — such a fierce victorious joy, too, in conflict, 
 hardship, suffering." 
 
 " Go on," — but she did not. Her thoughts seemed lost in the 
 grand twilight distance. 
 
 " Do you see nothing of what befals him ? Is it not the crowning 
 moment of his life ?" 
 
 " No," she continued, hurriedly, " that has passed. That moment 
 was the hour of victory ! But now I behold the great, terrible hero, 
 coming back from his awful fight, and passing calmly on through 
 all the nation's applause — and now — he comes, demanding a fair 
 maiden for his bride, whom he had long passionately loved, and 
 now she is peeping at him from behind the lattice, filled with 
 admiration, — " 
 " Go on." 
 
 "And yet, possessed by a nameless terror; but he looks up 
 towards her, and then her fear is swallowed up in a rapturous 
 gratitude and reverence ! Oh, Alfred, what nonsense you are 
 making me talk !" and she stopped, half-frightened. Her brothei 
 looked at her with sympathizing, slightly wondering, and amused 
 expression — 
 
 " Nay, nay, go on, Dolly, dear, you are giving me inspiration —
 
 94 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 subjects for my brush. You are my poet, and I'll paint your dreams, 
 you know. Go on." 
 
 " Oh, that's capital," cried Lily, clapping her hands. 
 " But, look, Lily! the sky is changing — the great cloud-bank is 
 breaking up in storm rifts. See that fierce, lurid light thrown upon 
 it, and the bright gleams sweeping through — " 
 
 " Yes, yes," cried Leila, dancing about for a moment, and throw- 
 ing up her arms like a Pythoness. "It is a mad Berserkir revel, 
 the night before a terrible battle is going to be fought !" 
 " Eh ! But look at the perfect stillness of the scene." 
 " That, oh son of the Vikings ! that is because thou lookest on 
 the revel through the long solemn vista of ages. Beheld historically, 
 the fields of Chalons and Tours are calm, even as a painting. But 
 look again : that lurid glare, those rugged streamers on the blast, 
 speak not of repose!" Then, after a long pause, "Brother, such 
 scenes are God-like." 
 
 " So, Lilybell ? I thought religious people always spoke of God 
 as calm and tranquil ?" 
 
 " Is He not the God of Battles also ? The Lord of Hosts, is 
 not that His name ? Do you never think of Him as wielding terrible 
 power, engaged in awful conflict ? ' Who is this that cometh from 
 Edom — with dyed garments from Bozrah ? the blood of His 
 enemies sprinkled on His raiment?'" Her eyes gleamed so 
 wildly that Alfred now glanced at her with more wonderment than 
 before. At his first words, however, the rapt expression passed, 
 and she sank into the loving little sister, looking up into his face 
 with playful affection. 
 
 "My Lily! let us have an elegantly bound volume — 'Recollec- 
 tions of the Lakes, by G. A.'" 
 "Horrible!" she exclaimed. 
 
 " ' With twenty-five illustrations from the pencil of Alfred Feather- 
 stone, Esq.' " 
 
 " Charming ! Capital ! Oh, that w jolly ! But mind ! — without 
 the ' Recollections.' Oh, Alfred, perhaps, if you take real pains 
 with all these sketches in finishing them up, papa will let you be a 
 regular artist after all. You know he only cares about your having 
 a proper profession — steady employment of some kind — and you 
 know he is right there. You never can be happy without, can you, 
 dearest ? And you've often told me how bad idleness is for you." 
 
 " I wish we could always work and walk together as we've been 
 doing lately, Dolly. God knows how sometimes — " he said no 
 more, but the deep, almost despairing sadness of his tone and 
 manner sent a cold shiver through Leila's heart.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 95 
 
 "Well, what have you done with the others?" sharply inquired 
 
 Mrs. Featherstone, as her son and youngest daughter appeared. 
 
 " I don't like such late rambles," and her voice grew sharper. She 
 
 began to think gratitude might go too far, for since they had arrived 
 
 at Windermere, she had found out that Neville Court would not 
 
 come to Harry, even if his sister died unmarried. She knew that 
 
 her handsome daughter must not throw herself away in this fashion, 
 
 and determined to speak as plainly as she durst (for even she found 
 
 it hard fighting with the said daughter's self-will), about poor 
 
 curates, and especially when they were not sound in the faith (for 
 
 Harry had lashed out now and then). She knew well how the 
 
 young lady's pride and ambition might both be touched to the 
 
 quick. 
 
 # a- * -::• * * 
 
 " Then Mr. Fortescue is going on to Keswick ? A good job, too," 
 said Mrs. Featherstone, half aside to her husband, the next morning, 
 as the family trunks were being fastened on a travelling carriage. 
 "And you'll come home with us, Alfred, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, mother," replied her son, "he's going to walk about forty 
 miles a day, and that don't suit my book. Besides, he rejected my 
 offered company — offered of course only for politeness' sake, dear 
 mammy, I couldn't do less. But he's gone! Ah me! gone forth 
 into the ' drear lonely future,' as somebody hath it," and he glanced 
 mischievously at Adelaide, who if he hadn't done that, might have 
 felt compelled to repress just the slightest possible tendency to tears. 
 
 Yes, Harry Fortescue had taken leave the night before, and 
 departed that morning before any of the rest of the party had 
 appeared, except the youthful Leila, who insisted upon getting up 
 and making him a cup of coffee. She moved about mechanically, 
 and Harry thought her, as he had before, a strange, cold-hearted 
 child, until he turned to her to say " good-bye," and then she looked 
 up at him. Something of the prophetic fire, we suppose, had 
 rushed unbidden to her eyes, something of a divine pity and 
 reverence, for he started as he met her look, and murmured, "God 
 bless you," and hastened away. Leila, it must be confessed, was 
 rather sharp-tempered for some days after. In fact, Adelaide com- 
 plained of her to the mamma, and privately observed to Leila her- 
 self that she was a regular little savage. Perhaps she would have 
 been even more like one could she have read 
 
 harry's letter to gerry. 
 
 " Rosethwaite, August 24th, 1S32. 
 "JJea'r Gerry, — Many thanks for your letter and hearty con-
 
 96 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 gratuiations. You little guessed in what state it would find me. 
 Yes, it was all bright and blessed. I did not say a word too much to 
 you of what I felt, for I was indeed in Heaven. Ah ! my Gerry, no 
 words can tell how beautiful — how divinely beautiful — was the world 
 I lived in, for a few days, nay weeks; for the passing cloud — the 
 transient doubts and fears, and cold chills — only made the returning 
 smile and sunshine more exquisite. But it is gone — gone for ever. 
 The old, old story. She has an ambitious, worldly mother, and I am 
 ' unreliable,' ' prospects uncertain,' I suppose. And she herself, oh 
 Adelaide, Adelaide! why may I not say, my Adelaide? Yet her 
 hand has lain in mine. Bah ! bosh ! She has no more heart, 
 Gerry, than a Medusa or a codfish. So let's hear nothing more 
 about her. I'll just add that there was a great change, horrid 
 haughtiness, sarcastic coldness, curse her ! No, no, what am I 
 writing ? I'm half crazy. But at length I saw my room would be 
 more welcome than my company, told them I was off the next 
 day, got one last walk with her by hard manoeuvring, grew des- 
 perate, and — . But before I was off, next morning, God mercifully 
 gave me a last blessing that I might not even for one dark hour 
 hate Him and all His creatures. That quaint young sister of hers, 
 who has a far greater depth of character than perhaps we thought, 
 came down before six, to try and make me have some breakfast 
 before I went, and then, so gently and compassionately, so tenderly, 
 yet shyly seemed wishing to bid me bear up bravely, when I said 
 ' good-bye,' that I shall feel grateful to her to the last hour of my life. 
 One feels that sort of thing a good deal under some circumstances. 
 " This glorious scenery and mountain air is very blessed : while 
 I am walking through the long days I rise above the sorrow. So 
 don't trouble about mc. It is only at night, alone at the inns, I feel 
 it. So good-bye, my boy, I mean to be at Neville Court on the 
 3 1 st for a few days' shooting, and then to Caius, for a brave six 
 months' work. — Ever yours, H. F." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The greater quadrangle of Caius College was looking murky and 
 dreary ; the late October day was dismal. But Alfred Featherstone. 
 sauntering through it towards Fortescue's rooms about u am., 
 looked serene as usual, with that devil-may-care expression of his.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 97 
 
 and good-humoured jaunty roll in his gait. Knock, knock, knock. 
 No answer. Oak not sported, must be at home — knock away. 
 Door flung open at last in a fury. Harry stands glaring at his 
 visitor in a rage. Cools down a little when he sees who it is. 
 Sullenly offers chair. Alfred looks about. Furniture in unwonted 
 positions. Beautiful tea-chest given by sister Ellen lying in a 
 corner, smashed to fragments. "Hullo!" quoth Alfred, "how's 
 this ?" — " Never mind." — " But I do mind " 
 
 " No matter. Found myself in one corner and the tea-chest 
 in another — just now." 
 
 Alfred thought it was getting serious. Resolved to comfort him. 
 " What a noodle you are, my dear fellow! Leila's worth two dozen 
 of her." The dose was a stinger, but wonderfully efficacious : — 
 polarized all his heart-atoms, probably, just in another direction, 
 for he quietly griped Alfred's hand, till the latter, wincing, meekly 
 observed, "Thank you," adding, "Look here, man, here's a letter you 
 haven't opened. Isn't it from your virtuous, poetic cricketer ? Come, 
 let's hear about him. You say his yarns always brighten you up." 
 
 But this present yarn didn't have that effect. An angel's epistle 
 would then have been read by Harry en noir. And this was from 
 one " a little lower than the angels." After a few platitudes, in the 
 way of consolation and exhortation, which Harry didn't read aloud, 
 the letter continued thus : — " Depend upon it, Harry, that girl was 
 not worthy of a love like yours, and the true Juliet is still waiting 
 for you somewhere. I'm very glad her sister gave you that one 
 drop of comfort. She's a regular little witch, and a bit of a 
 genius — but somehow I always fancy there's something not quite 
 safe about her ; a sort of Undine ? — a bit of a sorceress. However, 
 let's throw the sex overboard, and go in for something higher than 
 all this sentimentalism and passion. I wish you were coming to 
 town soon. I have formed a sort of small literary club, which is 
 highly refreshing, and stimulates one to work. We meet once 
 a week and read papers, and then discuss them. I have given 
 them one on 'Charles I.' and 'Cromwell,' and worked up for it 
 pretty hard, from Hallam and Godwin's ' History of the Common- 
 wealth.' Cromwell was a grand fellow, and I have whitewashed 
 him — for the benefit of posterity ! We had three nights at that. I 
 have now proposed this question: 'To what Degree and under 
 what Circumstances did the Nations of Antiquity contribute to the 
 Civilization of the world?' Each member is to take a particular 
 nation, tribe, or city, and I am going to write the Introductory 
 Essay." — " Of course you are," growled Harry, half to himself, as 
 he read this sentence. 
 
 I
 
 98 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "You're in a bad humour this morning, doctor," observed 
 Featherstone, sarcastically. "Why shouldn't he ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; I'm not fit to criticise a fellow like him. 
 Nor are you either, Fred. He's a long shot beyond us both. But 
 if you will have it, don't you see he cares a vast deal too much about 
 sympathy and admiration, and all that sort of thing, and works a 
 great deal more for that, I'm sometimes afraid, than to gain know- 
 edge or to give it. But that's all a lie, and I know it." 
 
 " And you, you lazy beggar, don't work for anything." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Harry, "you're a fine fellow to come 
 slanging me about work ! But you're quite right. I am a lazy old 
 devil, maundering and pottering about in this rat-trap, and by the 
 gods, I'll have no more of it. I'll work, work ! Come and wine 
 with me; but now be off!" and he motioned Featherstone fran- 
 tically to the door, while he rushed to his bookcase and tore 
 down half-a-dozen books. The amiable Alfred's benevolent designs 
 were so far effected. His friend was roused from his morbid 
 collapse ; but before Alfred departed, he laid his hand persuasively 
 on Harry's shoulder, and, looking with twinkling smiles in his face, 
 said, " But now you'll come a little more among us, my boy. Just 
 a little more larking now and then. It's wonderfully good for the 
 spirits. Farewell." 
 
 # •:;• -£ # • • 
 
 While all these events, so interesting, no doubt, to the parties 
 concerned, were going forward, the nation at large went about its 
 business with a placid and sometimes grateful consciousness of 
 having accomplished a mighty revolution without bloodshed, and 
 placed England once more in the van of political progress and 
 national liberty among the nations of the world. But for all that, 
 fear and sorrow, crushing anguish in many and many a home, had 
 been and still were blanching the cheek and making the heart chill. 
 The grim foe had come at last. For months before, it had been 
 an occasional topic of conversation. Round comfortable firesides, 
 in the lobby of the House of Commons, in the quadrangles of 
 many an hospital, and in crowded tap-rooms, speculation had been 
 rife as to whether "Cholera morbus" would really ever get as far 
 as our shores. From India to England was a very long way. But 
 Constantinople was much nearer. Still, the plague often ravaged 
 those parts, and we were none the worse. Oh, it was all right 
 enough, never fear. . . . But on, and on, and on it came, 
 creeping or leaping, day by day. Up the Danube, down the 
 Vistula, over the Carpathians, till Vienna ami Berlin were like pest- 
 houses. Then Englishmen began to tremble. The Blue Torture
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 99 
 
 was certainly striding steadily westward. No earthly power can 
 stop it. "It is at Paris!" "Hundreds — thousands are dying 
 daily." ... At length we hear the words : The Cholera is 
 in England, and many a stout brave heart of man and woman for 
 a moment sickened with fear and grief at the terrible announce- 
 ment. It was its first visitation, and people's ignorance naturally 
 magnified its terrors and increased its danger. 
 
 One morning, when Gerald came to the counting-house, he 
 found a junior clerk and a rough looking man keeping guard at the 
 entrance. " Can't go in, sir ; Mr. Ainsworth died here of cholera 
 last night. Seized about seven o'clock — a corpse at midnight. 
 Books all taken to Billiter Square, sir, at Messrs. Harrisons." 
 
 "It's coming home to us with a vengeance," thought young 
 Arlington. The docks looked very melancholy to him that day. 
 Many a ship had got the yellow flag flying, and hardy fellows who 
 had been helping the medical man round the bed or hammock 
 of a poor wretch, twisting in the agonies of the disease, looked 
 more serious or scared than they had ever done before in theii 
 lives. 
 
 " Mr. Arlington," said the family apothecary, one morning to that 
 gentleman, just before he started for the city, " I don't like the 
 looks of your son at all. I'm certain he's overdoing it. Mrs. 
 Arlington admits that he often sits up half the night. If you 
 remember, he had a bad attack of spasmodic cholic last summer, 
 and I told her then he wouldn't stand the life he was leading. She 
 confessed yesterday that he has never been really well since, and 
 she wished me to talk to you about it." 
 
 " Thank you, doctor — thank you. I must stop that studying and 
 writing. He hasn't got the stamina for it. I never liked that 
 literary society he has established." 
 
 Mr. Arlington drew a heavy sigh as he slowly paced from the 
 gate on his handsome chestnut, for he thought how his son's whole 
 interest was evidently centred in the said society, and in his studies 
 for it. He saw the conflict between Duty and Inclination ; and saw, 
 too, the civil war growing more and more inevitable between himself 
 and his son. 
 
 He must, at all events, save his health, that was the first thing. 
 
 Before he left town that evening he sent for Gerald, and spoke 
 kindly, but decisively. 
 
 "There must be an end to all this study work. You'll be killing 
 yourself soon, at the present rale." 
 
 "I don't see much use in living if I can do nothing but " 
 
 answered Gerald, then stopped, his whole frame trembling with
 
 IOO GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 excitement. Mr. Arlington looked at him in great astonisnment. 
 His son was little accustomed to speak to him in tones like these. 
 
 " You can still attend your society, if you like," he at length 
 answered, kindly. "But Mr. Oakshaw says you mustn't study 
 for it." 
 
 "There is no good in going, father, if I cannot prepare for 
 it . . . Besides ..." And thoughts, hopes, and resolves, with 
 which we are only too familiar, came surging up, and choked his 
 utterance. But his poor father, too, was on no bed of roses. Here 
 was something perfectly new — the character of this son of his. 
 Alas! for his parental dreams. He rode home sorrowfully; while 
 his son galloped frantically down the Hackney Road, and over the 
 Essex (Lea-bridge) meadows, or marshes as they were unjustly 
 called, at a rate that equally astonished and delighted Gypsey. 
 
 The meeting of the society the following night was at Mr. James 
 Pierce's lodgings in University Street. Ned Grant, Bob Nicholson, 
 and about half-a-dozen others, chiefly University men, were present. 
 (Hackett had been black-balled at the starting of the Club.) Tea 
 having been disposed of, Pierce, as chairman for the evening, 
 opened the ball. But Gerald was to be the hero of that night. 
 How he had looked forward to it ! as the occasion on which he 
 was to read his introductory essay on the noble question, which at 
 least he deserved some credit for propounding. 
 
 But until he drew forth his MS. his soul was dark within him. 
 Like a hunted hart (to adopt a highly original metaphor) with 
 a yelling pack of wolves on his track — Ambition, Imagination. 
 Egotism, Love, Craving for Applause, Benevolence, Poetic fire, 
 filial Duty, fatal Disease, all madly hounding him on : he doubled 
 sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another. More than 
 one of his friends noticed that he looked ill, and even grunting 
 Bob forbore to be satirical. As the young essayist proceeded with 
 his paper, it must be confessed a half-suppressed grunt now and 
 then from the said Bob of indignant contempt for the flowery, 
 long-winded sentences was occasionally audible ; but not to the 
 reader, and by degrees the whole party, even Bob himself, were 
 listening with fixed attention, and no slight interest. Most of 
 them thought the composition splendid. A fine esprit de corps 
 made them exult in young Arlington's undoubted power of thought 
 and beauty of language in spite of all his exaggerations. He 
 himself was carried away by his subject — warmed into a fine 
 enthusiasm, "and with his forehead touched the stars of Heaven," 
 when suddenly he dropped his MS., and started from his seat with 
 a cry of pain. All were in confusion. " No matter — it's nothing
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 101 
 
 at all — I've felt it before — I beg your pardon — " and he resumed 
 his reading. His favourite paragraph, the eloquent winding up 
 was just finished . . . a murmur of applause and congratulation 
 was buzzing round. — It was a moment of intense happiness. . . . 
 Pierce was watching the young orator uneasily. . . . 
 
 Ten minutes later, a medical student, just coming out of the 
 University College gates, shouted out, " Hullo, Pierce ! what are 
 you in a blaze about?" as that individual rushed by him. 
 
 "Running a race with Death!" cried Pierce, without pausing. 
 Then, as the other came rattling after him, he slackened his 
 pace and bawled over his shoulder, "Cholera at my lodgings! 
 Send a nurse and brandy!" Then he was off again like a 
 shot for the nearest of the Professors, who had been specially 
 treating the fatal scourge in London. 
 
 Half-an-hour passed, and a man was scudding along through 
 the dark night, up Pentonville Hill, through Islington, Dalston, 
 Clapton, into Essex, as fast as his horse could lay legs to the 
 ground, and so on to Hartland House. An hour or two more, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Arlington were standing at the bedside of their 
 beloved boy, racked with anguish to see his tortures, and never 
 feeling so intensely how they loved him, and how utterly helpless 
 was their human love. 
 
 Mr. Grant had been most friendly and useful. The moment 
 poor Ned burst into the drawing-room with the dismal news, Anne 
 Grant, as well as her mother, begged permission to go and nurse 
 the sufferer, for in such a moment the conventionalisms of life seem 
 to shrivel up before the flame of genuine Christian sympathy. But 
 when Ned said that Nicholson had run for a professional nurse, 
 according to Pierce's instructions, Mr. Grant insisted on no one 
 stirring out but himself. 
 
 Hour after hour dragged on. Everything was done that skill and 
 tenderness could do in the brief period within which the battle must 
 be fought. But all seemed in vain. 
 
 " Everything depends, dear madam," replied the eminent phy- 
 sician, who was fighting the monster, as if his own life depended 
 upon it — " everything now depends upon the success of this new 
 remedy. I have great faith in these saline injections into the 
 blood. I have seen wonderful cures, at the Middlesex and else 
 where, during the last few days, by this means." 
 
 Minute after minute went on. The sobbing groans of the patient 
 had ceased. A dead stillness pervaded the room. Is it indeed 
 death ? You cannot hear him breathe See, he moves ! Is it the 
 last throes ? — No — he is trying — yes, trying to take a ring off his
 
 102 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 poor twisted finger — strives to murmur something. His mother 
 bends down, with oh! such a passionate prayer going up from her 
 heart. " Harry!" whispered the sufferer. — "Yes, dear, I under- 
 stand. You want me to give this to him." . . . Minute after 
 minute went by. Once more there is absolute silence. Is it death 
 now? Listen for his breathing. . . . No, there is work for 
 him still to do in the world ... he is not " perfected " yet. 
 
 " Madam, your son is safe," whispered the physician. " See, he 
 
 sleeping," and the father and mother knelt by the bedside, in 
 t hanksgiving prayer. 
 
 The next evening, Harry Fortescue sat by his poor friend's bed- 
 side, holding one of his cold hands, and saying a few words now 
 and then of hearty cheer and loving sympathy. 
 
 The patient slowly mended. Mr. and Mrs. Arlington had hired 
 rooms next door, and many an anxious thought passed through the 
 minds of both concerning their son's future course. One evening 
 they were talking in Pierce's sitting-room with one of the classical 
 Professors of the college, who had come in to see his former pupil. 
 Harry was seated unnoticed in a corner ; Gerald was supposed to 
 be asleep in the next room. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Arlington," said the Professor, to whom Harry 
 had given a hint as to the state of things, " but I don't think you 
 quite appreciate your son's abilities. I believe if you could give 
 him two or three years more with us, he might take high rank in 
 several ways — for instance, as a literary man, or in Parliament," he 
 added, seeing Mr. Arlington's uneasiness; then continued, "this 
 essay," and he tapped poor Gerald's " Introductory," which had 
 been picked up from the floor the day after it had been read, and 
 narrowly escaped the useful office of lighting the parlour fire, 
 "this essay is rather an uncommon production for his years, and 
 the whole conception of the plan is admirable." 
 
 " Yes, yes, my dear sir, I can believe all you say," answered Mr. 
 Arlington, " and I thank you for it ; but I haven't the means of 
 supporting him all his life as a literary man, or as a member of 
 Parliament; and without an assured Independence I am thoroughly 
 convinced that such a life would be a miserable slavery, fatal to all 
 that is highest and best for him here, and hereafter. Besides, he 
 has not the constitution for such a career. We have had warning 
 enough — " 
 
 " He was attempting too much — " 
 
 " He would be alw&ys attempting too much if we once gave 
 him his head among these pursuits. You scarcely know the ill- 
 regulated, passionate enthusiasm o\ his nature, my dear sir. If he 

 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 103 
 
 were again to escape death by sudden illness, our medical man, 
 who has known him from a child, says he is certain to go off in a 
 decline if he studies hard ; and that his only chance of average 
 health is that he should be occupied with matter-of-fact business 
 and active pursuits." 
 
 "Then, sir," said Harry, rising and coming forward, " if I may 
 be permitted to speak, the sword will wear out the sheath as fast as 
 if he were studying. His mind would prey on itself — " 
 
 " That depends, Mr. Fortescue," answered the father rather 
 sternly, " upon whether my son is a rational and moral being. If 
 he cannot bring himself under the yoke of Duty, and give up his 
 dearest wishes at the command of Duty, and yet live on cheerfully 
 and usefully, he is not the man to succeed in anything; nor, I may 
 add, is be the young man I take him to be." His compressed lip 
 and contracted brow showed the deep and painful working of the 
 father's mind, and the words were uttered in a way that forbade 
 further controversy. Later in the evening, Mr. Arlington thanked 
 the Professor warmly for the kind and favourable opinion he had 
 expressed concerning his son's capacities, and of the introductory 
 Essay, and pressed him, though not very fervently, to visit them at 
 Hartland as soon as Gerald was well enough to be removed. 
 
 The last night before Gerald left Pierce's lodgings he was 
 thanking his host (who had coyly received a good fee from Mr. 
 Arlington) very heartily for all his attention and kindness. 
 
 "Pooh-pooh!" quoth that young gentleman, with a slightly self- 
 complacent smile, "merely professional, you know. Extremely 
 interesting case, you see — very useful to beginners. Glad we 
 pulled you through, though — near squeak, by gad! wasn't it? By 
 George, I thought you were booked when I came back with old 
 Square toes." 
 
 "Well, now, look here, Pierce. My father has agreed to my 
 brother Dick's strong wish to be a medical, and he's coining up 
 to the University next week. They want to know if he can lodge 
 here and mess with you, and if you'll look after him a bit?" 
 
 "With all my heart, Mr. Gerry. We'll put him up to snuff!" 
 And the speaker rubbed his hands complacently at the thought o 
 "all the larks" they would tumble him into. 
 
 "Confound it!" cried Gerald, "that's just what I donU wan* r ou 
 to do, my dear fellow. I mean, I want you to help him to keep out 
 of all this filth which medical students, with bright exceptions, 
 generally seem to plunge into, head over heels " 
 
 Pierce laughed a coarse laugh; 
 
 " Ah, it's all Very well, excellent old Sawbones," answered Gerald,
 
 104 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " but you can't laugh me into believing that the way many of you 
 fellows go on is either manly or gentlemanly." 
 
 " Well, if you want a saint to take care of him, Arlington, and 
 keep him like an anchorite in cotton wool, don't send him here." 
 
 " Nonsense, I don't expect — " But Gerald was disappointed. 
 Some further talk followed on the subject, and at length Pierce thus 
 delivered himself: — 
 
 " Now look here, Arlington. I don't understand you a bit. 
 You're no milk-sop. I've seen you, in a row, stand to your guns 
 in style, when other fellows have blenched. But what are you 
 talking such nonsense as this for ? I'll tell you what it is. Either 
 you have a cursedly bad opinion of us young body-cutters, much 
 worse than we deserve, or else you've got notions about what young 
 men generally should be, and should not be, fit only for a green 
 girl at her mother's apron-strings." 
 
 " And you must let me tell you, Pierce, however great a fool you 
 may think me, that young men are deucedly apt to forget how 
 they ought to treat the sex to which their mothers and sisters 
 
 belong " 
 
 "Whew!" 
 
 " And that some day they may have wives and daughters of their 
 own." 
 
 " Oh, hang it, we've nothing to do with wives, nor often with 
 sweethearts, either, for that matter." 
 
 " In another sense than what you mean, it would be a good job 
 if you all had, Pierce." 
 
 " But we can't ! Pray, what chance have young fellows, without 
 at least £s°° a y ear > or " getting any decent girl, or rather their 
 mammas, to let us form an • honourable attachment,' as you 
 call it?" 
 
 " Well, and what's to hinder you from waiting till you've got an 
 income? If a fellow doesn't begin walking in dirty ways, he won't 
 find it so hard to keep out of them. Nor even when he has, need 
 he stick to them. If he keeps a steady rein on himself as to his 
 diet and his thoughts, goes in for cold bathing and exercise — 
 and, above all, if he docs lots of real hard work — with God's help 
 and a strong will, he needn't be slave to his appetites, as any fellow 
 who has ever trained for a boat-race or read for honours knows 
 well enough. What in the name of Heaven," urged Gerald, 
 " is the use of our being created men and not animals if we 
 can't stick to some braver and nobler law than guides pigs and 
 monkeys!" 
 
 " Nobler be d— d! Beg pardon, but I must follow nature — look
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 105 
 
 after number one, and devil take the hindmost ! Besides," he 
 continued, " there's something so d — d unmanly and maudlin in 
 going on in the way you recommend !" 
 
 "Unmanly!" cried Gerald. " Well, now you are an — animal! 
 I tell you this, friend Pierce, if you'll allow me to quote a fact, our 
 grand old German fighting forefathers, the countrymen of Arminius, 
 the fellows who were the first barbarians that ever fairly licked those 
 plucky Romans, they had rather a different notion of what true 
 manliness was. Just hand me that volume of Caesar I see on your 
 shelves up there. Isn't that his 'Commentaries?' Here listen 
 to this — you did care a bit for the Literce ffumam'ores once, 
 I know: — 
 
 " ' Qui diutissime impuberes permanserunt, maximum inter suos 
 ferunt laudem ; hoc ali staturam, ali vires, nervosque confirmari 
 putant. Intra annum, vero, vigessimum fseminaa notitiam habuisse 
 in turpissimis habent rebus.'* 
 
 " Tacitus gives much the same account of them," continued 
 Gerry, "just hand me that 'Germania.' Listen, old fellow: — 
 "Sera juvenum Venus; eoque inexhausta pubertas; nee virgines 
 festinantur; eadem juventa, similis proceritas, pares validseque 
 miscentur; ac robora parentum liberi referunt.' f 
 
 " Sera" — " Diutissime," repeated Gerald, when he had finished. 
 "Those who remain longest .... most honoured. D'ye see? 
 They thought it more manly to wait, and ' nobler.' And I say 
 again, my boy, look at their pluck : remember, Pierce, these were 
 the fellows who, with their descendants, conquered Roman, Celt, 
 and Oriental, who now rule more than half the world; who, while 
 giving woman her true place in social life, and so far curbing their 
 mere animal passions, have made the words 'chivalry' and 'knightly 
 honour' synonymous with all that is manliest, bravest, and noblest in 
 the masculine genus. It is not" cried Arlington, smiting the table 
 as he raised himself from the sofa, " It ia not your debauchees, nor 
 loose, dirty fellows that are honoured and loved in any age. 
 It's men of clean, self-restrained, noble lives, Pierce, whom men 
 respect." 
 
 * Caesar. De Bello Gallico, Lib. vi., 21. " They, among their young people, are 
 the most honoured who remain longest chaste and unmarried ; by which abstinence 
 they deem stature and strength are nourished, and the muscles invigorated. To 
 indulge their passions, indeed, before their twentieth year is held to be most 
 utterly disgraceful." 
 
 t Tac. Germania. Cap. xx. " Their young people come together late ; and thus 
 the strength of both sexes is preserved. They marry about the same age, are of 
 nearly equal stature, and in the prime of life. Hence their children are as 
 vigorous as the parents."
 
 106 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Enough, enough, my valiant knight, I'm overpowered, regularly 
 squelched. Of course you think it's only our horrid nasty ways of 
 going on that make a fellow talk as we do." 
 
 " / don't say that, ' Esculapius,' " answered Gerald with a certain 
 irresistible smile, well known to his friends. " I'm not setting up to 
 jaw you like a clerical prig, so don't think it. All I say is, obsla 
 principiis* and don't call purity and self-control unmanly, for I 
 swear there's no true manhood, nobleness, valour, and all the rest 
 of it, without them, my beautiful doctor, that's all !" 
 
 " Perhaps you're right, Gerry," responded Pierce, demurely. 
 " Can't say. But don't be hard on us, old boy. Just you try our 
 life a bit, and you'll soon clutch at a straw to save your self-esteem." 
 
 " Thank you, Bobby, but if it's all the same to you, I better hadn't. 
 Good-night, and thanks for all your kindness, old chap." 
 
 Arlington was right, no doubt. Thank Heaven for teaching men 
 what true manhood is — whether they will always accept the teaching 
 or not, and even though uncorrupted so-called barbarians understood 
 it better than young dawdling civilized fops. Gerald Arlington's 
 companion, and a good many more, so far as their sentiments 
 and practice in this matter were concerned, might have been fitly 
 caged in the Zoological Gardens. Yet Master Pierce, and hundreds 
 of whom he is the representative man, would run any risks to save 
 a fellow creature from drowning or fever, cholera, &c. He gave 
 up his night's rest willingly, many a time, to attend some poor 
 wretch in the Seven Dials or St. Giles', and exceedingly disap- 
 proved of the first step and greatest wrong in the history of a 
 woman's ruin, though he didn't stop to ask where would be the 
 supply for the market in which he and thousands like him think it 
 no foul shame to deal, if there were no poor girls (chiefly among 
 the unprotected working class, remember,) first seduced by some 
 scoundrel or another. But all medical students, even in those days, 
 were not like Pierce; and many are very different now. 
 
 Richard Arlington came up to the University in Gower Street, 
 and did not lodge with Mr. Pierce, yet, nevertheless, was kindly 
 noticed and even patronized by that gentleman, and duly cautioned 
 against divers indiscretions, which forthwith poor Richard, however, 
 was strongly inclined to commit, and when Mr. Pierce once found 
 him returning with Hackett, from the Cyder Cellars about two 
 o'clock in the morning, the said Richard received so severe a 
 rebuke and such terrific warnings that henceforth he behaved 
 exceedingly well for a fortnight. Wo may well say " />eor Richard ! " 
 
 * " Resist at first,"
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 107 
 
 If we could sometimes see the end of those small beginnings we 
 should, .... well, — we should not begin. Write this quotation 
 for thy phylactery, my brother of eighteen, " Qui diutissime, &c.," 
 but also especially and emphatically that other, " Obsta principiis." 
 
 When Pierce told Hackett his conversation with Arlington, that 
 refined young gentleman answered, " Ridiculous duffer ! Why, 
 what a mean-souled ass the fellow must be ! I know I shall just 
 
 please myself as often as I can There's only one 
 
 drawback you know, Pierce." " I know," nodded Pierce, pen- 
 sively. " But, after all, don't you see that may be for our good, you 
 old scamp." "What the d — 1 do you mean?" growled Hackett. 
 " Why, help keep us out of the dirt," replied his friend in a 
 shame-faced way. "Gammon and bosh!" cried Hackett, with 
 blustering indignation. "Well, it's a bad business, anyhow," 
 quoth Pierce. "Come and let's have a chop." "Bad!" cried 
 Hackett, as they went out at the hospital gates. " It's a d — — d 
 shame that we can't follow nature without . . . . " But we 
 drop the curtain. It would be something to be thankful for if all 
 great evils and sins could be abolished without exposure. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Harry had returned to Cambridge as soon as his friend was out 
 of danger. He had been deeply touched with the incident of the 
 ring, and not a little impressed with the Essay and with Professor 
 
 \s opinion of it. Gerald and he met again at Christmas 
 
 time, round a cheerful blaze at Neville Court, where Richard and 
 Aunt Caroline were also amongst the guests. Cheerful, the party 
 certainly was, but not merry (with the exception of Master Dick), 
 and anxious forebodings in the minds of some, restless hopes, and 
 fears in the hearts of others, would intrude unbidden. 
 
 "Oh, if Mr. Gerald Arlington would but enter the Church," 
 sighed Ellen Fortescue, as she and Miss Tylney were at work one 
 morning during that foggy winter visit in the bay window hereto- 
 fore described. " But I forgot. You won't help him to that step. 
 Why arc there so many sects and divisions, dear?" 
 
 "Because the head divides— the Inarl unites — Nelly. And 
 people care more for opinions than for love," replied .Miss Tviney.
 
 108 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " If men loved Christ more, they would be drawn to each other as 
 servants of their common Saviour more powerfully than they could 
 be kept apart by differences of doctrinal belief." 
 
 "Oh, Caroline, if all Christians could but see that! .. (a pause). 
 But why should not your nephew be a dissenting minister ?" 
 
 " He was brought up to regard it rather as a vulgar calling, I fear, 
 and I should blush to tell you both how much there is to justify 
 that view, and how much some of the Dissenting laity do to make 
 it so, by their treatment of their ministers." 
 
 " But, dear Carry, if a man really had the love of Christ in his 
 heart, would such hindrances prevent him from serving his Lord ? 
 Would he not rejoice in taking part with his once crucified Saviour 
 down even to the humblest depth of humiliation, if he might only 
 thereby win souls to God? Do you remember that sketch of 
 Ignatius Loyola we read last summer ?" 
 
 " Nelly, every word you say is true. And I never saw so plainly 
 as I did yesterday how little real depth of religious principle there 
 is in that boy's soul." 
 
 " Not religious !" exclaimed Miss Fortescue. " Why I have heard 
 Harry speak so very warmly of his friend's piety. There is a 
 singularly beautiful passage on our power of loving God which 
 your nephew wrote out for Harry from an ' Essay on Fenelon,' by 
 Dr. Channing." 
 
 " I know it," answered Miss Tylney; " yes, he has much religious 
 sentiment, but what I mean is that he has very little depth of 
 religious conviction. I see almost everything else that is noble and 
 beautiful there — but not that — not deep religious convictions. Oh ! 
 Nelly, Nelly, not that, God help him!" the foolish tears would 
 come. " Besides, his father has almost a stronger repugnance to the 
 idea of the ministry than to that of a literary life. And so there 
 is nothing to be done, but reconcile him to a mercantile career." 
 
 But this was easier said than done. Of Gerald's sorrows and 
 strifes in this matter, of the long struggle against his fate and his 
 efforts to obey his father and yet to follow the bent of his own 
 genius, very little can be said in these pages, though a time and 
 place may occur fitting for their narration. 
 
 When Harry and Gerald met at Neville Court this winter, after 
 Harry's experiences in love-making on the shores of Windermere, 
 and Gerald's illness, they were naturally rather morose. Miss 
 Tylney, at the request of Mr. Arlington, had been explaining to 
 her nephew the utter impossibility of his father's supporting him 
 while he sought to prepare himself at home by study for the career 
 he had so ardently desired. He was about as miserable as could
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. log 
 
 be well conceived — for duty seemed to be pulling him in different 
 directions, and, as he observed to Harry, " that was about the worst 
 pain a fellow could suffer from, as far as he knew." 
 
 But he turned from his own troubles, after a long silence, to 
 cheer up his friend. 
 
 "Well, you, at all events, are a trump," remarked Harry, in reply, 
 holding out his hand to Arlington. " But when fellows really are 
 thoroughly unhappy, I don't see that there's any good in blinking 
 it, or pretending to be jolly. We'll stand up to our work and our 
 fate like bricks, old Gerry boy, but we needn't dance over the graves 
 
 of our hopes " and his voice quivered so that he thought he 
 
 had better stop. 
 
 " God bless you, Harry," answered Gerry, at length. " While 
 
 we can help one another it is only half as bad as . I wish I 
 
 could help you." Then a long pause, broken at length by Gerald's 
 asking Fortescue, " Have you been reading hard at Cambridge ?" 
 
 "Yes, but I don't find much good in it. But I'll tell you what, 
 Gerry, Providence has been merciful to me; and byway of en- 
 couragement, for trying to be a good boy, I have had such a re- 
 fresher in London." 
 
 " Glad of it. — As how ?" 
 
 " You know, I spent a few days at my uncle's in Wimpole Street. 
 Well, I found out Jemmy Pierce, and, by George ! we've been round 
 to half the hospitals in London. Been to clinical lectures, and to 
 operations, and dissecting-rooms. Oh, it's grand, Gerry, grand." 
 
 "Always said you should be a doctor." 
 
 " Ah ! if I could be !" cried Harry with a despairing enthusiasm. 
 
 There's something, to my mind, so wonderfully noble, so chival- 
 rous, so infernally courageous in the way these huge establishments, 
 and the gallant fellows who serve in them, stand up against the big 
 armies of Disease and Pain. Yes, I'd give something to enlist in 
 that army. I saw an operation for fungoid tumour at St. Thomas' ; 
 and the cool, scientific way in which that great knife, Green, re- 
 lieved the poor wretch, as utterly unmoved by the lad's cries as 
 Wellington at Waterloo, calmly determined to confer upon him the 
 greatest blessing man could then give him. — Faith, it would have 
 done your heart good to see it." 
 
 " Precious glad I didn't ! " 
 
 " And then those young rascals, the pupils, all hanging over the 
 rails of the operating-room to see the operation, laughing and jaw- 
 ing all the time. I should have said it was an abominable shame, for 
 it made my blood boil (when it got so bad that Mr. Green stopped 
 his cutting, and quietly rowed them), — only, I felt int^se admira-
 
 MO GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 tion for this perfect coolness among them all, and indifference to 
 mere pain. It is a great victory, Gerry, oh ! a great victory, when 
 men can be indifferent to pain, and treat it as no evil, but go right 
 forward to cut away the real evil of which pain is only the symptom." 
 
 " I suppose then, God is operating upon us now, for some good 
 purpose. He seems to be cutting our hearts out; though, perhaps, 
 it's a mere fungoid tumour, as you call it, after all." 
 
 " Yes, I often thought in the midst of my own misery, how I had 
 preached to you, and I believe it was the thought of that, and some 
 memory of my poor father's words, and the haunting idea that he 
 might be looking down upon me, kept me from some desperate step. 
 And now, see, just three or four days in London opens up quite a 
 new and blessed prospect, a sphere where calm beneficent power, 
 manly courage and wisdom, are fighting out victoriously a stern 
 and mighty battle. Yes. Heaven will help us." 
 
 " I believe it," said Gerald reverently ; " and we will be true to one 
 another, or we'll ' know the reason why !'" 
 
 Next day they had a capital run with some neighbouring beagles, 
 and the day after, Harry shot three brace of birds, and Gerry 
 picked them up (he never affected shooting himself, and declared 
 it was " slow"); but altogether they rose into a healthy, even slightly 
 cheerful, state of mind. 
 
 Oh Youth ! blessed, buoyant youth ! 
 
 Then Harry went to town, and bought books on Pathology, and 
 went back to Cambridge, wiser, sadder, yet stronger, and, in certain 
 respects, far more at peace than when he first enrolled himself a 
 member of that ancient University. Then the frost came, and he 
 took diligently to skating, and in time, to boating again, with a 
 hearty good will, and was made stroke-oar of his boat, and read 
 medically with the ardour of first love. 
 
 Gerald, having with his parents got back to Hartland, meanwhile, 
 re-trod the Custom House and the Docks, gave up all his studies, 
 and actually won over Mr. Bramble, by his fierce devotion to 
 business; mastered even the "Waste Book" (Mr. Grant had gone 
 into the Australian trade), and never gave another captain cauve of 
 complaint. But then he learned Schiller's " Die Idealen," by heart 
 in the evenings, and in secret loved Byron's "Manfred" and "Chikle 
 Harold " more passionately than ever — aye, loved them more than 
 even in the days of his first draughts from that sorcerer's cup, 
 for in the sorcerer's own unhallowed words — 
 
 "Great i^ their line, who love in guilt and fear."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Six months rolled away. Harry Fortescue worked on bravely at 
 his medical researches, and Gerald Arlington at his labours in the 
 City. But both men were deteriorating in more ways than one, 
 though gaining immensely in resolute strength of will, and so far 
 in real manliness of character. Then Mr. Arlington, with the 
 kindest words Gerald had ever had from him, gave his son a cheque 
 for £?,o, and told him to take a month's run in the Highlands. 
 Gerald did so, and for that time lived in a world of dazzling blessed- 
 ness, never to be forgotten. The glories and the raptures of that first 
 vision of the " land of the mountain and the flood," as he wandered 
 on, day after day, can be better imagined than described. But 
 there were deeper thoughts and joys in his soul, nourished amid 
 those mountains and lakes, than any of a merely landscape painter's 
 paradise. He had Goethe's " Dichtung und Wahrheit," in his 
 knapsack, and Carlyle's " Life of Schiller " in his heart, and he 
 returned to London resolved that thenceforth, for him also, as for 
 Goethe, "Fiction must be the life of his soul;" and that, like 
 Schiller, he would burst the walls of his dungeon by a tragedy, 
 which was already taking form in his imagination, and which, in 
 due course, should take the world by storm. 
 
 Weeks and months rolled on. The dark and gloomy days of 
 November were once again oppressing the spirits of His Majesty's 
 London lieges. The aristocracy of the north side of Oxford Street 
 were settling in for the winter. By-the-bye, what is fashion ? 
 Bulwer Lytton said, forty years ago, the north side of Oxford Street 
 was as much looked down upon by the south side, as Russell Square, 
 Tavistock Square, Gower Street, and all that " terra incog.," are by 
 the region stretching from Portland Place to Bryanston Square. 
 Mats nous avons change tout eel a. 
 
 Well, the visit of a distinguished foreigner to London, with 
 letters of introduction to Mr. Featherstone and Mr. Arlington, 
 among other " City dons," involved, even at that very early period 
 of the winter season, a magnificent entertainment at the house of 
 the former in Portland Place. But the hours were more rational 
 then. Six o'clock — Leila was just released from the hands of the 
 lady's-maid, and was in a slight flutter at the prospect before her. 
 It was her first grand dinner-party. She peeped into her sister's 
 room, partly to see if she could be of any use, ami parti) to gather 
 information. Yov thai young lady Miss Adelaide' a professor in the
 
 112 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 art of coiffures had been specially retained, and he had not yet com- 
 pleted his design. So Leila sat as meekly as she could till he had 
 retired, and then cautiously enquired concerning the expected 
 guests. Among others whom Adelaide condescended to name in 
 reply to Leila's dissatisfied and repeated " Nobody else ? " was, 
 " That square built oddity, Gerry Arlington," for whom she (i.e., 
 Adelaide) felt an irreverent mixture of antipathy and interest. 
 
 But Leila answered thoughtfully — 
 
 " Oh ! I'm glad his coming. There'll be somebody, at all events, 
 I can speak to." 
 
 " You don't know that, Miss Pussy," replied Adelaide, with 
 severe dignity. " I suppose you won't talk to him unless he talks 
 to you ? Perhaps he'll be occupied with me." 
 
 " But he always does talk to me," retorted Leila, with a curious 
 mixture of shyness and pride. " And what is more, ma belle soeur, 
 he talks to me as if I were a reasonable being — which you don't — 
 and almost all other young gentlemen that come here, if they 
 notice me at all, treat me with a kind of ridiculous condescending 
 empressement, which I suppose is meant to be very engaging and 
 polite, as unto a creature dressed like a woman, and without a soul." 
 
 " You are dreadfully fierce about it, my dear. But, come along ; 
 it is time we were in the drawing-room. I wish you joy of your 
 beau." 
 
 " Does my hair do ? Does the dress set well ? " 
 
 " No, of course not ; it never does." (Indignant aside from 
 Leila — " Oh, you Cross-patch ! ") "Now, Martha, quick ! — my satin 
 shoes. Don't be all night. Pearl-brooch. Quick! Oh, mercy ! 
 there's a double knock ! " and away they flew to the large, well- 
 lighted suite of drawing-rooms, where their father and mother 
 already sat in state. 
 
 A London dinner-party, during the month of November, in the 
 dreary wilds of Portland Place ! " What possible interest can attach 
 to such a common-place, prosaic piece of stuffing and gossiping?" 
 Nevertheless, it is in just these common-place scenes that life's 
 deepest poetry, of course, will often be found. Perhaps it is the 
 contrast of the prosy outward circumstances with the passionate 
 romance that is heaving beneath them, which creates so touching a 
 picture. Many a tragic drama is going on every day in cabs or 
 omnibuses, at street corners, and in garrets, as well as on opera- 
 boards and in salons. But however dull and stupid the rest of the 
 party in Portland Place may have been, there were two young 
 hearts there that night circling round each other in strange 
 celestial dance to music of the spheres— as we suppose our Carlyle
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. I I 3 
 
 would have it — drawn together by sweet, mysterious attraction : 
 two eternities waiting, perhaps, to be moulded by the influences of 
 that evening's party. Adelaide had been put into supreme good 
 humour by the marked pleasure with which one of the guests — an 
 agreeable, only son of a rich county baronet — had greeted and 
 conversed with her, after the interval that had elapsed since sundry 
 promenades last summer at Hastings. Hence, she contrived to do 
 a little benevolence by giving her sister to Gerald Arlington to 
 hand down to dinner. And so, while the distinguished foreigner 
 talked with Mr. Featherstone, and Mr. Arlington, Senr., with a 
 young Lord of the Admiralty (only son of a peer) and the baronet 
 about railways, reform bills, and the progress of Russia — while a 
 dozen other voices buzzed and chattered around them — while 
 servants moved rapidly to and fro, and champagne was handed, 
 and silver plate flashed, and course after course appeared and 
 vanished — Leila and Gerald glided off on a quiet little cruise of 
 conversation by themselves — sailed away under sunny skies into 
 regions of poetry and art, where they were not likely to be 
 disturbed. A very beautiful cruise it seemed to both of them — 
 certainly very different from the ordinary tenor of their lives. Yet, 
 strange to say, their talk was at length suspended, for opposite to 
 them sat an artist of no mean celebrity, who had kindly shown 
 Alfred Featherstone some attention, and who occasionally deigned 
 to honour with his presence the circle in Portland Place. He was 
 speaking of Alfred, who was then again at Cambridge, and that 
 was sufficient to rivet Leila's attention. He praised her brother's 
 abilities, and lamented the said brother's want of determination to 
 overcome the difficulties of a thorough art-training. He referred 
 with special delight to a masterly sketch by him, which he had 
 lately seen, of one of the old Norse heroes returning from battle. 
 Leila's dark eyes glistened so brightly, while her heart beat high 
 with gladness, that the artist glanced at her admiringly as he 
 observed, " I think, Miss Leila, you seem to know something 
 about that sketch." 
 
 And Gerald felt just a trifle jealous. But soon the dangerous and 
 delightful man went off into remarks upon art generally, and 
 Gerald's whole soul was listening. Yet before long, to Leila's 
 silent wonder and enjoyment, Gerald himself was taking part in the 
 conversation, and the artist was listening and replying with con- 
 siderable interest. Gradually the rest of their half of the table 
 were listening too, and Leila slightly trembled at the awful position 
 her charming companion had got into, and then her colour rose to 
 hear what he said and how he said it, and she did so long for
 
 I 14 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Alfred to hear it all, until she dropped from her shining heavens, as 
 she found the ladies rising from table, and herself back in the dull 
 world again of common prose, retiring with eight or ten respectable 
 ladies, young and old, to the drawing-room. There they sat, 
 discussing the weather and their mutual acquaintances, their 
 servants, &c, in the most amiable style of the newest common- 
 places for — what seemed to Leila — an interminable time. 
 
 Long before the usual period had elapsed, she caught herself 
 looking each time the drawing-room door opened to see if the 
 gentlemen were coming up. She could not at all understand the 
 interest with which she was wondering whether young Mr. Arlington 
 would come and talk to her again, and whether he would be asked 
 to sing, or whether he would be more attracted by other young 
 ladies and gentlemen in the room. She had been accustomed 
 to think of him as a wonderful genius, full of poetry and song, 
 of passion and romance, but still she knew that he had been 
 described by her father and other prosaic people as " a weak young 
 man," and she hated and despised weak young men with all 
 her heart. But that evening he had seemed so calm and strong, for 
 in truth he ivas full of new life, strength, and hope, all drawn from 
 his discoveries about fiction, and his labours at the "Dramatic 
 Romance." Hence he seemed to her so calm, and therefore 
 so different from what he used to be, and yet full of that enthusiasm 
 which she had heard her "circle," especially Harry and Alfred, 
 speak of, but which had only once before burst forth to her, 
 viz., when they sat together among the myrtles, at the ever-to- 
 be-remembered dance. 
 
 Meantime Gerald himself was fuming away downstairs, as 
 he passed the decanters, longing to escape to the drawing room ; 
 for the artist ,'had plunged con amore into the railway subject with 
 Mr. Arlington and the Russian Baron, and there was no more talk 
 to be had with him. So when he heard the arrival of a few more 
 guests for the evening party, Gerald incontinently took to his heels 
 and joined the ladies. 
 
 Handsome old ladies, graceful young ones, all dressed to 
 advantage — grouped, of course, in highly picturesque attitudes. 
 But Gerald's eyes were not resting on them. He was furtively 
 glancing at the one sylph-like form in white, that pale-faced 
 girl, with the large, roving eyes, and the dark hair, in which a 
 red camellia bud was twined — whose countenance expressed latent 
 passion, blended with an indescribable mixture of sweetness 
 and cynicism, love, and tartness, all in one, and in whose movements 
 were a curious yet bewitching combination of subdued energy and
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 1 5 
 
 restless shyness with maidenly grace. No wonder his susceptible 
 heart beat rapidly as he thought he saw those eyes glancing 
 towards him, away from the lady to whom she was talking, and 
 then half a movement, as if to offer him some tea. So when the 
 gentlemen came up, and screened the maiden and himself from 
 observation, he drew nigh ; and then, as she was a daughter of the 
 house, it was only proper, after he had accepted the tea, that 
 she should show him a little attention, and timidly invite him 
 to look at some prints ; and then he could do no less than gradually 
 draw her on into the small further drawing-room (where those 
 beautiful and well-remembered shrubs were grouped), by asking 
 her to explain other pictures hanging there. 
 
 And so once again "among the myrtles" they sat down on an 
 ottoman, and stepped into their little fairy bark again, and glided 
 away together " over the moonlit sea." 
 
 Adelaide was too happy with her baronet's only son, and her 
 mother too busy at cards, and the rest of the company all too well 
 occupied or too polite to disturb them, and besides, they were 
 about the most insignificant people in the room ! So the evening 
 sped on, and at length music came at intervals. 
 
 Then Gerald Arlington — feeling that he played on the beautiful 
 young soul beside him, as the musician on the keys — found that it 
 answered to his touch with its exquisite sympathies, and that he 
 had met with one, who to all her other marvellous charms added 
 this crowning one of all— that she liked to listen to him — rejoiced 
 in what he enjoyed — lived in his noblest life — lived, to use her own 
 words, " so that she seemed never to have lived before." No 
 wonder that Gerald felt also that something of which he had 
 long dreamed and passionately craved for — some divine vision of 
 beauty and bliss that had haunted him for years — was being actually 
 unveiled. He saw the bright light coming from behind the cloud, 
 and felt that a far brighter glory was perhaps awaiting him. Yes — 
 a divine Radiance — might it not soon be revealed ? 
 
 Leila, after a fearful glance at her mother and Adelaide through 
 the long vista of rooms and people, gave herself up to the enchant- 
 ment of the hour, and thought for a moment that all she had heard 
 about a ruined world and total depravity was a lie, and that earth 
 was beautiful, and that God and heaven were very near. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed once, after Gerald had been describing a 
 life consecrated to making the world beautiful by Art and Fiction, 
 Poetry and Song, and thereby filling many hearts with thoughts of 
 " all things lovely and of good report" — " oh ! if only I knew what 
 was really right — what one ought to do — I would so gladly spend
 
 Il6 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 my life in doing it! But it seems to me sometimes all so confused. 
 I think God meant us to be happy — else I would determine to do 
 without happiness. But do you not know, Mr. Arlington, what it 
 is to go on, day after day, trying to do all your work rightly — trying 
 to conquer all bad feelings — and yet all the time to feel so — so 
 sorrowful ? " 
 
 " Do I not know it ?" exclaimed Gerald, fervently. 
 
 "And yet," continued Leila, "one seems every now and then 
 
 to have a glimpse of a brighter, happier life " (Her voice 
 
 trembled.) 
 
 " Yes, and a truer life ! " exclaimed her companion. And he 
 looked into her sad face with a passionate, wistful gaze, as if he 
 longed with infinite desire to lift her up and bear her far away to 
 that diviner sphere. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Featherstone, a truer life, because one more truly in 
 harmony with all God's purposes. There is such a life to be lived 
 even on earth. I have so ardently craved and prayed for it. I 
 know we are intended to live that life in spite of all the petty 
 cares and mean drudgery of existence, and we can help men to 
 live it." 
 
 "But this drudgery, surely, is honourable," said Leila, after a 
 pause. " Doing one's Duty under all circumstances is noble." 
 
 " Very noble. But what is one's Duty ? I say that we must live 
 to make life in harmony with the Divine life, and that is very, very 
 different from the ordinary existence men choose to submit to." 
 
 " Have we any choice but submission ? I put my neck under the 
 yoke of conscience, but, indeed, it is sometimes so hard and heavy 
 to bear." 
 
 And as she looked at him with a sorrowful smile the foolish boy 
 thought of an angel which had lost its way and forgotten how to 
 return to heaven. 
 
 " We have a choice permitted us," exclaimed Gerald, impetu- 
 ously. " Everything is granted to the resolute will seeking for the 
 Beautiful and True. And all these hindrances are only phantoms 
 that yield to our determined striving " 
 
 How he longed to add " dear Leila," but he dared not. So he 
 hurried on with impassioned fervour — 
 
 " You can, you will, find this diviner life in Art, in the love of all 
 things Beautiful — in working to reproduce them for the elevation 
 and blessing of those around you. This is the life, the nature, of 
 God. This raises us above all the wretched cares and poor desires 
 of common life—above the foolish and angry strifes of existence — 
 above the gains and covetousness of a mere business career. It
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 II 7 
 
 allies one with the ideal and yet most real beings whom the 
 ancient Greeks feigned to reside in every grove and stream, but 
 allies us with them most of all in their divine serenity on Mount 
 Olympus, with the glorious spirits of men who carved the Apollo 
 Belvidere and the Juno Ludovisi, and their glorious Diana — with 
 the men who wrote the • Phaedon ' and ' Iphigenia,' ' Comus ' and 
 ' Wallenstein,' « Childe Harold ' and ' Faust.' Oh ! never doubt, 
 this is what we are created for. Music, harmony, love." 
 
 Abashed, at length he paused. Leila glanced at him, and her 
 eye fell before his gaze. It was very sweet and pleasant. 
 
 " I cannot tell you," she murmured, after a moment's shy 
 hesitation, " the blessing it is to me to hear you talk like this — 
 though I know many there — (looking at the company) — would 
 laugh at us and call it all moonshine and madness. I have 
 heard only such different views of life preached, Sundays as 
 well as week-days. My parents — our governess — are high 
 Calvinists. And surely even the world says ' nay' to most of 
 what you are urging." 
 
 "The world fights against us," answered Gerald, with kindling 
 eye, " as do the cravings of the bodily life ; and true artist-workers 
 must often lay aside the pencil, the chisel, or the pen, to repel its 
 attacks or perform its behests — but we grow stronger and braver 
 day by day — and at length command both the world and our- 
 selves." 
 
 Arlington's face glowed with conscious power and pride ; but his 
 voice soon fell into softer tones as he bent his head nearer to his 
 companion's face. " Herein, I think, is solved the terrible riddle 
 we have both been tortured by. For do we not see how obedience 
 to Duty, to Conscience, is thus harmonized with obedience to our 
 divine instincts that crave for Beauty, Love, and Harmony ? It is 
 our highest duty to others, and ourselves, thus to fill their and our 
 own life with what things soever are true and lovely, bright and 
 pure. Let me read you this passage from Schiller's ' Letters on 
 ^Esthetic Culture," he continued, drawing a memorandum-book 
 from his pocket. " He has been speaking of the power of beauty 
 over the soul, and how it helps to bring us into that condition 
 which he calls ' Play,' i.e, perfect freedom from labour, compulsion, 
 anxiety, and fear — that state which alone is the perfect development 
 of humanity, the true end and aim of life. ' This principle,' he 
 says, 'is only startling in science; it long ago lived and worked in 
 the art and the feeling of the Greeks, as their most honoured 
 master ; but they transplanted to Olympus what should have 
 flourished upon earth. Guided by truth itself, they caused both
 
 I 1 8 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 the seriousness and the toil which furrow the cheeks of mortals, 
 and the vain pleasure which smooths the vacant countenance, to 
 disappear from the forehead of the celestials — they freed the ever- 
 happy from the fetters of all motive, all duty, all care, and made 
 indolence and indifference the enviable lot of divinity.' " (Leila 
 started, but resumed her delighted gaze as Gerald hastened to 
 explain.) " He merely means the absence of effort and anxiety, as 
 he shows by the next words — ' Divinity, which is merely a human 
 name for the freest and noblest existence.' He describes how in 
 this state, under the influence of beauty and love, men's wills and 
 inclinations blend in perfect harmony with the divine laws ; so that 
 there is no strife, no struggling, or unsatisfied longing. He speaks 
 of a glorious Grecian statue of Juno, full of feminine, most attrac- 
 tive loveliness, yet, at the same time, possessed by a spirit of divine 
 self-sufficing dignity and peace. ' Irresistibly seized and attracted,' 
 he says, ■ by the graciousness, yet repelled by the self-sufficiency, 
 we find ourselves at the same time in a condition of the highest 
 peace and the highest emotion ; and there results that wonderful 
 feeling for which the intellect has no conception and language no 
 name.' " 
 
 Leila heaved a profound sigh of mingled delight and mystified 
 wonder, and as she and Gerald looked at each other, they found 
 themselves beginning a quiet, delicious little laugh ; but Gerald 
 hastened on — 
 
 "Yes, it is queer; but — you seem to like it," he added, with an 
 inquiring smile. No answer. A momentary pause. A downcast 
 look and a blush on the maiden's face. Then looking up with a 
 playful smile that was half a sigh, she said, 
 
 " Ah — yes — that is, — I do like your being so romantic." 
 Encouragement enough for Gerald again to glide swiftly on — 
 " Then, dear Miss Featherstone, let me ask you to see how 
 another writer brings out what I feel, and want you to feel, is the 
 grand lesson we all have to learn. ' The holy work of Beauty,' 
 he says, ' is not limited merely to its attractive power. It does 
 not aid in our reconciliation to God by simply leading us to obey 
 the divine will with joy' (which the writer has been showing is 
 one of its greatest functions) ; ' it also exerts a direct influence on 
 our souls, which, of itself, tends, with deep mysterious power, to 
 place us in harmony with God. In proportion as we feel the in- 
 fluence of Beauty entirely occupying our souls, we are in heaven, 
 dwelling in God and God in us. At such times we feel no com- 
 pulsion, no passion, no sin — all is serene peace and sublime joy." " 
 What wonder if Leila Featherstone listened that evening, as she
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. IJQ 
 
 had never listened to mortal voice before — certainly not from the 
 pulpit ; no, nor even in the concert-room. Gerald's words came to her 
 oppressed spirit like an evangel, lifting off the heavy compulsion of 
 conscience — the stern yoke she had partly accepted from others, 
 partly sought for herself — delivering her from the galling burden 
 of that atmosphere of intense worldliness, mingled with a hard, 
 gloomy religion in which she had been nurtured. But those words, 
 also, 'came to her with such mighty power, because of the unutter- 
 able happiness of sympathy — of finding a pure, ardent nature that 
 cared to say all this to her — one who thought her worth his sharing 
 with her the thoughts of his romantic, pure, and poetic nature ; 
 and who said it all with such tender interest in her difficulties and 
 sorrows. This unwonted happiness and blessed consciousness of 
 being understood and cared for wrought like a spring of new life 
 to poor Lilybell, exorcised every trace of " uncanniness " and evil 
 temper, and at length gave a playfulness to her manner which was 
 inexpressibly fascinating ; while the very depth and intensity of the 
 admiration her lover had begun to feel for her, had soon driven 
 out the mocking spirit of worldliness which (however subdued by 
 his nobler nature) was ever latent in his soul as a reaction, perhaps, 
 from his vehement and impatient enthusiasm. And then the charm, 
 to Gerald, of the ravishing contrast between the coarse, worldly, or 
 antagonistic element in which he was usually immersed, and the 
 sweet enthusiasm of this young girl, with her shy glances and re- 
 pressed playfulness and pure far-reaching aspirations — so different, 
 too, from the mere softness or empty-headed frivolity of most other 
 young ladies he met with. No wonder they both looked so marvel- 
 lously happy and picturesque, that the artist's eye, as he leaned 
 against the folding-doors of the larger room, lingered involuntarily, 
 though furtively, more than once on the singular loveliness of the 
 maiden's usually pale face, flushed as it was now with excitement, 
 or that it rested for an instant on Gerald's handsome, animated 
 countenance, which told so plainly the "old, old tale;" no wonder 
 that, then, he turned to a friend and murmured, " Eden is not lost 
 for all of us — yet." 
 
 So the hand of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece moved 
 from half-past nine to ten and then towards another half hour 
 And still they talked on and on. And Leila gradually traburthened 
 her mind of many a weary care and haunting trouble by speaking 
 in generalities and putting suppositious cases. For yonr shy people, 
 when once the ice is broken and the sweet relief of sympathy 
 comes at last, are often carried into great frankness, an 1 she felt 
 a wonderful confidence in the soul that was speaking, alike
 
 120 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 through the lips and the clear depths of the eyes that glowed 
 upon her. Then there rose up and floated on through the hushed 
 crowd the thrilling tones of Adelaide's superb voice. This was 
 all that was wanting to fill to the brim Gerald's bliss. He sat 
 entranced. But on Leila's countenance a shadow had fallen. 
 Perhaps she was thinking how little (for her sister went to concerts 
 and operas innumerable) Art had done to make Adelaide what her 
 own hungering heart and loyal reverent nature sought for in an 
 elder sister. Then, again, she could not help fearing, with a cold 
 chill, that, although her brother was certainly in his best and 
 purest state of mind when absorbed in his artistic pursuits, most 
 like what she loved and longed to see him always, yet that Art was 
 doing little to make him either a really noble character, or to give 
 to him, any more than to her sister, peace. But these mournful 
 doubts fled as she heard Gerald's low earnest tones, in that silvery 
 voice of his, once again, and saw him pointing her attention to the 
 faces of some of the guests as Adelaide began another exquisite 
 song. 
 
 " See," — he whispered — " see how, when people are really 
 under the influence of the Beautiful, their souls are purified and at 
 rest. Look at their faces. Whatever love and purity, whatever 
 worth and nobleness is in them, seems then called forth. They 
 are ennobled, refined, and placed in harmony with the uni- 
 verse." 
 
 When Gerald was quoting that passage from Schiller's "Letters" 
 he was tempted to quote another and far more beautiful passage, 
 bearing a wonderful similarity to this — written by a man who had 
 probably never seen those " Letters." It was a passage from Dr. 
 Channing's " Essay on Fenelon," describing the two kinds of peace 
 known on earth, but the second being the very breath of heaven. 
 Yet dear as those words of the great American had once been to 
 Gerald in their highest meaning, as describing the peace of 
 religion, he knew that this was not the sense in which he valued 
 them now. Had he quoted them that night to Leila Featherstone 
 it would have been in support of his impassioned pleading for the 
 divine influences of Art, not of Religion ; and yet he felt, somehow, 
 that this would have been slightly lowering their glorious meaning. 
 So he let them pass. 
 
 When the song had ceased he continued thus : " Do you know 
 these lines of Wordsworth in the ' Excursion,' Book IX., beginning 
 ' And 'tis known ? ' " 
 
 " No ; mamma has not encouraged us to read much poetry. I 
 wish she would. Adelaide would have liked it once, but she does
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 121 
 
 not care for it now. But I do know Wordsworth's ' Lines on 
 Tintern Abbey/ and I sometimes think if people felt oftener what 
 he describes it would be better for us all. Can you tell me what 
 he says in the passage you spoke of ?" 
 
 With almost as much bashfulness as his companion was manifest- 
 ing, Gerald began repeating — 
 
 " And 'tis known 
 That when we stand upon our native soil, 
 Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
 Our active powers, those powers themselves become 
 Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 They sweep distemper from the busy day, 
 And make the chalice of the big round year 
 Run o'er with gladness ; whence the being moves 
 In beauty through the world, and all who see 
 Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 
 
 " Excursion," Book IX. 
 
 " Oh! how beautiful," murmured Leila, with another sigh of infinite 
 relief and thankfulness ; timidly adding, " Will you mark the place 
 for me in my Wordsworth ? Miss Fortescue has given it to me." 
 
 "I shall be so glad." 
 
 " And yet," quoth Leila, with a pensive and rather dubious after- 
 thought, " his words sound, as if he thought we could do everything 
 for ourselves." 
 
 "And so we can!" exclaimed Gerald, with enthusiasm. ''All 
 things are possible, if only — we are true to ourselves. And, Lady 
 Leila," he continued, as she rose and he took her hand, " will you — 
 will you let me send you an extract from that work by my favourite 
 Schiller ? His ' Letters on /Esthetic Culture.' (What I quoted from a 
 little while ago. You must read them.) And shall we often think " — 
 he had kept this word for the last : he saw they must at length 
 leave their Paradisaical little nook, for people were beginning to 
 move off, and his father and mother were looking about for him — 
 
 " shall we often think of what we can do to beautify life, 
 
 and try to do this as our rightful duty ? And shall we not, 
 
 after doing the needful work that the world thrusts upon us, return 
 swiftly to the higher task that shall bring to those we love — and 
 perhaps to those who love not us — far greater blessings than any- 
 thing else on earth ? Coming, mother. Good night, Miss Feather- 
 stone." 
 
 One farewell glance, one pressure of the hand, and they had 
 passed from the starry world above into the dull, actual world 
 below. But the glow of Eden was on them both for many a day. 
 Not the sheen of the fiery sword; no, surely not. They were sent
 
 122 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 forth from the Garden not because they had sinned. . . . Yet 
 
 but we must not anticipate. 
 
 And Leila (whatever might hereafter be in store for her), when 
 she reached her own little room, flung herself on her knees by her 
 bedside, and thanked God that He had at length granted her to 
 meet with an understanding, sympathising friend. And she fell 
 asleep that night thinking of all she could do to help Alfred with 
 noble subjects for his pencil, and by writing illustrations for them, 
 and by " aesthetic letters" help to keep him up to live the diviner 
 life. She awoke the next morning with a feeling that her former 
 troubled life had passed away, that heaven had indeed begun for 
 her on earth, and that all which before she had so often passionately 
 longed to do, but which seemed as a forbidden joy, to be snatched 
 only by stealth and with a guilty conscience, was now rising before 
 her as a holy duty, and " a joy for ever." 
 
 And Gerald figured in her vision as a bright and conquering 
 youth, Perseus-like, winged and armed in brilliant panoply, 
 delivering her, the poor chained Andromeda, from her rock. 
 " Then," says the sentimental reader, " surely that meeting was 
 indeed one of those glorious moments in two young lives when a 
 youth and maiden first find their true blessedness in mutual, holy, 
 fervent love, when two answering souls, as the English prophet 
 says, first rush together in glowing lambent flame to heaven." 
 Alas, not so, too sanguine and sentimental reader. As days stole 
 on, if any discerning friends of the youth had cared to inquire into 
 the state of Leila Featherstone's heart, they would have had much 
 reason to doubt whether she was really in love with Gerald Arlington 
 at all. It would have been pretty evident that she thought more of 
 what had been said to her that night than of him who said it. It 
 was upon working with and for Alfred that her mind seemed con- 
 tinually dwelling, rather than engaged in snatching brief tender 
 glimpses of future bliss in Gerald's company. She felt profoundly 
 grateful to young Mr. Arlington — felt he was a friend whom she 
 longed to keep a friend for ever; but she was not in love with him. 
 No, reports our discerning friend, decidedly not in love. Yet, as 
 usual in such cases, her feelings underwent strange alternations — 
 almost fierce revulsions. Sometimes she felt drawn towards the 
 young poet with irresistible tenderness, and then filled with a wild 
 scorn for the " dreamy, weak enthusiast." 
 
 Had she, indeed, cared to analyze such subtle and complicated 
 feelings (which, thank Heaven, she did not, and was far too simple- 
 minded and maidenly to do) she would perhaps have been 
 conscious that she was much more really in love with Harrv
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 123 
 
 Fortescue than with Gerald Arlington. The former had been the 
 preserver of her beloved brother's life. He had first won her 
 romantic admiration, touched her girlish fancy, and the more, 
 because he had deeply loved and been cruelly used by her sister. 
 Had not that same girlish fancy been pre-occupied, probably she 
 might have tumbled fathoms deep in love with her fascinating, 
 silver-tongued, poetic Perseus ; for her romantic intellect, and 
 especially her conscience, which ruled supreme in her soul, were 
 satisfied with him. He seemed to be the complement of her 
 intellectual and moral being. But Mr. Fortescue, though he had 
 
 scarcely spoken two consecutive sentences to her in his life 
 
 ah, well, how can one describe the indescribable ? The upshot of 
 the whole rigmarole, we take it, however, was that Leila Featherstone 
 was not then actually in love with either of our heroes. She was 
 one of those shy, proud, and dainty maidens who take a deal of 
 wooing to be in love with anybody. But then, when once they 
 really are in love — ah ! then — there is an avalanche ! 
 
 Far otherwise was it with Gerald. Through the long ride home 
 that dark night with his parents he was surrounded with a blaze of 
 light. He had found all he had long believed in, dreamed of, 
 yet scarce believed he could ever discover. Yes — the bright orb 
 of a true and passionate love had at length glided from behind 
 the cloud, and bathed his whole being in its radiance. He 
 at least seemed to have found the completion not of his intellectual 
 and moral life alone, but of his whole existence. For even while 
 he was guiding Leila into regions of beauty and peace which 
 she had never entered before — while he was thus undoing some of 
 her heaviest burthens, he continually felt that there was something 
 in her soul and life higher than in his own — felt that if she 
 ever cared for him as he did for her, she would inspire, raise, 
 and lead him " upwards and onwards," as God meant every 
 true woman to do to the man who loves her with loyal and 
 undivided love. And Gerald Arlington was right in thinking of her 
 thus. Wrong only in presumptuously believing, alack ! that 
 he satisfied her imagination as she did his own. He might well be 
 deeeived. He was too young to know much of the mysteries of a 
 young girl's heart, and not sufficiently humble or diffident to distrust 
 appearances in his favour. Though naturally one of the humblest- 
 minded fellows that ever breathed, he could not be quite unconscious 
 of the spell which he never failed to exereise over his young 
 acquaintances and friends, especially of the fairer sex. So in this 
 case he hoped with great hope — indeed with scarcely a doubt. 
 There are few things more paradoxical than the presumptuous
 
 124 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 conceit with which young men often fancy they have won a girl's 
 affections, when perhaps they have done little more than excite her 
 interest or just touch her fancy; while, by a strange paradox, 
 the very same men find it the hardest thing in the world to realize 
 the fact of their passion being at length actually, devotedly, 
 passionately returned. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Strangely different things happen at the same moment to dear 
 and distant friends. If they only each knew how the other is 
 circumstanced ! But Heaven mercifully hides it. 
 
 Now it so happened that, on the same night on which the 
 banquet in Portland Place (described in the last chapter) was 
 held, Alfred Featherstone, seeing that it certainly wouldn't do 
 to run down to " the paternal spread," determined to do the 
 thing in style at the same time in his own rooms at Cambridge. 
 Several jolly good fellows were gathered round his hospitable 
 board. He was essentially of a generous nature in his way. So 
 few things pleased him better than giving a posse of men what 
 they described as "a splendid feed and lots of tipple." Harry 
 Fortescue himself was in high spirits on the occasion by a 
 natural reaction from the gloom that now often oppressed him 
 when he was alone. At dinner the famous ale, as usual, was in 
 great request, and after dinner the punch flowed fast, and the talk 
 and the songs, the wit and the stories, were exceedingly high- 
 flavoured and racy. Even men of steady footing were gradually 
 swept off their equilibrium, morally not physically. The latter 
 would not take place till the small hours with any but a very raw 
 hand here and there. Then came cards ; and coffee for the few 
 " who liked slops." And the songs and jokes became coarser, and 
 mirth waxed fast and furious, till Alfred declared privately it was 
 getting " a little too smutty," and proposed leap-frog on the sacred 
 grass in defiance of deans, proctors, and all other dons into the 
 bargain. Fortescue, however, contrived to save his friend from that 
 scrape by enticing him to a walk in Trinity Street. Having dined 
 at 4 p.m., they had ample time to get out of the gates before the 
 prescribed hour, and walked rapidly along enjoying the cool breeze
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 125 
 
 after the close, reeking odours of the gownsman's rooms. But the 
 fresh air produced the effect usual in such cases, and both the 
 young men rose into a state of Bacchanalian enthusiasm not quite 
 consistent with proctorial notions of the dignity of their gowns. 
 So they thought it prudent, after a sudden and cheery view-halloo 
 and the commencement of an inspiring drinking-song, to dodge 
 down a dark alley and scamper across a certain " Piece," and then 
 along a well-known street, with which Alfred, however, was better 
 acquainted than Harry — a direction in which the former had often 
 before tried in vain to draw his friend. So on they went in 
 reckless spirits and exuberant merriment .... and then into 
 
 deeper darkness But again we say, let the curtain 
 
 drop It is a funeral pall — for "the wages of sin is 
 
 death." And when a young, immortal soul first goes down into the 
 pit of deadly sin some place in heaven may be vacant, and an 
 angel have left it to go out and weep bitterly. 
 
 * * ■» * # 4f 
 
 One dark night, soon after that last referred to, two young gowns- 
 men might have been seen dodging the proctors in the town a little 
 while, and then darting off again in the direction of Barnwell — the 
 very name of which, to one of them, in the first year of his college life, 
 was like the hiss of a serpent in his ear. This happened for several 
 subsequent evenings at short intervals. Though there were a good 
 many others doing the same thing, the two here specified may easily 
 be recognized. Fortescue was going the old ways of " the Beast," 
 under the influence of Featherstone and of his own uncontrolled 
 passions — going down into the ghastly pit where so many of the 
 brightest and noblest have buried their souls' life in this world for 
 ever. He did not — could not — go without occasional terrible 
 struggles and remorse. A nature like his, so trained to early purity 
 and filial love, could not break loose at last from all he had once 
 held sacred — however gradual the disruption might have been — 
 without fearful conflicts. But having once lost his hold on a Higher 
 Being, and flung from him the holy treasure of manly purity, he 
 was weakened for every subsequent assault, and felt utterly reckless 
 — at once unwilling and unable to control himself in spite of the 
 wretchedness and self-reproach which alternated with his frenzied joy. 
 
 Coming back one murky night with Featherstone — a legion of 
 miserable, remorseful thoughts in his heart — his companion sud- 
 denly pressed his arm and quietly asked him if he didn't see a 
 couple of fellows a little a-head of them. 
 
 " Don't speak loud," added he, drawing a life-preserver from his 
 pocket, " but keep your weather-eye open. And, I say, — By the
 
 126 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 living Jingo, there are two more behind us ! We shall have to run 
 for it, Harry. Have you only got that walking-stick ? I told you 
 always to bring a thing like this." 
 
 "I wouldn't give much for a fellow's chance," replied Harry, 
 sulkily, " who felt my stick on his skull. But are they bullies, think 
 you ? " 
 
 "Of course, Barnwell bullies, come for tin, waiting to make 
 gownsmen fork out, under a penalty of a frightful thrashing." 
 
 " Oh, aye, I know all about that — curse the blackguards. They 
 know we daren't prosecute." 
 
 " Three of 'em hit a little too hard, though, five years ago — 
 nearly killed their man — got lagged — fourteen years. They're ugly 
 devils." 
 
 "Pooh! we'll diddle 'em fast enough. I've never run from an 
 enemy yet, Master Freddy, and I'm not going to begin now." 
 
 "Then we must cash up, and I haven't a brass farthing left." 
 
 "Nor I. Why, you don't think I'd bribe the brutes? What a 
 cowardly beggar you are, Featherstone." 
 
 "Go to h — 11 with you, for an uncourteous varmint, Fortescue ! 
 I'll fight at the right time as fast as any fellow, but not two against 
 four — and in such a cause ! " 
 
 Ah ! that was what (in spite of his fierce words) Fortescue knew 
 was taking all the pluck out of him. For the first time in his life 
 he felt the cold chill of fear creeping through his heart — unnerving 
 his arm, and almost making his knees knock together. 
 
 " Here they come," whispered Alfred, nervously; "now for it !" 
 
 " GenTmen, will yer give us a trifle to drink your gals' health 
 with ? Do, yer honours." 
 
 The ruffians were edging up nearer and nearer. The young men 
 walked briskly on. 
 
 " You be d — d !" said Harry. 
 
 " Stand back," added Alfred, " or I'll brain you !" 
 
 "Two can play at that game, master," replied the tallest of the 
 men. " It's no use that way — it ain't. But be civil, genTmen, and 
 we'll let you off for a fi-punner. Hillo, Jack, have at him ! Blast 
 the ! " 
 
 Down came his bludgeon with tremendous force in the direction 
 of Alfred's shoulders. Harry just warded it in time, dodged a 
 similar blow from another fellow, intended for himself, then took 
 to his heels after Featherstone, who was rushing down the lane at 
 the top of his speed with his head grazed by a blow from a third of 
 the bullies, whom, however, he knocked down with his life-preserver 
 in his flight.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 27 
 
 A few minutes at racing speed and they were out of danger, 
 close to the town, and soon in King's Parade. Then they walked 
 deliberately enough, and to the inquiring eyes of one or two 
 proctors were merely two well-conducted under-grads going home 
 rather late from a supper-party. 
 
 But those guardians of the morality of young gownsmen little 
 dreamed of the hell of boiling passions in the heart of the biggest 
 of the youths they encountered, and whose heavy tread resounded 
 majestically on the pavement of the silent street as they passed. 
 Once he stopped and faced his companion. " Knotty argument," 
 thought the distant proctor, sleepily. He would have been rather 
 more excited had he heard what was said in that low, fierce tone — 
 more like a savage growl than a human voice. 
 
 " Featherstone, you've made me do what I never did in my 
 life before. I'd rather have been brained by those bullies than 
 have run from them. Give me that life-preserver : I'm going 
 back." 
 
 " Nonsense, Harry! Do you mean going back to fight them ?" 
 
 " That ts what I mean — that I mayn't hate and despise myself to 
 my dying day. Come, hand us the leads." 
 
 " You be blowed ! What infernal nonsense ! Fight like a 
 Samson, if you've got a cause w r orth fighting for ; but to be 
 smashed up by four Barnwell bullies — ugh !" And he walked on. 
 
 Fortescue stood irresolute for a few seconds, and then slowly 
 followed him. Featherstone waited for him opposite the gate of 
 Caius College, saying as his companion came up — 
 
 " All right, Hal. They were too many for us — couldn't have 
 done differently." 
 
 "All right, do you say?" said Fortescue, between his teeth, 
 eyeing Featherstone with a terrible look of ill-concealed wrath and 
 disgust. " Seems to me the most damnable " 
 
 "Never mind — good night!" said Featherstone, cutting him 
 short, and walking off, for he saw the storm was coming. 
 
 Harry turned into his rooms, but not to bed. The whole night 
 he sat before his fire, or walked up and down the room — not 
 lighting his lamp, as if afraid to recognize his own existence too 
 vividly. Towards morning he flung himself on the sofa, and lav in 
 a brief, heavy torpor till his gyp knocked at the door. All next day 
 he dragged himself listlessly about, looking (as indeed he felt) 
 much like a miserable, craven cur that had been whipped for 
 stealing. 
 
 About ten o'clock the following night, Featherstone, having 
 primed himself with a good supper at a friend's and two or three
 
 128 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 glasses of brandy-and-water, thought he would venture on rallying 
 Fortescue's spirits and laughing him into a proper frame of mind, 
 if, unhappily, he should not already have attained it. 
 
 Harry quietly rose to meet him. Contrary to the usual Cam- 
 bridge custom (where men do not generally shake hands, except at 
 beginning and end of term), Alfred held out his hand. Harry let 
 it remain untaken. Whereupon Featherstone tried to make some 
 playful allusion to the last night's proceedings, inquiring concerning 
 Fortescue's health and general cheerfulness. Then he saw that 
 Harry was glowering on him with a look of such deadly hatred 
 that he could not finish his sentence, but broke off with " and so 
 you see, &c," while he knocked the ashes from his cigar against 
 the chimney-piece. 
 
 " Alfred Featherstone," begun Fortescue, at length, very quietly, 
 but with the calmness of suppressed passion, "I don't want to be 
 rude or to quarrel with you ; but I would rather — I think we had 
 better, for the present at all events — drop each other's acquaintance. 
 I know, too well, I shall just never forgive you " 
 
 Featherstone broke in desperately here — 
 
 " Forgive ! What nonsense ! What are you dreaming about, 
 Harry ? Are you nothing but a green girl after all ? I shan't for- 
 give you for this blasted folly and fuss if you talk like that, my 
 dovey. Not forgive me ! — ha, ha ! — what for, pray ? " 
 
 Fortescue's rising rage, and the effort to master it, almost choked 
 him. 
 
 " Because you've helped me to do myself, and one who's gone to 
 heaven, the worst wrong I could — a vile, beastly business I knew it 
 all was, and you knew it, too, from the first night you took me to 
 
 that harlots' hop in Street ; but I saw it " — and his voice, 
 
 for the moment, was a yell, then sank to a whisper that came hissing 
 out between his teeth — " I sazv it all as it is when you— curse you! 
 — got me to run last night from the fear of a thrashing. That you 
 should do these things, is no business of mine. I am not preaching 
 to you. But that you should do them, and get me to do them, and 
 see no infernal vileness, and bestiality, and cowardice in it " 
 
 " Gammon ! all gammon, my dear fellow ; I've done you a pre- 
 cious good turn, and we'll soon be better friends than ever," cried 
 Featherstone ; but even his jaunty courage gave way, as thereupon 
 Fortescue first griped his arm, then flung it from him, and said, 
 with a concentrated expression of savage fury in his voice and eye — 
 
 "Fool! I hate and loathe you — more, even, than I do myself. 
 You will have it ? — then you shall ! Mean, filthy, miserable coward! 
 Was it for this ? — that you might make me lose my manliness, and
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 29 
 
 become a beast and a coward like yourself, and fling my vileness 
 in my dead father's face — was it for this, then, that I saved you — 
 
 from choking in " and his words gurgled in his throat, and then 
 
 failed him. 
 
 A drear, momentary silence followed, while the two men stood ' 
 glaring at each other; Featherstone, tucking up his sleeves and 
 clenching his fists, as if to make a rush at his companion's face ; 
 for even his placid equanimity was at length disturbed, and almost 
 for the first time in his life he felt stung into fierce resentment. But 
 it was not Fortescue's brawny arms, half raised, that kept Alfred 
 quiet. In the rage and humiliation of the moment, a sharp fight 
 and the severest bodily pain would have been an immense relief 
 to him. It was because (also for the first time in his life) he felt 
 a pang of sharp, torturing shame and remorse, which seemed to 
 paralyse his arms ; for the first time, something of the consciousness 
 and meaning of sin crept into his mind — a pang that just for the 
 moment was agony. And as they stood there, face to face, and 
 Fortescue's last words were still in their ears, each knew that the 
 other was looking back to a summer night, not so very long ago, 
 while a sound of rushing, muddy water was round them, thinking 
 how one of them had been gasping out his life in the midst of those 
 waters, and that the other had rescued him at the terrible hazard of 
 his own life. 
 
 There they stood, like two savage, wild beasts, for a moment 
 that seemed like years. Then Fortescue, throwing up his arms 
 with a fierce gesture of defiance, turned away, growling out between 
 his teeth — 
 
 " But what the h — 11 do you care for all the mischief you have 
 
 done me ? I know you just think me a . What care I ? Why 
 
 don'/ you go, before there's mischief ? " 
 
 Then he saw Featherstone's knees tremble — saw him sit down on 
 the nearest chair — while a deadly paleness came over his face. 
 Fortescue's rage was momentarily quelled by compassion ; and, 
 changing his tone by a spasmodic effort, he assumed an unnatural 
 apologetic manner. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," he continued. " I don't want, didn't 
 want to insult you. I'm not apologizing, you understand, Mr. 
 Featherstone, from fear of the consequences. . . . Having 
 shown the white feather lately, you might misapprehend ; you 
 might think me a coward, you see. It's not that exactly — I am 
 sorry I said what I did — but you see there were two of us who 
 ran last night — ha ! ha ! so it's not that, but — only we'll drop each 
 other's acquaintance for the future, if you please. Good evening,
 
 130 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 sir. There's the door — there. Go. if you please ; and a curse go 
 with you ! " 
 
 So Alfred Featherstone stumbled, savage and dizzy, through the 
 door, and as he went down the stairs, he kept muttering to himself — 
 "Ah, it's well he apologized. But he saved my life, the hulking 
 beggar ! didn't he !" 
 
 Then, as he shuffled along the quadrangle, he went on — " What a 
 rage the d — d brute was in ! rot him ! And I have brought death 
 and the devil home to him in return. So he says, — the ass. The 
 man is a fool. No mistake ; yes, a fool. But if what he says is 
 true, if he was right, what are you, Master Alfred Featherstone ? A 
 cursed deal worse than any fool. . . . If he says the truth, I 
 think he had better — I don't know — yes, perhaps, better have left 
 me lying in Thames mud ; better — yes ; I'm doing little good as it 
 is. He thinks I've brought him down to the pit. Perhaps, — and 
 myself too." By this time Featherstone had got into the street. 
 "Nonsense; its all my eye ! He's a regular ass. . . . Which of 
 us ? But there's that same Thames mud always ready, when one's 
 better out of the way. And yet, perhaps, gin and bitters is the wiser 
 course on the whole, and, — praise the pigs ! there's a house open 
 still. Here goes." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was the following day, about 6 p.m. Dark November fogs, with 
 a tendency to drizzle. It had been heavy work for Gerald Arlington, 
 in consequence of a large vessel having to be cleared out for 
 Bombay, with a very miscellaneous cargo, and some very impatient 
 shippers. So he had worked on till late, and then dined in town. 
 He was returning to finish his work, and was groping his way 
 under the archway that led to the counting-house, when he felt a 
 heavy hand on his shoulder. He started back, for there had been 
 several daring robberies committed lately in these evening fogs. 
 
 Then a deep, husky voice said, " Never mind ; its only " The 
 
 voice- was strangely altered, he thought, but it must be Harry's,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 13! 
 
 and he exclaimed, "What, you here, old boy! How d'ye do ?" and 
 he shook the great paw heartily. It did not return his hearty 
 shake, however, and Gerald wondered more and more what was the 
 matter. 
 
 " What on earth brings you here ? Precious glad to see you 
 though, — that is, if I could see you. Come in, Harry, come in. 
 Where do you last hail from ? I thought you were snug at 
 Cambridge." 
 
 " I left this morning. Got a fortnight's leave. I have been 
 waiting here nearly an hour. The housekeeper said you were sure 
 to return, as your books were not put away." 
 
 " Well, but do come in. You are shivering as if you'd the ague. 
 What has brought you up ? " 
 
 " Never mind. Finish your work. And then let's go to some 
 place where we can be by ourselves." 
 
 " All right. I shall soon have done, and we can go to my father's 
 counting-house back parlour, and have a cup of coffee." 
 
 So they went. Gerald had been struck with the look on his 
 friend's face, and gradually noticed the worn, weary manner which 
 showed itself alternating with wild excitement. He soothed him 
 with what little friendly attentions he could offer ; but when, at 
 length, he got him to speak, Gerald thought that some fearful 
 accident or disease had driven Fortescue into temporary insanity. 
 He didn't believe what his friend incoherently muttered or raved, 
 and felt utterly at a loss to know how to deal with him. 
 
 " Come, come, old fellow, don't talk such wretched bosh. You've 
 not been going on in that way, I know. Just say you're gammoning 
 me, &c." 
 
 " By all the devils in hell," exclaimed Fortescue. fiercely, striking 
 the table with his clenched fist, " I tell you it is true ! Why, don't 
 you believe me ? But you think I'm mad, " said he, with a bitter 
 laugh. Then, dropping his voice into a hollow, broken tone, so 
 utterly unlike anything Gerald had ever heard from him before that 
 it made his blood chill, he continued — 
 
 "No, no; I'm in my senses, fast enough, now. . . . Oh, 
 Gerry, Gerry, if that girl would but have loved me as I loved 
 her," and the strong man laid his head upon his hands, and sobbed 
 like a child. Then Gerald believed all he had told him, and the 
 iron entered his own heart, too. He had loved and honoured 
 Fortescue so very highly. They had so long shared each other's 
 aspirations after a high and manly life ; resolved together so often, 
 and with such deep solemnity, to try and live up to a nobler standard 
 than was common around them, that the thought of his friend's
 
 132 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 fall came to him like a terrible personal calamity. He could not 
 utter a word. The silence was broken by Harry. 
 
 "You despise me! I know you do. I know I deserve it. I know 
 all you are thinking of, Gerald. You are the very last man on 
 earth whom I would have had to know all this ; and yet — " and 
 then again his voice became strangely mournful, as if his words 
 were wrung from the depths of his agony, like drops of blood from 
 a man on the rack — " and yet — and yet don't hate me, Gerry ; you 
 were always a better fellow than I." 
 
 Gerald's only answer was something between a groan and a 
 growl. " Don't talk like that," he said, at length, hardly suppressing 
 an expletive more forcible than polite. " Harry," he continued, 
 spasmodically, "the best thing about me has been that I have loved 
 you, and always shall, come what may." 
 
 " God in heaven bless you, old fellow ! " replied Harry, drawing 
 his hand across his eyes; "more than once I was going to turn back." 
 
 " Harry, of course you did right to come," said Gerald. " I 
 can't tell you how I thank you for coming ; but oh, Harry, Harry, I 
 am so sorry " 
 
 " I know, Gerry ; but to whom could I come but to you ? and I 
 felt I must speak it all out to some one. You had always gone 
 with me in my old dreams and resolutions — you knew what reason 
 I had for them. I felt I must escape from — not myself only. Oh, 
 Gerald, don't^w give me up!" and the young man laid hold of his 
 friend's arm, and glanced at his face as if he felt there was some 
 haunting horror behind him, and he didn't dare to look at it. 
 " Gerald," he continued, in a half whisper, " don't think me mad ; 
 but, you know, it seems to me as if there was always a terrible eye 
 looking down upon me — my poor, poor father, you know — and I 
 cannot get away from it." 
 
 " Do not try, my Hal," answered Gerald, looking up and grasping 
 Harry's hand. " It is better so. You may thank God you do feel 
 it so deeply. Oh, Harry, that is a blessing — just the greatest left 
 you, I fancy. Don't shirk that misery. Thank God for it, Harry. 
 It shows we are in life, not death, when we can feel like that." 
 
 "Yes, I know. I can, and will bear my punishment. I haven't 
 an ounce of pride left in me. I will be very thankful that I can 
 and do feel all this horrid pain. But — oh, Gerry, Gerry,"— and he got 
 up and walked about the room — "to think what I have thrown 
 away — what can never, never more be mine! This relation of man 
 and woman, Gerald ! . . . God meant it to be so unspeakably 
 holy and beautiful ; and I used to look forward so to marrying 
 . . . and thought of woman and marriage as something so pure
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 33 
 
 and beautiful. . . . And now . . . Gerry . . . con- 
 stantly I seem to hear my father saying, • You've married . . . 
 a harlot ! ' . . . " 
 
 And he smote his forehead, with a wild, frenzied laugh, as he 
 strode up and down the room ; then, in the previous mournful, 
 dreary tone, sitting down, and covering his face with his hands, he 
 went on : — 
 
 " I know lots of fellows would call me a regular ass . . . 
 and say this was all bounce and sham, and a storm in a teacup, 
 and so forth ; but, Gerry, you and I know better. It is a brutal 
 piece of business altogether, Gerry. No love — no love — only 
 mere, vile, animal passion ! " 
 
 He remained some minutes with his head buried in his hands, 
 and then exclaimed, with terrible energy, throwing up his arms as 
 he started again to his feet — 
 
 " Oh, God ! make me a man, — and not a beast ! " 
 
 " He will do it, Harry, rely upon that. He will deliver you, 
 and forgive you," replied Arlington, hardly knowing what he 
 said. 
 
 " Heaven bless you, dear old Gerry, for that word. I believe it. 
 I do believe it, for I've been reading or saying over the 15th 
 chapter of Luke all the way down. Yes, God, some day, will forgive 
 me ; but, Gerry," — then a long breath — " God may forgive me, and 
 then my father will forgive me, too, I trust, some day ; but — never, 
 — more — can woman be to me what she might have been — what 
 God meant she should be. Oh, Adelaide, Adelaide ! " Then 
 another groan — so sad in its utter despair. 
 
 " But we had better make an end of this, Gerry," he said, soon 
 after, with a great effort. " You can't do any more for me now — 
 God in Heaven bless you, old fellow, for what you have done. I 
 am going down to Exeter to-night " 
 
 "To Exeter?" 
 
 " Yes. I don't know if I shall ever go back to Cambridge. It's 
 the life up there plays the devil with a fellow, if you once get off 
 the track. . . . The way they talk is enough to . . ." 
 
 " Harry, it is just as bad in London ; or anywhere, I suppose, if 
 a chap chooses to " he stopped. 
 
 "To drink, you were going to say, and idle away his time, and 
 swim with loose fish, and go to dancing saloons, and, perhaps, pitch 
 himself into miserable, morbid fancies, which make him jump at 
 any excitement to get rid of them, and so drown the memories and 
 bury the hopes of the past. Oh, yes, I know one can't escape the 
 fight by running away. I suppose I must go back to Cambridge
 
 134 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCIOR. 
 
 again some day, but I've got leave of absence till after Christmas, 
 and I'm going to walk about Dartmoor." 
 
 " Walk about Dartmoor ! " exclaimed Gerald in amazement. 
 
 " Yes," replied Harry, quietly ; " I know it of old. My poor dad 
 took me there — his last holiday on earth ; and I've got this for a com- 
 panion." And in the book which he drew from his breast pocket 
 Gerald recognised a little Bible given to Harry years ago by his 
 father. 
 
 So they went together to the "Two-necked Swan" {rede "Two- 
 nicked "), in Lad Lane, where a night-coach was about to start for 
 the capital of the west. There they shook hands very dismally, 
 and went their several ways. 
 
 [HARRY FORTESCUE TO GERALD ARLINGTON.] 
 
 "Moreton Hampstead, Nov. 29/33. 
 
 " I travelled day and night till I got here ; horrid pain at one's 
 heart, and thought I was in for a regular illness when I lay down 
 at last in bed. I was racked with pain in my limbs, and hot and 
 cold all at once, as if Nova Zembla and Calcutta had been pounded 
 up into a concentrated dose for my special benefit. But I slept it 
 off, and never woke for fifteen hours, though the landlord fetched 
 a doctor to look at me. Oh ! that blessed, healing sleep. God is 
 merciful to me, Gerry. I wanted to be alone with Him, and my 
 sorrow, and sin. ... I see now I trusted too much to myself. 
 God grant I may have learnt my lesson for life. . . . I've been 
 wandering about here day after day, and only fear I am sometimes too 
 happy. Yet it's a mockery to call it happiness, when every alternate 
 hour brings torture. But Fingal's Bridge and Lustleigh Cleeve, even 
 at this time of the year, are magnificent, and the wild, desolate 
 Tors. Oh ! thank God that I can walk among them now, and ask 
 Him to create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within 
 me. I know He answers me. . . . Yet, oh, the pity of it ! 
 Johnny, oh, the pity of it ! Write to me by return, at ' Two Bridges 
 Inn,' Dartmoor. 
 
 " Ever thine old friend, 
 
 "H. F. 
 
 " P.S. — I shall go to my sister's home when I leave Devonshire ; 
 and she's a saint, if ever there was one." 
 
 The loving welcome of Neville Court was very soothing to the 
 troubled spirit when it returned from its lonely vigils and sore 
 wrestlings on the dreary wilds of Dartmoor. Harry Fortescue valued 
 for a time his sister's company as he had never done before.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 '35 
 
 " It's all nonsense," thought he to himself, as he stood by the 
 fire the first night of his arrival, after the ladies had retired, while 
 his eyes grew misty — "there can't be one standard of purity for a 
 man, and another for a woman. The degradation and sin must be 
 the same in both, it seems to me, if both are made in God's image, 
 and possess equally immortal souls. The man can't be privileged to 
 defile himself because he is on a higher level than a woman. And 
 I shouldn't exactly like to think that uncleanness is no sin in us 
 because we are in a lower rank of creation — more of a beast, in 
 fact, than a woman is. What should I think of Nelly if she had 
 sinned as I have ? How should I meet her ? And what would 
 she — what ought she to think of me if she knew all ? Oh, sister, 
 sister! will you go up to Heaven in your white-souled purity, and 
 leave me grovelling here, or in some lower pit of darkness, with 
 only the impure and vile for my companions ? And yet, what right 
 have I to ask her still to care for me, and treat me as she used to 
 do, while I conceal from her my own baseness ? Would she be 
 behaving honourably to me, if she acted thus ? Yet I dare not tell 
 
 her. How can I dare to sully her purity by speaking of And 
 
 yet, perhaps, it would be far, far better, if mothers and sisters 
 knew a little more of the frightful evils to which those they love are 
 exposed. I don't know — I can't guess — what I ought to do. 
 Merciful God, teach me ! " And during the dark watches of a 
 sleepless night God did teach him, and so plainly bade him confess 
 his sin that he could no longer doubt. And the Divine Teacher 
 shewed him how he could do this simply and humbly — by saying in 
 general terms that he had fallen and stained his soul (as too many 
 do, without either penitence or remorse), and pleading earnestly 
 for her help to rise and walk without again stumbling. And then 
 he learnt, too, how closely we are linked with those whom we love, 
 and how the innocent must help to bear the burdens of the guilty, 
 even because they love them ; how it is at once the curse of sin 
 that it involves the innocent in its own suffering, and yet the privi- 
 lege of those who love the sinner to share and help to remove that 
 suffering. And so the sad heart that night saw farther than he had 
 ever done before into the divine mystery of " Thy manifestation on 
 earth, who 
 
 . . didst stoop below 
 
 To drain the cup of woe, 
 
 And wear the form of frail mortality." 
 
 It was a dark day for poor Nelly when her brother gave her some 
 general idea of the reason why he had been wandering in the desert, 
 and now stood before her with pale, worn face, so different from
 
 136 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 what he had always been before — the darkest day since she had 
 heard of the death of him who she fondly believed had gone in 
 his manly purity, and brave, self-sacrificing death, to Heaven — gone, 
 with the whiteness of his soul preserved amid contamination, by 
 the divine power of a loyal and mutual love, that had grown up with 
 him from boyhood. She had been engaged some few years before 
 to a young lieutenant in the Navy, as fine a fellow as ever stepped 
 the quarter-deck, but who had been drowned in a gale while 
 trying to save a poor middy that had fallen overboard. 
 
 "There are few sorrows heavier," thought she, at her solitary 
 devotions that night, "than to find those we most loved and 
 honoured not worthy of all the honour we gave them. And yet it 
 is better, oh ! infinitely better, we should know more than sisters 
 generally do of the sad temptations to which those we love are 
 exposed. Thank God, some are safe in Heaven." 
 
 And so, though his sorrow was indeed heavy, it brought with it 
 a blessing to Nelly in a consciousness of increased usefulness to 
 her brother — of being still wanted in the world — and brought also 
 a great happiness in believing his assurances of the unspeakable 
 blessing she was to him in this season, when " all the bright lights 
 of Heaven were made dark over him." 
 
 " How wonderfully does that grand old liturgy meet all the 
 varying wants of our common life," observed Harry to his sister, 
 as they returned together from church the following Sunday. 
 
 "Yes ; it may well be called 'Common Prayer.' I should think 
 that while a person heartily loved and used it, and observed its 
 ordinances, he would be greatly shielded from temptation. 
 
 " True ; but from constant repetition, it becomes, too often, so 
 hackneyed and common-place to us, — till we have known some of 
 the great sorrows and conflicts of life." 
 
 " But, having known them, do you not think," asked Nelly, 
 nervously, for she felt the subject to be one of overpowering impor- 
 tance, " that you might now resolve to minister at the altar, and 
 lead sinning, struggling souls through Christ to God ?" 
 
 " No, Ellen," he replied, sadly ; "lam further from it than ever. 
 I am not cut out for that kind of thing. I know it more decisively 
 now than a year ago. And yet," he continued, with a burst of his 
 old, energetic combativeness, " I mean with God's help to work for 
 Him somehow. Don't think I'm beaten, Nelly. I'll stand to my 
 guns, and fight the old serpent to the last, by all that's sacred." 
 
 "Resisting unto blood, striving against sin," murmured Ellen, 
 looking up at him with beaming eyes. 
 
 "Aye, and if I do battle with suffering and sin, not merely for
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 37 
 
 myself, but to save others, will not you, and he who waits for you, 
 give me a welcome by-and-bye, poor Nelly ? " He bent to kiss 
 her, and she knew that life was very precious still. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The village clock was striking the midnight hour as Gerald 
 Arlington rose from his desk in the bedroom study, where he was 
 working away, night after night, at the drama which was to emanci- 
 pate him from his Leadenhall Street prison. The moon was high 
 in the unclouded heavens, and, as he peered through the frost- 
 checquered window-pane, a brilliant scene lay before him. Far 
 and wide the sheeny radiance bathed the landscape in silvery 
 splendour — even the tall elms and more humble groups of pic- 
 turesque trees which studded the paternal grounds were lighted 
 up with sparkling hoar-frost, and the ice-bound lakelet, swept 
 clear for skaters, alone lay in dark shadow. The young dreamer's 
 heart beat with strange joy. He had finished the first act of 
 his play, and, as he thought, successfully. He had sketched out the 
 whole plot, and scenes, dialogues, effective, startling "situations," 
 pathetic appeals, heart-breaking moments, and a terrible catastrophe 
 had come crowding, leaping, dancing, rushing into his soul. He 
 felt that his dreams were coming true— infinitely precious moments, 
 no doubt, — long to be remembered for each young poet, artist, orator, 
 when, after interminable years of failures and hope deferred (for 
 they seem ages to ingenuous but impatient youth) ; after years of 
 passionate desire, and feverish faith, he first gets an assured con- 
 viction that to him also is given power to create — power to move 
 the springs of passion or admiration in other souls. How many of 
 these young enthusiasts have bitterly rued that discovery! How 
 many more have lived to find it was a belief as false as fatal! Ikit 
 no after-disappointment, no long years of suffering, can deprive 
 them of the divine memories that tell them they were once in 
 heavenly company, and may be admitted there again. 
 
 Another ball — this time at Wimbledon — at a Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gardiner's. So much of the romance of early youth in the middle
 
 I38 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 and upper classes is transacted at balls, soire'es, dinner-parties, 
 archery meetings, and picnics —these being the chief opportunities 
 which young folks in those circles have of making each other's 
 acquaintance— that we are often compelled, in the course of this 
 veracious history, to glance at such demented proceedings ; and we 
 accordingly now proceed to look in upon the aforesaid brilliant 
 assembly gathered to celebrate Twelfth-Night. Bright, frosty 
 weather ; skating, and long, brisk walks by day, music and dancing 
 by night, with various guests coming and going through the week — 
 all this was a splendid way of spending life. So thought Adelaide 
 Featherstone. So thought the county baronet's only son, whose 
 intentions and inclinations were becoming more and more decided. 
 He had taken time to consider. He had ranged inquiringly 
 through all the West End parties of last spring, and considered 
 Adelaide Featherstone, on the whole, decidedly the most attractive 
 card for the " run matrimonial," whenever that inevitable contest 
 must come off, as he was gradually becoming convinced it had 
 better do speedily. Other ways of amusing himself were both 
 expensive and dangerous — all very well for a season — but, under 
 paternal influence, he began to think it was time he should shut 
 up, and take to the moral and respectable line of luxurious 
 existence. So the particular ball in question was rather a critical 
 season. And not less so for another young gentleman, whom the 
 stalwart heir-apparent was rather inclined to despise for being 
 generally occupied with " moonshine " of various kinds, and for 
 not being six feet high. Height and moonshine, however, not- 
 withstanding, the heir-apparent, Etonian and Oxonian as he had 
 been, was told in confidence that he would find it hard work to get 
 at Arlington's wickets, or to pull against him in a Thames wherry. 
 But then he was heir to a title and /^io,ooo a year, while Arling- 
 ton was only a ship-broker's clerk at / 100. And the heir's great- 
 grandfather having been a court parasite in the reign of George 
 II., who received title and lands from the monarch for rather 
 questionable services, the present heir naturally felt a slight con- 
 tempt for all men who have to earn their bread before eating it. 
 Tall, well-proportioned, and self-possessed, moreover witty and 
 clever in the average feminine estimation, this fortunate young 
 gentleman was generally deemed irresistible. At all events, 
 Adelaide Featherstone found him so, and surrendered her heart 
 unconditionally that night to his rather haughty blandishments, 
 and confident wooing. Perhaps she was the readier to do this, 
 because it had cost her more to forget Mr. Fortescue than she 
 would have liked to own. Papa and mamma were in a state of
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. I 39 
 
 extremely delighted excitement. They vainly pretended to " take 
 it coolly." It was in reality the happiest moment in their own 
 lives since the mutual explanations which resulted in their being 
 known to the world as Mr. and Mrs. Featherstone. It might be 
 worth considering what sort of foundation they had for this supreme 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Harry Fortescue and his sister were also among the guests. He 
 would have gone, just because on several accounts he intensely 
 disliked going, and because, in fact, he felt half afraid of going. 
 For it had been one of his maxims from boyish days (strongly 
 inculcated by him of course, on Gerald) to do anything he 
 particularly disliked or feared to do, just for the purpose of 
 "strengthening his will" — also, it may be, because, as we have 
 seen, he was always on the look-out for a fight, either with himself, 
 or anybody else. For instance : finding once on a visit with his 
 father to Clifton, when a mere lad, that it made him giddy to walk 
 near the edge of St. Vincent's rocks, he forced himself (unconsciously 
 following Goethe's example on Strasburg Cathedral) to stand, and 
 gradually to walk, within a few inches of the edge. On the same 
 principle, with his usual combativeness, he had more than once 
 gone into a public meeting, and attempted to make a furious 
 speech diametrically in opposition to the object for which it was 
 called — narrowly escaping very rough handling — escaping, in fact, 
 only by being unable at length to conceal his immense enjoyment 
 of the fun, and thus enlisting in his defence the strong sense of 
 humour always latent in an English crowd. On the same com- 
 bative principle, had there been no other reason — though without 
 much fun in his heart — he would have resolved to come to the 
 Gardiners' "hop," knowing he should meet Adelaide, probably 
 her lover, and perhaps her brother, all of whom he would gladly 
 have gone miles to avoid. Yes — face them all ! — young prigs, old 
 fogies, and silly girls. 
 
 But quite independently of this motive, and perhaps outweighing 
 it, there was a strange, mysterious attraction drawing him thither 
 of which he was scarcely conscious. He had been exerting that 
 magnificent power of will of his for many months in subjugating 
 his lower nature, as in earlier days ; and the stronger he felt in his 
 victory, the more he longed to look down gain on a certain fair 
 young face, that once, in an hour of deep wretchedness, had looked 
 kindly, reverently up to him — longed to hear again certain well- 
 remembered tones, feeling as if he would find therein palm-trei 3, 
 and a fountain in the midst of his desert wanderings. So he pro 
 mised to accompany Ellen, telling Gerald be was going to the
 
 140 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Wimbledon ball merely because it was good for her, while of 
 course she told Leila she was going only because she thought it 
 good for her brother to " go a little into society." But when the 
 brother got to the ball he went "mooning" about like a man in a 
 dream, until at last, after moving through a quadrille with Leila, 
 he found himself having a long tetc-a-iete with that young lady in 
 a shaded recess. With a blush-rose tint on her delicately-pale 
 cheeks from excitement and exercise, Leila Featherstone was pro- 
 nounced "lovely" by Miss Fortescue ; also by several discerning 
 young gentlemen. Fortescue half thought the same. But even 
 then his dreamy air and quiet sort of sadness made him what most 
 young ladies would have considered a dull companion. But to 
 Leila he was far more fascinating thus than the gayest cavalier 
 that ever adored her sister. Neither was the fascination all one 
 side, for when Harry once began to talk with her on really interest- 
 ing topics, and to look into her eyes, now liquid with soft, loving, 
 thoughts, and then flashing out in lofty enthusiasm, he felt himself 
 drawn into the whirlpool not less powerfully than his poor friend 
 Gerald had been before him. Leila was very happy that night — 
 would have been perfectly so if Alfred had but arrived. He was 
 at a bachelor's dinner-party in town, but promised to be with them 
 by 1 1 p.m. at latest. One o'clock and supper-time came, however, 
 but he did not. Still he would soon come — and she gave herself 
 up in the meantime to the delicious enjoyment of Harry's emphatic 
 attentions. True, she did not find in Mr. Fortescue's conversation 
 a tithe of the aesthetic satisfaction which she had always experienced 
 in conversing with Gerald Arlington. Years afterwards she remem- 
 bered and understood all this, but not then. That evening she was 
 in a giddy whirl of excitement, and perhaps if Harry Fortescue had 
 then and there asked her to walk out with him into the night — on 
 and on through the world, and the universe, and eternity— she could 
 have found it in her heart to ask her parents' leave, and tie on her 
 bonnet and go with him at once ; and never have thought about 
 anything or any being on earth beside him (so long as the enchant- 
 ment lasted). 
 
 Gerald Arlington had come from London with his father and 
 mother in the family drag — for in those days parents and young 
 people were invited to balls together, the elders being comfortably 
 provided with card-tables. To Gerald it was an occasion of over- 
 whelming interest, for it was the first chance he had got of a chat 
 with Leila Featherstone since the memorable dinner-party. 
 
 Now, as usual in such cases, a natural desire, and an equally 
 natural reluctance, to speak on this sacred theme to Fortescue had
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 14I 
 
 long contended in his mind ; but the reluctance had been so greatly 
 increased by Fortescue's revelation to him of his fall, that hitherto 
 it had conquered. With the unconscious instinct of manly purity, 
 he felt that it was infinitely better to leave all talk of womankind 
 far out of sight for at least a time ; while Harry's moodiness that 
 evening made him repress the strong inclination he then felt, on 
 seeing his goddess, to whisper a hint of his admiration to his 
 friend. 
 
 Hence Harry spent that night at the Wimbledon dance utterly 
 ignorant of the romantic passion which was agitating his suscep- 
 tible friend. Gerald's exalted dreams, however, made him strangely 
 awkward and nervous, so that he certainly did not appear to great 
 advantage that night. Hence, when two or three of his young 
 aristocratic admirers, in the course of conversation introduced him 
 to the " heir," that gay, yet proud and muscular hero privately 
 observed, " Well, the poetical young man from the city seems to 
 me rather a muff, after all." 
 
 As for the lovely but most incomprehensible damsel who had 
 thus unconsciously thrown the poor poet off his balance with her 
 fascinations, she, the little puss, had been receiving considerable 
 attentions from several rather agreeable young gentlemen this 
 winter — particularly during the last few days. Two or three 
 University men — friends of Alfred — in particular had been remark- 
 ably attentive. They talked delightfully about the new poet, 
 "Tennyson," and the "Noctes Ambrosianse" and " Wallenstein." 
 Her glass would persist, too, in hinting that she was rather better- 
 looking than formerly; and altogether — like her poet-lover, who knew 
 that he was actually writing a tragedy — she began to feel a little of 
 her power also, though in a different line of action. Yet she was 
 unfeignedly glad to see Gerald, and the recollection of all that 
 passed the last time they met, in the midst of lights and music, 
 company and roses — especially the bantering she had had to sustain 
 at the hands of Adelaide, and even of Alfred, respecting that long 
 tete-a-lete — brought a tell-tale blush of much deeper shade than 
 usual to her lily-fair cheek when he greeted her, and tried to get an 
 opportunity of conversation. The blush looked very charming. It 
 made Gerald's heart beat fast. Ah, those fascinating and most 
 delusive blushes ! How many a young unfortunate — fresh from 
 college or the desk — has floundered into dismal swamps of " rejected 
 addresses," lured by those " will-o'-the-wisps," the eloquent, 
 maidenly, most seductive blushes of his beloved. For, observe, if 
 the young lady has been joked about him, she is almost certain to 
 blush when she next meets him — valuing him, nevertheless, all the
 
 142 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 time, perhaps, about as much as an old riband I Let young lovers 
 reflect on this fact in Natural History. 
 
 Of course, Gerald seized the first opportunity of a dance and a 
 talk with the young girl who had bewitched him with her sorceries ; 
 looking to her for that sympathy in his literary dreams which he 
 craved for with such passionate desire. Her appearance and manner 
 were, no doubt, vastly improved, and to him- were more fascinating 
 than ever. 
 
 She was all the world to him. But, with the terrible clairvoyance 
 of ardent love, he saw too plainly that she had now far other 
 worlds in which she lived, or longed to wander, than that which 
 held them in its little nook when he first gave up his whole heart 
 to love and worship her. Why dwell upon what followed ? 
 
 He asked whether she would care to read the play, if he could 
 complete it according to his dreams. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," she answered in rather an off-hand fashion ; 
 " it would give me much pleasure to read any work of that kind. 
 Pray let me see it when it is finished." 
 
 And Gerald turned away stunned and heart-sick, took his hat, 
 and went out from the brilliant ball room into the moon-lit road, 
 with great darkness in his own soul. 
 
 Was Leila to blame for his crushing disappointment ? Was it 
 her fault that she was so attractive, or his fault that he had seen 
 and felt her witchcraft in his heart's core, and so floated into a 
 fool's paradise ? Or was it her fault that she had been so truly 
 and deeply interested in all he had said to her months ago, that 
 she could not help showing it when they first met again, and 
 feeling grateful to him exceedingly ? No, no, the fault was not 
 there. But the world would say there were two grave errors on 
 his side. The first was that of a young poet's fancying he had a 
 right to love, and ask for love again, without a single thought of 
 the necessary ^400, or even ^200, a year, wherewith to support a 
 wife in comfort and peace. And the second, perhaps the greater 
 culpa in the eyes of unworldly people, was the daring to seek the 
 young lady's affections without the slightest thought of what her 
 parents might have to say in the matter. " Surely we have some 
 right," say parents, "to know what is being thought and done with 
 regard to a subject so solemnly, perhaps eternally, affecting our 
 child's character, happiness, and destiny ? " All this, whether right 
 or wrong, never for an instant flashed on the poor poet-clerk's moral 
 sense, and, justly or unjustly, heavy was the penalty he had to pay 
 in later years. But his blindness to it was very closely connected 
 with another singular feature in his wooing.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 14 3 
 
 Ardent youths accustomed to pursue with graceful gallantry the 
 brilliant butterflies of the season — yes, and even more earnest and 
 not less impassioned admirers of female loveliness, like poor Harry 
 Fortescue — would turn a scornful gaze upon Gerald Arlington as he 
 shrunk into himself after his first quadrille and subsequent talk 
 with Leila Featherstone, and would impatiently ask what could the 
 man be made of to be disheartened just at the beginning of his 
 courtship. Of course, he must not expect that the young lady 
 would feel towards him at first as he did to her. Of course, he 
 must expect a great deal of hindrance. What then ? to overcome 
 such indifference, nay, reluctance, was the best part of the fun, 
 and at all events, was the only natural course in which courtship 
 ever could properly run. True enough, no doubt. Gerald Arlington 
 was very foolish, according to most standards — as inconsiderate as 
 a child. But ardent young gentlemen, and lively young ladies who 
 might be disposed to think him a ninny, can look out at another 
 window if they choose, and see if the view be not a little better 
 than they thought for. Yet let them look (if they look at all, 
 which is by no means necessary) in a reverent mood, for there are 
 phases of character which we are the better for beholding with a little 
 respect — the worse for mocking at. The view, then, from the said 
 window is this : young Arlington did not at first fall in love with 
 Leila Featherstone merely because she struck his fancy or fired his 
 imagination — nor because he had been drinking, or even because 
 he thought she would make him a charming wife — but because he 
 felt that her soul was beautiful, and that her face reflected it, and 
 that she satisfied a great aching want of his highest nature, and 
 seemed to be drawing him up to heights of dreamy radiance when- 
 ever he looked at her. He thought her spirit had come forth to 
 meet and to blend with his in holy, heavenly communion, and that, 
 therefore, they were the true complement of each other's being — 
 created to grow up into perfect manhood and womanhood together, 
 until together they entered on a nobler existence in a more perfect 
 union above. Therefore, it never entered his head that he was to 
 pursue her, and circumvent and finally subdue unto himself her 
 woman's heart, or by various devices gradually attract her reluctant 
 love. True, there were deep, strong passions sleeping in his soul — 
 a lower nature there as well as a higher — but, even as his poetic 
 temperament and refined taste, especially a chivalrous respect for 
 woman, had heretofore helped to preserve him from the various 
 pollutions around him and kept his soul pure, so now they made 
 his love for Leila at once morbidly sensitive and intensely spiritual. 
 But, if he were mistaken in supposing that he could be to her what
 
 144 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 she was to him, if he were not "the ocean to the river of her 
 thoughts," there the matter ended, and he had no more to say 
 about it but that his life would be one long regret. In precisely 
 the same way he would never have dreamt of money considerations 
 or parental claims. " Love is of God," and true marriages, he 
 believed, were ordained by God ; and if Leila and himself were 
 meant for each other, and in mutual love would fulfil the highest 
 destiny human beings could attain on earth, all other needful things 
 (including at least ^200 a year) would in due course be added, and 
 those who loved them best would ultimately be glad they had come 
 together. Strange dreamer ! * * * 
 
 No, Leila was not to blame, however much Gerald might be. 
 At first she was vexed that he seemed so disappointed with her and 
 her answers. But she soon forgot for a time, in the delight of 
 Mr. Fortescue's presence, both her sorrow at seeing that Mr. 
 Arlington was unhappy, and her wonderment as to what could 
 possibly be its cause. For Harry Fortescue asked her again to 
 dance, and then would keep her talking such a long time in that 
 sweet little conservatory, though his conversation was not so 
 exciting as Gerald's, and had not a tinge of Poetry or Art about it. 
 It was thoughtful, and full of certain stern, strong life — " Yen- 
 different," she said, " from that of most young men's chatter." 
 Hence, she felt lifted out of herself, and elevated in her own 
 esteem, while his deep low tones were in her ear, and his sad 
 earnest eyes were sometimes bent upon her, and anon actually 
 stealing furtive glances at the mystic stars. P'or all his old aspira- 
 tions after a Divine Peace were again called forth by the sweet and 
 lofty harmonies of this young girl's nature ; and she made him 
 thirst also, as of old,. for that healing and Health in the highest 
 sense, which was one of the deepest desires of his better nature. 
 His constant thought, in all his better moods, was how to realize 
 this state of Health and Peace for other men even more than for him- 
 self. And there was something in the quiet power of Leila Feather- 
 stone's character when combined, as it was, with so much latent 
 enthusiasm and feminine grace, that carried him above his lower 
 passions and ignoble miseries. It was a totally different feeling 
 from that which had once drawn him to her sister, but far nobler. 
 
 Once during that evening's conversation he found he had got 
 into one of his favourite subjects — fighting and battles — and then 
 saw with delight that he need not apologize for his taste, as it was 
 evident that she was full of vehement though repressed sympathy. 
 For an instant she seemed lost in a wild vision, and stood once 
 more with her brother on the mountains of Ambleside, gazing on the
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 145 
 
 stormy sunset sky beyond Loughrigg Fell. And when Fortescue 
 remarked on her interest in the subject, her whole face lighted 
 up with a bright glow of bashful gladness, as she answered that it 
 was because she saw he rejoiced in the fighting, and sought for 
 victory only, that he might establish peace. Thereupon, he spoke 
 so enthusiastically of the triumphs that might and should be won, 
 by God's help, over all disease and disorder, over unrighteousness 
 and pain, that, as she listened, her young heart believed the heroic 
 age of Greece might yet return under Christian influence and 
 English skies, and that millions might yet live to bless the brave 
 young dragon-slayer who stood beside her, picking a damask rose 
 to pieces. Then he enlarged upon the noble art of Healing, and 
 so linked it with the idea of benevolent self-sacrificing zeal that, 
 for the time, the maiden felt more interested than even when 
 Gerald had talked to her of Art. And then suddenly the thought 
 flashed through her mind, how strange and charming it was that 
 two such young men as these should actually care to pour into her 
 ear their lofty enthusiasm — their glowing dreams of Beauty and 
 Nobleness. What a contrast life presented now to her previous 
 existence ! Yet the consciousness of her joy covered her with 
 confusion, and she longed to escape. But then, to see that she 
 actually cheered her somewhat stern companion — to see that the 
 shadow was passing away from his rugged, thoughtful brow, that 
 he was being drawn out of his gloomy indifference, and was not 
 only caring to talk to her, but was all the better for their talk — 
 strange and sweet indeed ! How could she be grateful enough for 
 such singular privileges ? In her happiness she remembered the 
 cloud on Gerald's countenance, and longed to disperse it. It was 
 comforting to think these two young gentlemen were such dear 
 friends. They would cheer and raise each other. She remarked 
 to Mr. Fortescue that she thought his friend had a very poetical 
 and interesting mind. But Harry was thinking how little Gerald 
 had seemed to appreciate Leila Featherstone, and that this was not 
 the first time that he had seen symptoms in her of a disposition to 
 admire his friend. How could he help feeling slightly jealous, and 
 answering somewhat coldly, adding that Gerry was capricious — 
 didn't know when he was well off, for that he had come to him 
 about an hour ago and told him he was going " to cut," preferring 
 a walk to London by moonlight, to staying any longer there. This 
 announcement vexed Leila, for, of course, she connected it with 
 his look when they last conversed together. Harry perceived her 
 vexation, and his own was increased. As Leila and her partner 
 mingled again in the crowd she looked anxiously for Alfred, and 
 
 K
 
 146 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 asked Harry with playful reproach, if he didn't want to see his 
 friend. Just at that moment she heard her father mention Alfred's 
 name aside to Adelaide. 
 
 " Yes, he's got home, and, finding he wouldn't come here, I just 
 stepped across, as your mother seemed anxious." 
 
 " Well, papa ? " 
 
 " Well, all the reason he gave was that he didn't choose to come 
 because young Fortescue was here. However, it is quite as well 
 he stayed where he is." 
 
 For a moment the blush-rose tint forsook poor Leila's cheek, 
 and then, as she saw by a glance at Harry's face that he also had 
 heard this, her face and neck were covered with a deeper tinge, 
 and, unable to conceal her feelings, yet too confused to know what 
 to say, she murmured — 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Fortescue, what is the matter?" 
 
 " I don't know," answered Harry, coldly, half contemptuously. 
 " Perhaps he has cut me." 
 
 Leila could say no more, but her joy was gone, and she could 
 only recover her peace of mind when the gay pageant had all 
 passed away, and she sat in her dressing-gown beside her little 
 bed, and read according to her wont a few verses from the old 
 Book, and cast her burden on Him who is faithful evermore. 
 
 For Leila knew too well what her father's last words meant, and 
 Alfred's estrangement from Mr. Fortescue she feared was a sign 
 that he was sinking lower than even Harry's friendship could 
 stoop. There was another sad alternative suggested by a stray 
 word dropped once by her poor mother when very miserable about 
 her darling boy, and when she was at the same time anxious to 
 chase any possible lingering interest from Adelaide's mind in 
 her quondam lover. Leila thought it was just possible that Mr. 
 Fortescue might be very different from what she believed, and that 
 her brother was shrinking from an intimacy which he felt was 
 leading hitn astray. Hence, as soon as their very late breakfast 
 the next morning was concluded, she coaxed Alfred to come into 
 the library by the promise of reading him some poetry she had 
 written, and of which he had caught a glimpse a few days before. 
 But the reading did not begin. The brother and sister sat silently 
 looking into the fire, till at length Leila lifted tearful eyes to Alfred's 
 still handsome but now pallid face and blood-shot eyes, and, as a 
 conviction of the ruin going on within, which those outward changes 
 too surely marked, forced itself upon her, she leant her head on 
 his shoulder and cried bitterly. He tried to soothe her, but ended 
 by almost sobbing himself.
 
 ' GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 14.7 
 
 " Has he, has Mr. Fortescue," at length asked the weeping girl, 
 V has he been leading you the wrong way, Freddy ? Is that why 
 you would not come last night ? " 
 
 "No, no — he has cut me. I'm not good enough for him. I 
 don't mean it sneeringly; it's just the truth." 
 
 What strangely mingled emotions, sweet and bitter, surged up in 
 poor Leila's mind : deep sorrow for Alfred, gratitude that Harry 
 Fortescue might still be looked up to. But Alfred's conscience 
 was at last fully roused. 
 
 " Oh, Lily, Lily-bell !" he cried, " I know I'm going to the devil 
 as fast as wine and cards and worse folly can take me. My poor 
 little Lily. And mother, she believes me still, I think, everything 
 that's virtuous and charming. But I will put an end to this — I'll 
 pull up, by heaven ! Lily, I will. I must cut that University life ; 
 it plays the deuce with a fellow." 
 
 "Will you not come back to the counting-house, dear," said 
 Leila, wiping her eyes, "and live at home ? Then, you know, we 
 can be as much to each other as we used to be. I do so want you 
 to come back, Freddy, and to love me and talk with me as you used 
 to do." 
 
 " God bless you, dear little pussy-cat," and, with something of 
 his old affection, he gave her a hearty kiss, and then knelt down 
 beside her with his face in his hands. When he rose up, there was 
 a clearer, holier light in his eye than Leila or anyone else had seen 
 for many a day. 
 
 " No, my child, I can't go back to the counting-house, that would 
 be worse than all ; but I'll give myself heart and soul to painting. 
 I can live in that, and so get out of old habits and do without old 
 companions when I'm ' totus in Mis ;' as I taught you Latin, I 
 suppose I may quote it." And his face lighted up with the smile 
 she remembered so well years ago. " Yes, one must have a master 
 passion — if you have any 'go' in you at all, and that is the highest 
 I can give myself up to. So will you talk to my father, and I'll tell 
 my mother ; and we must try to get him to make me an allowance, 
 and to get Mr. Claude Fenton to give me a few lessons till I can 
 earn my own livelihood and make a home of my own ; when, if you 
 are not disposed of, old lady, you shall come to keep house for me. 
 Won't that be jolly, eh, Miss Pussykin ?" And they laughed together 
 then ; perhaps all the better, because they had cried and prayed 
 together before. " And now, Dolly, show me your verses, that's a 
 good little soul, and then I'll produce something I scribbled one 
 night." 
 
 " Oh, I shall be so glad to see it. But you must show first."
 
 1 48 GERALD AND HIS FRTEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 With coy reluctance, however, Leila was compelled to begin the 
 reading with her poetical effusion, to which Alfred listened with 
 wondering delight ; and then he tried to read his own wild, mourn- 
 ful lament for the " Days that are gone ; " but his voice quivered so 
 that Leila was fain to take it and finish it herself, which she did — 
 not without tears. The lines were beautiful, and yet so despairing. 
 ****** 
 
 So far so well ; but no further. 
 
 Mr. Featherstone was already indignant enough with his son's 
 proceedings at Cambridge, of which he had lately received a private 
 hint from a Tutor of Trinity ; and when Alfred penitentially con- 
 fessed the amount of his debts, the old gentleman got into such a 
 passion as frightened even his wife, and made all attempts to pro- 
 mote Alfred's views fruitless. His son should leave Cambridge 
 forthwith, no doubt ; but not a penny more would he give him until 
 he had earned it by hard work in the counting-house. His wife 
 and Alfred, and, above all, Leila, were in despair — very miserable — 
 and there we must leave them for the present. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Same day as that recorded in last chapter — time, evening. Harry 
 and Gerry discovered swinging their heels in the private room 
 of a renowned City chop-house, where they were accustomed to 
 rendezvous. 
 
 " Have you any idea how Richard is going on ?" quoth Harry, 
 after a long silence. 
 
 " I believe he is doing very well," replied Gerald. 
 
 " I don't." 
 
 " Why ? and what's the row ? " 
 
 " Pierce gave me a hint about the young gentleman going it 
 rather fast." 
 
 " Indeed ! " — and the speaker looked up at Harry with an 
 anxious glance. A little more passed, and Gerald's conscience 
 gave him smart twinges. He had not looked after his brother 
 as he ought to have done, and as he now resolved he would do. 
 But the next remarks of Harry (not quite unpardonably) swept 
 away all his reflections on that subject for the present. His friend
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 49 
 
 was looking moodily into the fire, and at length, in rather a harsh, 
 vehement tone observed — 
 
 " I've changed my opinion about that girl." 
 
 "What girl?" 
 
 "I do think she is a splendid creature." (Cloud clearing off.) 
 " Now I tell you what, Gerry, I rather think I could give up my 
 life to her, to love and to cherish till death did us part —to work 
 for and with her, all through this curious life, and so to walk with 
 her right up to heaven ; for I know if I kept by her side, I should 
 go there." (Face lighted up with enthusiasm.) " I can't tell you 
 what a — what a — well, what a divine influence seems to come over 
 me when I talk with that child and look at her. You'll think 
 it rather strange, rather sudden," he continued, hurriedly, " but I 
 can't help it. I can not live without loving some one of these pretty, 
 gentle, innocent little darlings. God knows He has made us to love 
 them. I do love her, Gerry, boy." 
 
 "Well, I'm precious glad to hear it, Harry. But who is the 
 fortunate she ? " 
 
 During the few minutes that passed before Harry answered, and 
 while he continued looking into the fire like one in a dream, Gerry 
 was thinking what an infinite blessing it was that his friend should 
 be thus giving himself up once more to a pure and ennobling 
 attachment — thinking also very sadly on the chill which his own 
 over-confident love for Leila had received the night before. But 
 with the morning light had come a more hopeful view of the case. 
 He had been thinking that perhaps he had judged the young 
 maiden too hastily, and throughout the day her image had hardly 
 ever been absent from his mind. 
 
 " I rather wonder now, my Gerry, you spoke so depreciatingly of 
 her formerly." 
 
 " I ! Who on earth do you mean ?" and his mind misgave him. 
 
 "Why, that uncanny little witch, as I think you once called her; 
 and whom you always used to agree with me in despising ; blind 
 donkeys that we both were ! Leila Featherstone, to be sure ! " 
 
 Gerald's heart ah ! well, no wonder people talk of the heart- 
 ache and broken hearts, and so forth. Did you never feel that sharp 
 pang, and then a dull, weary pain ? Arlington never knew before 
 how deeply he loved that girl, Harry's admiration of her, of course, 
 if possible, increasing his own. But he sat with his back to the 
 light, and Harry was not quick to notice people's countenances at 
 any time. So he turned white, and squeezed one hand in the other 
 till the blood started beneath the nails, without attracting observa- 
 tion. With an effort he managed to reply.
 
 150 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "Ah, no doubt she's a nice girl." 
 
 " Oh, you think so, do you ?" replied Fortescue, with concentrated 
 and sarcastic bitterness. " Confound it ! Have you got rid of your 
 old injustice to her just as far as that, and no further ? Why then, 
 Squire Gerry, I'd rather you'd stay where you were, and just call her 
 'uncanny' again at once." 
 
 Gerald gave a hard, forced laugh, and replied that no doubt she 
 was an angel. 
 
 " She's a grand little creature, Gerry. What a soul that girl has 
 got ! and her great dark eyes tell you what a world full of love lies 
 sleeping there ! And then that exquisitely graceful figure, and that 
 wonderfully delicate complexion." (A pause.) "You'll think it 
 rather strange. I see you do. And for a long time, I honestly 
 confess, I hated the sight of a woman. I couldn't bear to think of 
 the sex at all, and almost vowed never to speak to one again." 
 This was blurted out with immense vehemence. "But don't look 
 so grave and dry, or I can't get on. Well then, gradually, you see, 
 I felt that these women do govern our destinies ; that we cannot 
 grow up to what is called perfection without them : and there is no 
 real purity and love without them. Then I longed once again, as 
 I had done from the time I was that high, and with such desperate 
 longing now, to know some one of womankind who wouldjift'me 
 up from the mire of sensuality and atheism, and put a new heart into 
 
 me, and call out the true love which I felt I could give them 
 
 I had seen this girl, mind you, a year and a-half ago, for some 
 weeks at the Lakes, and then again one day last summer at 
 Brighton, and after that during several days at Neville Court, and 
 each time, though I thought her sometimes, as you did, half 
 
 possessed with an evil spirit, you know, I was struck oh, Gerry, 
 
 boy — ," (profound sigh) "I was so struck with the appearance of 
 something very pure and lofty, and yet caustic — you know what I 
 mean, sometimes sarcastic — yet always so desperately bewitching. 
 She hardly ever laughs, unless with her brother. Scarcely ever 
 smiles above once a week ; but oh, ye gods, when she does ! 
 Speak, speak, Gerry, Jeronimo, Jeremiah ! Tell me, for your life, 
 should I be wrong to try to win that girl's love? May I dare ?" He 
 sprung up, seizing Gerald's arm with one hand, and pressing the 
 other against his own hot forehead. 
 
 It was a turning-point in Arlington's life. One of his " decisive 
 battles " had then to be fought. Self, or self-sacrifice — that was 
 the question. Harry had put a view of the case that naturally 
 required consideration, which Gerald proceeded to give. 
 
 " Give me ten minutes to think about it, my boy," he replied.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 151 
 
 During the silence that ensued, broken only by an occasional 
 interjection from Gerald 3 expressive of interest and sympathy, just 
 to save appearances, he ran over thoughts like these in his mind, 
 while the deep undertone of pain in his heart kept groaning on, 
 like the lower notes of an organ swell. 
 
 " She doesnt't care much about me — I needn't be jealous — yet she 
 did seem to like talking with me, and was very happy with me that 
 one evening. But Harry is more likely to make her happy, I daresay ; 
 I don't quite understand her, perhaps he does. What wouldn't I 
 give up to see him loving and loved by such a girl. It would be 
 the saving of him, and perhaps she does care about him. I re- 
 member thinking how pleased she seemed to see him, and I 
 
 remember, too, how she looked when but then how she looked 
 
 and listened to me, too, that night in Portland Place. Was there 
 not a true marriage of souls then ? Oh, heavens, did I not love 
 her long, long before Harry cared two straws about her, and didn't 
 
 she like me before she but I can't hold a candle to him in so 
 
 many things that attract a girl's love. And if he can win her what 
 a blessing it would be to him. And if he should be again disap- 
 pointed, why, I think — I think he'd go full tilt to the devil. Yes, 
 yes, it's all clear now. God help him ! and give her to him, and 
 bless him, — and save him, — and help me." 
 
 The ten minutes ended. 
 
 " Do you think I've a chance, Gerry ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I do. I remember thinking how pleased she looked to 
 see you last night." 
 
 " Did you really, Jacky ? The gods be praised ! Bless you ; " 
 and he grasped his friend's hand with a gripe that gave intense satis- 
 faction to the friend. " I had another dance with her after you cut, 
 and then a talk in a conservatory — oh, my boy, that was a talk! — and 
 then she was whisked off by some lout of a fellow, and all became 
 very flat and weary, and I sank into the blues, and doubted whether 
 I would ever speak to her or to any woman, except Nelly, again, 
 and was very thankful when my sister and Miss Tylney plaintively 
 inquired if I were ready to retire. But oh ! if she could love me — it 
 would make a Christian man of me for ever. And yet, the more 
 hope I feel, and the more madly in love with her I become, the 
 more I keep thinking of Dartmoor, and saying to myself, ' Oh ! the 
 pity of it.' Gerry, Gerry, I'm not worthy of her — I'm not worthy 
 of her. Wasn't it queer ? I dreamt I was at Beachum last night, 
 and she was standing there on the shore— white dress fluttering 
 in the wind, and dark hair waving about her whiter neck. She turned 
 towards me, with such a heavenlv smile ; and, mad with delight, I
 
 152 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 was going to rush forwards, when something I had thought was a 
 great rock on the beach, moved, and I saw it had a human face,, 
 and that face, oh ! Gerry, can you not guess whose it was ? My 
 father's ! It looked so sad and stern ; and what I had taken for sea- 
 weed waving in the wind, was an arm motioning me back ; and I 
 thought she saw the face, and her countenance changed, and she 
 shrank away from me. Oh, God ! the misery of that moment, 
 Gerald." The speaker drew a long breath. "Yet it was only a 
 dream," he added. But the drops of perspiration stood on his 
 forehead. " No, I am not worthy of her. I shall never have her." 
 For one moment a wild and selfish rapture shot through Arlington's 
 mind. In the next it was conquered. He was silent for a minute 
 or two, and then murmured slowly, " Harry, I'll never believe that 
 sin truly repented of, and thoroughly put away, shuts a man out of 
 Heaven." 
 
 " No, no ! it cannot. You're right, and Heaven bless you, old 
 fellow. Say it again." 
 
 "And, Harry," continued Arlington, "don't you think a man 
 may sometimes rise all the higher from having had a miserable fall ?" 
 
 "I do ! by all that's sacred, I do. You mean the reaction spurs 
 him on to greater efforts and watchfulness." 
 
 " Only beware of another fall — " 
 
 " Do you think it possible, Gerald ?" exclaimed he, indignantly. 
 
 " Not in your present state of mind, of course. But she might 
 not return your — love — as ardently as you may wish — hindrances, 
 misunderstandings may arise ; and you'll find it harder work than 
 ever now to keep straight." 
 
 " Ah ! that's true — the Lord knows, and the devil knows, too, 
 how infernally true that is. Well-a-day! whatever comes of it or of 
 me, you have been a grand help to me, Arlington, in many ways, 
 and I do thank you with my whole heart." 
 
 Gerald accepted these thanks — received them into the depths of 
 his heart, and brooded over them, and refreshed himself therewith. 
 He needed refreshment. 
 
 Harry called the next day on Mrs. Featherstone, at Wimbledon, 
 in a strangely-mad humour, weary and wild, elated and depressed. 
 Mrs. Featherstone thought he had taken leave of his senses — or was 
 in a state with which Alfred was just beginning to acquaint her — 
 while Adelaide, secure in her engagement, smiled blandly yet 
 scornfully supreme. With Leila he scarcely got five words ; but 
 again their eyes had met, and he left the house more decidedly in 
 love — more sad and enraged with himself, and more full of amaze- 
 ment at his former blindness concerning the sisters, than ever. He
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 53 
 
 went raving about Wimbledon Common, sighing to the winds, and 
 pathetically calling on his "beloved little Leila" to accompany him 
 forthwith to the " Islands of the Blest," wherever that may be. 
 
 Why should she not ? Alas ! she was darning her stockings, and 
 could not conveniently leave them. But she was thinking about 
 him for all that, and had been so happy while he was in the room 
 that she could not realise the fact that he was actually going out of 
 it, and that her mother had not asked him to stay to dinner. Then, 
 as she felt the lingering pressure of his hand, and saw his melan- 
 choly, beseeching look, as he bade her good-bye, she longed to rush 
 after him, and once again to give him words of comfort. She was not 
 quite sure whether he was unhappy about Adelaide, or was thinking 
 about herself — but knew she was unhappy about him, and sat down 
 again to her stockings with moistened eyes, which fortunately 
 Adelaide did not notice, but her mother did. However, she had 
 soon sorrow enough of another description to occupy her troubled 
 little mind. 
 
 Alfred was obliged to go daily to the counting-house, and his 
 usually sweet temper was fast becoming soured, while his natural 
 selfishness became increasingly predominant. His father having 
 once been roused to fight, and conscious both of his own weakness 
 and the strength of his enemies, kept the victory he had won by a 
 continued display of harshness, and even petulance. He feared 
 that if he gave an inch he might be driven to yield an ell. Little 
 good, however, seemed to be coming of Alfred's forced visits to the 
 City, and he and Leila sometimes held private confabs together, 
 in which he poured out all his griefs and wrongs into her anxious 
 ear. 
 
 "Oh, how I wish you would make it up again with Mr. For- 
 tescue," she said one evening when he had retreated to the dining- 
 room after tea, and she had followed him, on pretence of reading 
 German together. " I can't help thinking he would do you good, 
 Freddy. There's something so strong and healthy, I think, about 
 his whole character." 
 
 " No, no," answered Alfred, gloomily. " He's a fine fellow, but 
 he's too strict and fierce. Besides, he hates me." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure he don't. If you had heard him speak of you 
 
 the other day when he called " and then she stopped, as if 
 
 ashamed of her own eagerness. 
 
 " Did he though ? I'm glad to hear it," replied Alfred, with con- 
 siderable surprise # and gratification. " Ah, well, we may be friends 
 again some day, perhaps. I can't say. But he can do me no good, 
 my Lily. Besides, he's up at Cambridge again."
 
 154 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "Well, there's his friend, Gerald Arlington. I'm sure the com- 
 panionship of refined and — and — noble minds like his must be 
 strengthening and useful to you." 
 
 " Gerry's a very good fellow, I've no doubt ; but you know, Lily- 
 bell, I think he's weak." This barb went home. Now, if Alfred 
 had analysed his idea of Gerald, and expressed it correctly, he 
 would have said — " I think he's dreamy and romantic." And if he 
 had, Leila would have been so much the more inclined to think 
 tenderly of Gerald as now to think scornfully of him ; and to have 
 had her old impressions of him confirmed. But it was easier and 
 pleasanter to say " weak." It helps to make one feel stronger one- 
 self to call another person weak. 
 
 Before the brother and sister broke up their conclave, she whis- 
 pered : — 
 
 " Dear Fred, may I say one more thing ? I do so wish you would 
 — take — less -" 
 
 "Wine?" 
 
 She nodded, and hastily added — "I heard Papa saying only 
 yesterday what mischief you were doing yourself. BesideSi it is so 
 degrading." 
 
 " I know, you dear little vixen. I will try. Good night, Pettikin. 
 God bless you." 
 
 " Try !" exclaimed his sister, with increasing ill-concealed and in- 
 dignant scorn. "Ah, Freddy, I once heard Mr. Fortescue say, on 
 hearing one of your Cambridge friends declare he must try to give 
 up smoking — 'Try! Why don't you do it?'" Then, seeing the 
 cloud of mingled anger and distress which came over her poor 
 brother's face, she gave him a remorseful kiss, and vanished. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Arlington, meanwhile, plunged into his tragedy again with des- 
 perate energy. In the wild play of imagination and the fictitious 
 sorrows of the children of his fertile brain, he found temporary 
 but effectual relief from the crushing blow that had fallen on him. 
 And had he possessed that independent income, or that iron con- 
 stitution which his father once spoke of, and had his undoubted
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 155 
 
 genius been well disciplined by severe study, he would probably 
 have won a high place among the poets and thinkers of the day. 
 As it was, he could only flounder blindly on for a time amid all the 
 hindrances that beset him — something like a man in a sack-race at 
 a country fair. 
 
 So then came the days when a journey taken by "young Arlington" 
 to the docks was sometimes unaccountably and most mysteriously 
 lengthened (to Mr. Bramble's wondering annoyance and disgust) 
 by the necessity for scribbling memoranda in out-of-the-way nooks 
 and corners on Tower Hill, or on deserted quays — days when the 
 Custom House terrace was visited to mould a sentence or to devise 
 a scene — when Trinity Square was conscious of unwonted musings 
 on stormful heroes and exquisite heroines, and even Billiter Square 
 blushed for the poor clerk pausing beneath its gas-lamps. Days, 
 also, when Mr. Grant, coming suddenly to look for missing letters 
 in Gerald's desk, would find scraps of blank verse and tragic 
 " situations " in lieu of charter-parties and bills of lading ; or 
 when Mr. Bramble, not in the best of humours, rushing des- 
 perately to the hapless shipping clerk's drawer, in his absence, 
 would light — not upon the missing "Manifest" — but upon "Act I. 
 Scene 4. Enter Albizzi, with enraged expression, &c, &c." 
 
 Blame him not too severely nevertheless, stern Mr. Charter- 
 party Ledger, merchant, ship-broker, or clerk. Blame him not, 
 O Bramble ! till thou, much-enduring mortal, hast known what 
 it is to be labouring with thoughts and imaginations that crave 
 (how -passionately!) for utterance. But in addition to this, which is 
 one of the strongest impulses man can feel, there was that noble 
 thirst for Freedom, Beauty, Joy, for himself and for all men, which 
 inspires the captive to dig through stone walls, and the patriot to 
 bleed and die in striving for power to emancipate his country, to 
 guide its destinies, and to lift it to a nobler life. 
 
 Gerald's conscience as to the propriety of these proceedings 
 was quieted by assurances that as his health did not suffer much 
 (fictitious composition agreed with it better than Demosthenes), 
 and as he got through his duties passably, he thought he might 
 work on at least till his play was finished, and his erratic proceed- 
 ings were vindicated by its triumphant success. But that conscience 
 had been getting somewhat seared of late. The constant and 
 deadly strife between his intellectual impulses and his enforced 
 duties was not favourable to a healthy moral life. Mr. Grant and 
 his father again interchanged anxious words now and then. The 
 flattering hopes they had both been cherishing were being sadly 
 nipped once more. But they finally agreed that they had better
 
 156 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 content themselves, for the present, with watching the wayward 
 youth. And Mr. Grant acknowledged that "young Mr. Gerald" was 
 certainly much more efficient, on the whole, than he used to be ; 
 and " if not quite reliable in all matters of detail, he had rather an 
 attractive persuasive way with masters of vessels, was useful on 
 'Change, and acceptable from his gentlemanly (though a trifle too 
 excitable) demeanour with the mercantile aristocrats." " So we 
 must make the best of it," continued Mr. Grant, with a chuckle, 
 as he described the case to his wife and daughters, who, of course, 
 especially the eldest, were greatly interested in the rather perplexing 
 career of the high-bred, dreaming, poetical drudge, " and can 
 only hope," added Mr. Grant, in conclusion, " our sucking Shake- 
 speare will safely pass through the dramatic fever as he did through 
 the measles and whooping cough. Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 To Ned, " the knowing," and his select circle, the " poetic babe " 
 was, of course, as amusing as " Tom of Bedlam " to a village crowd. 
 But he benevolently promised his sisters to use his best endeavours 
 " to keep Gerry out of scrapes, and train him in the way he should 
 go — for," added he, in his knowingest way, "Gerry's a sort of fellow 
 you don't meet with every day — one, too, that you can't help liking 
 most deucedly, though he certainly is the rummiest chap that ever 
 I did see ! The chimpanzees at the Zoological Gardens, Nanny, 
 are nothing to him ! Play-writing in Leadenhall Street ! Crickey ! 
 When his tragedy comes out at Drury Lane won't we go and laugh 
 till we cry ! " 
 
 * * # * * # . * 
 
 An individual lay reclining languidly on the poop of a fine 
 clipper-built East Indiaman, moored to the quay of the new large 
 basin of the London Docks. Another individual, who had just 
 stepped over the vessel's side, contemplated him pensively for a 
 few minutes, and then addressed him thus : — 
 
 " What a rum chap you are, Arlington. Here have I been 
 standing beside you full five minutes, and you have been knitting 
 your brows, or clasping your hands despairingly, the greater part 
 of the time, as if you didn't see me, and were going to drown 
 yourself, and had nothing else to do." 
 
 11 Have nuffin else to do. Waiting for Captain. Glad to see you 
 all the same. What's the news ? Allow me to introduce you to 
 'La belle Circassian;' that is the name we rejoice in here. Come 
 and have a look at her. Splendid vessel." 
 
 " All right. What's she going to do ?" 
 
 "We have chartered her, sir, to Sydney." 
 
 "I wish I were going in her" — and his eye ran admiringly ovci
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 '57 
 
 the tall, graceful masts and spars, and up to the long streamer exult- 
 ing in the fresh breeze — " Oh, golly ! wouldn't it be just the thing ? 
 Cut the knot of all these infernal blackguard nuisances at once. 
 But that cock won't fight. Governor won't hear of it. I've bored 
 him for the last two months about letting me emigrate to New 
 South Wales, and give me /'iooo to buy stock. No good going 
 without money. That wild life in the bush, Arlington," and the 
 poor fellow's eyes sparkled, and he looked for the moment like his 
 old handsome, innocent self, " driving cattle like mad — that would 
 suit me to a T, and keep me out of all these devilries, my boy. But 
 he won't hear of it. Besides," and he looked round with affected 
 mystery, then continued in a lower tone, " I'll do better nor dat, 
 Massa Arlington." 
 
 " What's in the wind now, I wonder?" 
 
 " Well — in confidence, then — I'm just going to cut the shop, and 
 the governor, and the snug crib, and all — outright. And Leila 
 cried and begged me so prettily and heart-breakingly to see you, 
 and tell you where I was going to, before I finally vanished from 
 the scene in thunder and lightning, and a storm of applause — I 
 mean hisses and kisses — that I could do no less, though contrary 
 to my resolution. So I picked my way down through those 
 beastly streets, even unto here, where they told me, in Leadenhall 
 Street, I should probably find you." 
 
 Leila, then, remembered him — looked to him to help her brother. 
 He would help him. 
 
 " But what are you up to, man ? You don't tell me that " 
 
 " I'm a-going for to live in a garret — here it is," and he pulled 
 out a direction card, " 'Mrs. Stivens, No. — Elm Street, Clerkenwell.' 
 That's the enclosure, and there I establish my studio, and start on 
 the career of genius and of fame ! Isn't that the right twang, O 
 thou Shakesperian cove?" 
 
 " Have the powers that be consented then at last ?" 
 
 " No, by George ! Fairly broke with them ! That's all." And he 
 gave a short, nervous laugh. " Fact is, I saw it wouldn't do any 
 longer. I must follow my genius, or walk the plank. Hell's waves 
 gaping for me. But I'll baulk them, Captain. And oh, ye gods ! 
 but I do love my brush. I've begun a fancy piece. You'll come 
 and see it, eh ? Fare thee well. ' If for ever, still for ever, &c, &c.' " 
 And he turned to depart. 
 
 " Excuse me — one point — if not impertinent. How on earth do 
 men manage to set up for themselves ? I'm personally interested. 
 I mean how as to the cash. Governor makes no allowance, I sup - 
 pose ? "
 
 l$S GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Not a stiver. I've got a hundred or two of my own, which will 
 last me a twelvemonth ; but I shall soon pay my way. Far better 
 live so, Arlington, than go on as I've been doing the last few years. 
 You'll drop in now and then ? I shall be glad to see a face or two 
 of the old set ; but mind, as you value your honour, you mustn't let 
 a soul know where I've run to earth. Keep it dark, and good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye. Tell your sister I'll be sure and ferret you out." 
 
 " Shan't see her, or any of them, for a long time, I expect. She and 
 mother musn't, and father and Adelaide wouldn't, come. I'm sorry 
 a good deal for mother, and even a bit for the old boy. She, the 
 mother, takes on so, as my Gyp used to remark of his greengrocery 
 f parient ' when her babies died. But I've cut up uncommonly rough, 
 and must take the consequences. I'm a deadly sight more grieved 
 about Leila ; but she'll get comforted somehow. Good-bye." 
 
 He swung himself up into the ship's chains, sprung on to the 
 quay with his old gaiety, and was soon out of sight. 
 
 Reflections. — It by no means follows, we suppose, that every father 
 who finds that his son has a great dislike for business, ought to let 
 him go to Australia, or become a professional artist, should he 
 evince strong proclivities, or even genius, in that direction. But 
 perhaps it does follow that if a father has failed to bring up his son 
 wisely, so that he can be brought to bear the yoke faithfully in 
 business-drudgery, and unexciting usefulness, he had far better let 
 him follow the strong bent of the said son's desires and capabilities 
 than keep him in harness, against which he persistently and fiercely 
 rebels. The latter course is very likely to land the young gentle- 
 man in both a moral and social ditch. 
 
 "Will he indeed do that?" mused Gerald after Featherstone 
 had left him. " Leave home, and friends, and his sister, and a cer- 
 tain competency, probably wealth ? resist his father's will ; work 
 away in a dingy garret ? and all because he feels that Painting is his 
 true vocation ? And shall I do less for the highest cause that can 
 demand the Sacrifice of all that makes men value life ? Does this 
 miserable world of ours need less sacrifices for its mending than the 
 pursuit of Art and Fame ? Have I not a warning here?" And he 
 seemed to hear an indignant upbraiding voice sternly bidding him 
 to go and do likewise. 
 
 We all suffer sometimes from strange delusions. But thev are 
 not always what the world supposes.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 59 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 '" Schiller, in his youth, was a prisoner and a slave, but he burst 
 his fetters by a single tragedy. I may not dare to hope that I can 
 ever come within a million miles of his genius and success, but 
 surely it were not so difficult to equal ' The Robbers.' " 
 
 This thought had been haunting Gerald ever since his Scottish 
 tour. He believed that if he, too, could write a successful tragedy, 
 his father's aversion to his renouncing business and entering on a 
 literary career would be overcome, or, at all events, that he should 
 be able to support himself in that case by his pen, and would have 
 a right to choose his own career. But Alfred Featherstone's deci- 
 sive renunciation of the parental home had reminded him that a 
 legacy from his grandmother of ,£ioo, bequeathed when he was 
 a child had become .£200, when he lately received formal posses- 
 sion of it on coming of age, and that if one young man could find 
 that sum ample provision for two years, why, another with simpler 
 tastes might certainly do the same, and so work out his schemes 
 for the redemption of society by means of ^200, combined with the 
 divine influences of Poetry and Art. Then conscience pleaded 
 that it was nobler to work on bravely where his father had placed 
 him, doing his duty patiently, unambitiously. * * * 
 
 It was the old terrible conflict raging all over again — " What is 
 my duty?" 
 
 Could he but have completed his tragedy according to his ideal 
 standard, without leaving his situation, all might yet have been well. 
 Can he not do so ? His will was strong ; his purpose fixed and 
 resolute. Desperately he strove, night after night, to write worthily 
 up to his really fine conceptions. 
 
 ******* 
 
 It was long past midnight. All was silent in Hartland House. 
 But the young poet, who had been that evening to call on Alfred 
 Featherstone, and had found him working away full of enthusiasm, 
 was still at his desk trying to write — but all in vain. At length he 
 rose with a groan and wearily paced the room, pressing his 
 throbbing temples and dejectedly murmuring — 
 
 " Wie einst mit flehendem Verlangen 
 Pygmalion den Stein umschloss. . . ." * 
 
 *" As once with passionate desire 
 
 Pygmalion the stone embraced. . . ." — Die Mcalcn. Schiller.
 
 160 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "Ah ! he was rewarded ; but the cold marble awakens not to my 
 embrace. Thus that weird, fickle sylph I once so worshipped — the 
 more fool I for my pains — turned disdainfully away when I spoke 
 of this beloved idol" (and he clutched his half-written drama 
 fiercely). " Even so now it coldly, cruelly, refuses — 
 
 ' . . . . Zu athmen, zu erwarmen 
 . . . . An meiner Dichterbrust.'" * 
 
 He laid the crumpled manuscript down again, and tenderly 
 smoothed it ; then sat down by the half-extinguished fire, very- 
 miserable. 
 
 For the fact is, the young Deliverer of Humanity had begun to feel 
 of late that as with his former studies so now with his play-writing, 
 his health was again giving way ; while even at the best he saw no 
 real good would come out of night-work, especially at the close of 
 a long day in the City. He had tried early rising, but either he 
 couldn't wake early enough, or was very sleepy if he did, or weak 
 and hungry, or he lost half his time in lighting his fire, or just as he 
 had got into the full glow of composition, breakfast time arrived, 
 and he must soon be off to town. In short, he knew he was now, 
 for the most part, writing rubbish, and that there was no redemption 
 either for himself, or for humanity at large, coming in that direction. 
 Just then his eye happened to fall on a roll of paper which he had 
 brought with him from London. He unrolled it, and fastened it 
 against the wall. It was the portrait — the head of one mightier 
 than Schiller (as most, not all, regard him) — a face that moved 
 him so deeply when he first saw it in a shop-window, that he 
 turned away, slightly faint and giddy. But then, it had seemed 
 to overpower him only by the glorious inspiration and hope 
 with which it filled him. Now, poor fellow, he gazed at it, and 
 turned away sick at heart from very different emotions. When he 
 looked on Goethe's magnificent face, and thought how that great 
 man had gone on through life, receiving all sorts of help at the 
 most needful times, and bravely wrestling with all the hindrances 
 and foes that would, nevertheless, have otherwise crushed him; 
 calmly subduing all things into aesthetic nourishment for his soul ; 
 the • pabulum ' of his splendid (though miserably unequal) career — 
 when he looked at him there, calm, smiling, victorious — throned on 
 the admiration of the ages — wearing the eternal crown of power 
 and fame — "Der Ruhm mit seinem goldnen Kranz " — which he, 
 poor, vain-glorious weakling, so madly pined for — his fortitude at 
 length gave way, and, weakened by over-work and disappointment, 
 
 * " To breathe and warm into life on my poet-breast."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. l6l 
 
 he flung himself, in a paroxysm of misery, on his knees, clasping 
 his hands upon the blotted manuscript of his beloved play like a 
 lover bending over his mistress' bier. 
 
 A strange, sad sight for one who had entered noiselessly, and 
 looked down on her son with scarce less sorrow in her own heart. 
 A very sorrowful sigh, and then a hollow cough, made him start to 
 his feet, exclaiming, "Mother!" 
 
 "I could not rest, dear," she said, hurriedly, "while I knew you 
 were so unhappy. I have often heard you walking about, Gerald, 
 long after we were all gone to bed, and I couldn't bear it any 
 longer." Taking his hand, and kissing his dry, aching eyes, she 
 drew him to a seat beside her, and they sat together a few minutes 
 silently. Her eyes wandered over the manuscript on his desk. 
 
 " My poor boy, what is to be the end of all this ? Aunt Carry 
 told us a year ago that you were quite reconciled to the counting- 
 house, and would try and become all your father so anxiously looked 
 forward to." 
 
 " I have tried, mother — desperately. And I did give my whole 
 mind to business, and put aside all my studies ; but, you know, I 
 couldn't help thinking, and more and more I felt a desire, which 
 would give me no rest, to try and write something that would get 
 me influence — and make people care to listen to me — and'so give 
 
 me power to raise them — you know " His voice faltered, 
 
 and then presently he spoke of how Alfred Featherstone had given 
 up everything to devote himself to Art, living on little more than 
 bread and water in a garret, as he had seen him that evening ; and 
 then he exclaimed, " Mother ! shall I do less for what seems to me 
 a far higher purpose ? I cannot, finish this play, living as I am now. 
 There's not a chance of my ever working out my purpose, unless I 
 get out of this miserable mill-horse drudgery which my father has 
 put me to. Now, look here, dearest mother, this is what I've made 
 up my mind to: to leave home altogether, and live on my own 
 money, till I can earn my livelihood by writing, unless my father 
 consents to my giving up the counting-house, and likes me still to 
 live at home for the present till I have made my position in another 
 way. Indeed, indeed, mother, this is my duty — I have tried hard 
 to learn what I ought to do — and I am as sure that this is the call I 
 must answer, as that . . . ." t 
 
 "But dearest Gerald," said his mother, hurriedly, "only a few 
 months ago, you know, you were just hinting to me your hopes — 
 
 regarding — Leila Featherstone. How can you expect " 
 
 " Mother, that dream is over ! You saw more truly than I did ; 
 and even were there tenfold the chance for me — Harry Fortcscuo 
 
 L
 
 1 62 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 loves her as much as I do, and I wouldn't for worlds hinder " 
 
 Again he couldn't finish. 
 
 "Well, but my dear boy," faltered out his mother, trying to keep 
 down her tears, "if you could but settle quietly to business for a 
 few years, you might certainly then have a home of your own, with 
 some true wife who would make you happy when we are gone, and 
 then you could have quite enough time for literary recreation and 
 composition." 
 
 But Gerald interrupted her, vehemently exclaiming — 
 
 " Mother, mother, do you tempt me ? Do you not care that I 
 
 should live for higher ends than these poor, common objects — 
 
 getting a fortune and a wife ? You knoiv that if I give myself now 
 
 to business, I shall never be able to do anything else. And have 
 
 not you oh ! mother, was it not you who first made me long to 
 
 live for something nobler than most men care about ? Did not you 
 make me, even as a boy, long for the sympathy — the honour — 
 
 which crown noble work — for the loving " "Admiration" was 
 
 the word on his lips, but not even to his mother, no, not even to 
 himself, could he bear to confess the passionate craving he still felt 
 for that heavenly-tinted bubble — Fame. 
 
 And Mrs. Arlington knew only too well how intensely she still 
 cherished the hope of seeing her son famous ; but, at least, she had 
 led him some way on the right path to reach the divine Civitas 
 Bet— the true " Kingdom of God" — if he had not entered it ; and 
 there was, therefore, a great blessing in store for her, then, and for 
 her son hereafter. For as in deep dejection the poor lady was 
 giving Gerald a tearful good-night kiss, she said, in a trembling 
 voice, " But my dear, dear boy, one thing — in all your troubles, you 
 won't forget Him, who always loves you." 
 
 " No, no, mother, you have taught me to trust Him,' and to come 
 to Him. Fve never given up that, and hope I never shall. And, 
 dear mother, you have taught me some other things too — of purity 
 and manliness. Thank God and you for that. God bless you, 
 mother." 
 
 These were very sweet words for the poor lady's aching heart. 
 " But what can be done ?" she asked, as she wiped her eyes and 
 returned Gerald's grateful kiss. "Your father is not the wealthy 
 man he once was. He cannot support you in a literary career." 
 
 " But if I can support myself *' 
 
 "Your health and strength are giving way already." 
 "That is because I have to work at night. Give me the day 
 Give me' only three months entirely to myself, and you shall see." 
 A long pause.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 163 
 
 " If I can persuade your father to give you three months holiday, 
 and Mr. Grant agrees, and you finish your tragedy, will you let the 
 result decide your subsequent course in life ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Gerald, with immense energy. 
 
 " And if it be— a failure — will you then give up this bright, but, 
 perhaps, most mistaken dream, dearest, of a literary life ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, yes. I do not promise that I will remain the rest 
 of my days in business ; but I will not be a burden upon my father. 
 But it may succeed, mother." And he looked up at her with such a 
 wistful look, that she'^could only say, through her tears — 
 
 " I pray God it may, dear. What would I not give to see you," 
 she added, with a wistful smile, "crowned, my boy — like Petrarch. 
 Good-night." 
 
 As she left the room, the new hope that was filling her son's 
 mind of the happy effect of her influence with his father, was giving 
 way to a dismal fear. During their conversation Gerald had been 
 too much occupied about himself to notice his mother's pale cheeks 
 and sunken eyes ; but when she was going, and all his old bovLh 
 love for her came back, a painful doubt, which had once or twice 
 before occurred to him, concerning her own state of health, took 
 possession of him, and even in his dreams he was haunted by 
 gloomy visions. 
 
 Mr. Arlington had long been anxious on the same score, and 
 when he heard his wife, whom he loved so tenderly, pleading with 
 all a mother's zeal on behalf of her poor boy, he had no power to 
 resist, and gave as a boon to her what he never would have yielded 
 to the solicitations of his son. Moreover, apart from the question 
 of his wife's health, Stephen Arlington, Merchant and " Director," 
 was very happy and hopeful now with regard to business and his great 
 engineering enterprises. The Baltic trade had improved a little. 
 The London and Birmingham Railway was rapidly overcoming 
 innumerable obstacles, and advancing to a proud, triumphal close. 
 The Grand Junction was uniting Birmingham and Liverpool, 
 through Warrington, with like magnificent energy ; and, to crown 
 the dreams of his life, an Atlantic Steam Navigation Company had 
 actually been formed, and himself placed as chairman at its head. 
 This was indeed a responsible, and by no means an enviable, post, 
 but full of stirring interest. 
 
 Many of the ablest scientific and professional men shook their 
 heads, or launched into fierce invective against the ridiculous — the 
 disgraceful, because most dangerous — folly of attempting to send 
 steamers 3000 miles without a chance of coaling on the way. 
 
 One of the cleverest of scientific professors proved to demonstra-
 
 1 64 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 tion, in lectures and in print, that the thing was utterly impos- 
 sible. 
 
 But Mr. Arlington and his company stood by their great engineer 
 bravely. Two splendid vessels were built and fitted up with mighty 
 engines. The first completed was launched on her untried and 
 perilous voyage amid hopes and prayers, fears and ridicule ; and 
 the very day that the last proof-sheets of the eminent Professor's 
 book came wet from the printer's, showing the absolute impossi- 
 bility of the steamer's reaching America, the news came and spread 
 like wildfire through the City, that the "Queen of the West" had 
 arrived at New York in triumph. Mr. Arlington then, like one or 
 two other people, felt he had not lived quite in vain. 
 
 And then, into the midst of this brief triumphal hour of his life, 
 there stalked the gloomy business once again of "poor Gerald's 
 obstinate folly," as he viewed it ; and for which he now believed 
 there was no remedy but to let the infatuated boy take his own 
 course ; and, if one more concession, and then one final attempt 
 at stern coercion should fail, nothing was left for his misguided 
 son but untold evil for the rest of his days. 
 
 Mr. Arlington little thought there was a thousand-fold more 
 reason for being anxious on his youngest son's account than even 
 on Gerald's. Richard Arlington appeared outwardly to be going 
 on in a sufficiently respectable and steady way to satisfy any ordi- 
 nary parental heart, according to the usual standard of propriety. 
 Gerald, however, could not help seeing a good deal deeper into his 
 brother's character and way of life ; although, from Richard's being 
 
 established in lodgings, as aforesaid, near the St. Hospital, 
 
 they were not thrown much together. 
 
 Dick used often to come down, however, on Saturdays and 
 Sundays, to Hartland ; and then Gerald (trying to avoid assuming 
 " elder-brother" airs), put in a good word or two, ending once or 
 twice with pretty strong remonstrance and entreaties. But he was 
 vexed to find how little influence he seemed to have over Master 
 Richard. The time for that appeared to be irrecoverably lost — 
 gone with the days of beagles, and boating, and bolstering matches. 
 He had done his best, after recovering from the shock of his 
 disappointment with regard to Leila Featherstone, to lead his 
 brother in a better way. But the companions of the latter, and all 
 the worst influences of a medical student's life in those days, were 
 urging fifty words in Richard's ear for one that Gerald could 
 plead ; and, amid all his own troubles, the elder brother bitterly 
 fretted over the evil symptoms which were manifested, every now 
 and then, beneath a fair outside.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 65 
 
 However, Gerald sometimes thought that perhaps he might be 
 too exacting and fastidious. Moreover, Richard always seemed 
 impressed by his brother's remonstrances at the time, and promised 
 well for the future. The young gentleman's great object was to 
 avoid being bored, or in any way restrained; but he also had a certain 
 amount of sincere regard for his parents and brother, and so he 
 promised fair, and Gerald kept hoping and expecting better things. 
 
 The day after that midnight talk with his mother, Gerald gave 
 Mr. Grant notice he should like to leave his office as soon as might 
 be convenient to that gentleman, and was told there was a very 
 hopeful young man longing for the situation who would be able to 
 come certainly in a month's time — probably before — and that Gerald 
 might consider himself at liberty as soon as his successor appeared. 
 
 " Ned, the Knowing," was overwhelmed with surprise, though not 
 quite with sorrow. The merchant's son treated him a little too 
 cavalierly to satisfy Ned's sense of his own importance, while "the 
 sucking Shakespeare," as he always called Gerry behind his back, 
 was not an agreeable colleague, it must be confessed, in a purely 
 business point of view. There was more sorrow among the softer 
 sex in Gower Street at this final break-down in the family relations ; 
 but while Annie Grant mourned over it with silent constancy, Bessy 
 and her mother welcomed the hopeful and agreeable successor to 
 that place at their table and in their regards, formerly occupied by 
 Gerald Arlington. 
 
 The next day Mr. Arlington, to whom Mr. Grant had communi- 
 cated Gerald's request, told his son, before he left for town, that if 
 he liked to live at home till he had finished his play, he was wel- 
 come to do so. Should it succeed, and he found he could make a 
 livelihood by literature, well and good. If not, he, Mr. Arlington, 
 would get him a situation on the railway, or in some office where 
 the work would be light, and over by 4 o'clock. " But, Gerald," he 
 added austerely, and with some solemnity, "you must earn your 
 own living. I have neither the will nor the power to earn it for 
 you." The man of business would have slaved all his days, and 
 nights too, to keep that son of his in luxurious literary leisure if he 
 could thereby have kept the light in his wife's eyes, and not have 
 quite ruined his boy. But the concession he had now made to her 
 entreaties, under the anxiety he felt at her failing health, was the 
 utmost his conscience would allow. 
 
 Of course, Gerald sent his friend at Cambridge a full account of 
 what had been transpiring — of his determination to leave home, if 
 necessary, and to fling himself entirely on his own scanty resources. 
 Before long he received the following characteristic reply: —
 
 [66 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 [HARRY FORTESCUE TO GERALD ARLINGTON.] 
 
 "Caiui Coll., March 10/33. 
 "So you've gone and done it at last, friend Gerry. Well, I 
 suppose it's all right, and I ought to congratulate you on your 
 ' emancipation ' from the ' Leadenhall Street bonds.' I've no 
 doubt you are very jolly, and in a fine frenzy rolling, and all that 
 sort of thing ; but, somehow it don't seem to me quite the tune. It 
 is too pleasant, I'm afraid, to be right. I don't mean as to ?mv, 
 because I know you need and deserve a holiday, and you would say 
 you are only preparing for a much harder life by-and-bye. But I 
 can't see that at any time a man can be doing his duty fairly in the 
 world if his chief occupation is writing dramas, novels, or even 
 poetry. I can't see how you are to be brought fairly into contact 
 with the rough facts of life, and do the stern working and fighting 
 of the world in that way. I don't believe in Goethe myself, what 
 little I know of him ; and I fancy he would have been a much 
 greater poet as well as a far finer fellow generally, if he had had to 
 rough it a little more, and had had a regular profession of some 
 kind. Playing at being a Minister of State in a little trumpery 
 dukedom like that of Saxe-Weimar wasn't half enough. I have 
 read somewhere, and it seems to me true, that men of thought have 
 always been greater for being also men of action. However, I've 
 bored you with all this often enough before, so I'll shut up. Only 
 first let me say one thing, Gerry. When men think so very much 
 about helping others and doing good, as you do, isn't there danger 
 of their neglecting themselves — I mean their own characters, — of 
 becoming, perhaps, brilliant writers or eminent philanthropists, 
 but poor sort of men ? I may be talking stuff, and, if you think so, 
 put it down to my ignorant zeal. But, if it is very wise, as I rather 
 opine it is, credit that admirable Aunt Carry of yours therewith, 
 for I could almost swear I learnt it of her ! ... As to myself I 
 can't say I am at all at ease. As Freddy Featherstone remarked of 
 himself to you, 'I can't read rfnd I won't row.' Well, I do read 
 medically pretty hard now and then, but I'm not well in body or 
 mind ; though I don't row, I do row — i.e., boat. But I do long to 
 be out in the world, doing something useful — real, hard, useful 
 work. I don't care much what it be, though I still hanker wry 
 much after the pill-boxes. But I feel bored to death up here— and, 
 alack ! sometimes I don't seem to care a rush even for some one —
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 67 
 
 you know who. If I could only go straight to the old boy and get 
 his leave, and carry her off at once, and set up in a nice little 
 practice— ah ! wouldn't I be merry and good ! But dragging on in 
 this miserable way, never seeing her, not even a line now and then 
 interchanged — not hearing even whether she really cares an old 
 brooch for me — ugh ! Why, for aught I know she may be flirting 
 away right and left at this moment, and be over head and ears in 
 love with some finnicking doll from the clubs, who wouldn't value 
 her half as much as he does his horse and tiger. I can't stand it, 
 Jacky, and it don't pay. "But, jam sat. You've wisely kept out of 
 all such bobberies, and that at least shews your wisdom. 
 
 " Bye, bye ; I've lots more to say, but I can't write. I mean to 
 run down at Easter. 
 
 "Ever yours, 
 
 " Harry Fortescue. 
 
 " Excuse such a' stupid, dull affair. I am seedy, and that's the 
 fact." 
 
 " He doesn't care for her," cried Gerald, bitterly. " No, not 
 one-thousandth part as much as she deserves ! Couldn't I have 
 gone on for years if I had as much reason as I know, and as he 
 knows he has to believe she cares for him ! He doesn't know 
 what real love is. Oh, Lady Leila ! — still beloved ! was it for this 
 I gave you up ? " Then he champed and stamped, and drove 
 down his grief into the crucible of his own imagination, where his 
 tragedy was heaving and bubbling, like precious metal and dross 
 in a furnace, poured out the glowing mass in the mould of some 
 half-dozen passionate scenes, and finally wrote Master Harry a 
 letter which made that young gentleman exclaim, " Bless me ! 
 Perhaps the man had once been smitten himself. But he certainly 
 had given her up, if he was ever in love with her. I well remember 
 his saying she used to make him feel as the Scotch say you do 
 when a witch or a water-wraith comes near you. Ye gods! Still, 
 anyhow, as he says pretty correctly, I era a confounded old 
 sinner." 
 
 Easter came, and with it Harry Fortescue turned up among the 
 gay throngs of Portland Place and Harley Street. Gerald left the 
 course quite clear to him. But these fine assemblies were never 
 to Fortescue's taste. Pie would have given worlds for a quiet 
 hour's walk with "the little Featherstone" (as he caught himself 
 irreverently remarking) in a shady lane ; but, as it was, he felt 
 utterly out of sorts with everybody and everything, and would have 
 been thankful if any one of the ridiculous coxcombs he met buzzing
 
 1 68 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 about would have knocked him down, and not run away till he got 
 up again. Poor Leila couldn't understand him — wasn't half as 
 happy with him as she expected. She felt, indeed, deeply sensible 
 of the unselfish nobleness and strength of character, combined 
 with a child-like simplicity, which shone so clearly through the 
 poor fellow's tumultuous and somewhat turbid atmosphere. She 
 rejoiced more than ever in his impassioned thirst for an " Order 
 and Peace in the Universe," which he was certainly far from having 
 attained to himself. Her powerful imagination invested him with 
 a thousand heroic qualities, and she loved to be near him during 
 those rabid, blind-giant like .moods of his. For there, also, she 
 was in entire sympathy with him. And it was an immense excite- 
 ment, mixed Avith a grim sense of fun, to see him raging like a 
 chained lion in the fetters of conventional decorum and social 
 slavery. Sometimes, when he was supremely fierce and indignant 
 with the follies of the world, she broke out into one of those merry 
 little laughs which he had characterized as being so overwhelmingly 
 captivating and rare. No wonder poor Harry was more madly in 
 love with her than ever, and no wonder she enjoyed a walk which 
 he managed to get with her once or twice, and then was momen- 
 tarily but intensely happy. 
 
 Nevertheless, for all that, she sighed when alone, to remember 
 that he hadn't talked much on subjects which really and deeply 
 interested her. He evidently cared little for art, literature, poetry, 
 music ; nor even for religion, except in a conventional way, she 
 thought. Then she shrunk from his vehement self-assertion and 
 imperious dogmatizing, which seemed so impatient of all opposition, 
 he feared unconsciously for her own individuality and liberty of 
 thought, and felt, at such times, a decided antipathy to him on 
 account of his strong will, and defiant, obstinate ways. So that 
 while greatly attracted towards him by one set of influences, she 
 was just as strongly repelled from him by another. In fact she 
 was too much like him in certain respects really to harmonize with 
 him, at all events in this stage of their acquaintance, though, as 
 we have seen, she could easily have been drawn into accepting 
 him, had the parental influences been propitious, and had he urged a 
 persevering suit. But at the very times when he was most eagerly 
 striving to please and interest her he was crunching up her favourite 
 ideas, and smashing her pet sentiments, and often putting her into 
 as wild and painful a commotion as he was being tossed about in 
 himself. That calm strength, and cheerful, hopeful tone of mind, 
 which had once formed one of his greatest charms in Leila's 
 were gone. He seemed to have lost the key of his life. Then
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 69 
 
 when he thought he saw that she disliked him, or felt sure he had 
 offended her, a crawling, venomous jealousy of Gerald crept into 
 his mind. He cursed himself a dozen times for this hateful 
 feeling, but it would keep twining round his heart. Once he asked 
 her "what she thought of his friend?" Now Leila had heard 
 of Gerald's leaving Leadenhall Street, and had also heard him 
 described as a weak, sentimental, changeable young gentleman, 
 shirking hard honest work and duty. He had never called on them 
 since the Wimbledon dance ; in fact, evidently kept out of her way. 
 And, moreover, when she heard that young Mr. Arlington had 
 thus given up his proper calling, as she naturally supposed it to be, 
 she began to fear his romantic tendencies were conquering his 
 sense of duty, — to apprehend that, after all, he had been leading 
 her somewhat astray with his aesthetic chatter, and to think, half 
 sorrowfully, half satirically, of the would-be poet. So when Harry 
 asked the above question, as they sat on a bench in Kensington 
 Gardens one sunny Sunday afternoon, listening, with a vast 
 number of fashionable folks, to the band of the Coldstream Guards 
 (the fashionable Sunday amusement of those days, shared with a 
 visit to the Zoological Gardens), she looked up at her companion's 
 hard, rugged features and compressed mouth, and answered with 
 a quiet smile, " I think him very interesting, very clever, and — 
 rather weak." The slightly contemptuous tone in which her words 
 were uttered sent a very natural, though not exactly a brotherly, 
 thrill of delight through Harry's heart. " Yes," he slowly 
 responded; "he is weak;" and then he drew a long breath of 
 immense relief. But the words he had uttered came back to 
 him in the darkness of the following night like accusing spirits, 
 and the poor fellow with all his nobleness and all his devilry con- 
 tending within him, moaned aloud to the bed-curtains, and 
 muttered, " I ought to be hung for saying so. I knozv better than 
 that." Then he remembered how young Featherstone had once 
 said something of the kind, and he had answered fiercely, "Weak ! 
 Well, he's knqeked me over more than once, both physically and 
 metaphysically — and, let me tell you, it takes some strength to do 
 that. But Gerry's a modest party, and his strength is so quiet that 
 blind beetles like you can't see it." 
 
 He thought of all this in the gloomy darkness, and cursed him- 
 self for a liar and a traitor. But this talk with Leila in Kensington 
 Gardens had been the last opportunity he should have of seeing her 
 for months. He was going back to Cambridge the next day; and 
 the enthusiastic soul, the liquid yet flashing eyes, the blush-rose- 
 tinted cheek, and the lithe, beautiful figure of this young girl,
 
 170 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 were overpowering. She had let him take her hither and thither 
 on that sunny afternoon, wherever he would, in the excitement of 
 the moment, to escape the crowd, or to avoid detached loiterers ; 
 sometimes pretending to listen to the music, then striving im- 
 patiently to shun it, until he felt the time was come when he must 
 speak, or go and drown himself. And so he rushed into a glowing 
 eulogium on the medical profession, and declared in incoherent terms 
 his belief " that he could make something of it, and was deter- 
 mined he would — and if he worked on and rose in it — might he 
 hope ?" All his strong, impetuous nature and will — all his vehe- 
 ment, passionate longings for a goodness, a beauty, a blessedness 
 of which he had so often and so ardently dreamed — all his fiery yet 
 tender, loving desire to bless this angelic creature, were concen- 
 trated in that little sentence — " Might he hope ?" 
 
 But to poor Leila the words were like the sudden yawning of a 
 precipice at her feet. In the singular simplicity and childlike 
 freshness of her character she had gone on just as she had done 
 with Gerald Arlington, enjoying companionship with gifted minds 
 and noble natures, never asking herself whither it would all lead ; 
 and suddenly she found this great, strong, impetuous being— so 
 enthusiastic in some things, so scornfully sceptical in others — so 
 arbitrary and yet so fascinating, was thinking of marriage — actually 
 thinking whether she would be his wife. In the tumult of the most 
 agitating, and at the same time conflicting emotions that had ever 
 filled her mind, she could have burst into a passionate flood of 
 tears, and with great difficulty restrained herself. But utter a word 
 she could not, nor move a limb. A sudden silence — a silence 
 that went like the chill of a dead man's fingers on Harry's heart. 
 It was a moment of agony to him. He thought she was mortally 
 offended. Young men in love often expect women, if they 
 reciprocate their attachment at all, to be as impassioned and un- 
 restrained as themselves. Every tinge of colour had left the 
 maiden's cheek. The lovely little witch was hard to catch. In 
 the great effort of self-restraint she looked cold and hard ; and 
 at length rising, she remarked — 
 
 " I think we had better go to mamma." 
 
 That lady and Mr. Featherstone were evidently preparing to 
 betake themselves to their carnage. Mr. Featherstone, who as 
 well as his wife had been uneasy at the prolonged tete-a-tete between 
 the young people, came to meet them, looked from his daughter 
 to Harry, with a curious mixture of suspicion, vexation, and kindli- 
 ness, placed Leila in the carriage, and whispering to Harry to wait 
 a minute, turned to look for Adelaide. That radiant beauty soon
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 7 I 
 
 appeared in splendid costume, walking with the gentleman on one 
 side who in a few weeks was to become her husband, and his father 
 on the other. Mr. Featherstone handed the young couple in, say- 
 ing " That he was going to walk home with Sir John." The 
 carriage drove off. Sir John conversed meanwhile with an ac- 
 quaintance, and Mr. Featherstone turned to Harry, who stood 
 waiting like a culprit going to be hanged. 
 
 " Mr. Fortescue, I have a sincere regard and esteem for you ; 
 but in my time it was usual to say a word or two to fathers before 
 talking about such things as I suspect you have been broaching to 
 my daughter. She is a great deal too young, you know, Mr. 
 
 Fortescue '•' he stopped, pained by the expression of suffering 
 
 on Harry's face. He knew he had suffered somewhat from a 
 former disappointment in regard to Adelaide, and he would have 
 liked to console him a little. So after a moment's pause, he 
 continued — 
 
 "At the same time, my dear Sir, considering what we all owe 
 you, — if — if your uncle intends — that is, if you have any reasonable 
 prospect in the course of a few years of a living, why — at the same 
 time, you know, my dear Sir, I can't recommend such long engage- 
 ments. I don't think they are good ; and you yourself are very 
 young. But — ahem, is there a probability — such a thing as a family 
 living, for instance ? " 
 
 " Mr. Featherstone, I do love your daughter. I love her as in my 
 soul I believe she deserves to be loved ; but I doubt if she has the 
 slightest desire to reciprocate that ■" He couldn't get any fur- 
 ther. " Oh, don't be too sure," said Mr. Featherstone, feeling very 
 awkward between his kindly sympathy for a deserving young man 
 in such evident distress, to whom his son owed his life, and am- 
 bitious designs, as well as paternal consideration for his favourite 
 daughter. 
 
 " I have no chance, Sir," continued Fortescue, by a strong effort, 
 " of any such presentation as you refer to. I intend devoting myself 
 to the medical profession." 
 
 " The deuce you do ! " exclaimed] her papa, all his conventional 
 decorum fairly upset. " But then your uncle will make you a hand- 
 some allowance till you come into his property ? " 
 
 " He will give me nothing, and leave me nothing, Sir, if I do not 
 take orders." 
 
 " So ! " The old gentleman gasped for breath. All his love and 
 consideration for his little Leila rushed to the top of the tide. 
 "And you actually have had the presumption, Sir, to think of 
 engaging the affections of a young lady ? Why, Mr. Fortescue,"
 
 172 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 and he looked at the hapless suitor from top to toe, " it will be ten 
 or fifteen years at the very earliest before you can pass through the 
 requisite course of training and be in possession of sufficient means 
 to support a wife and family." 
 
 " I have about ^150 a-year of my own, Sir." But he knew his 
 doom was sealed. The look of ineffable scorn with which this 
 mention of ^150 was received, and the glance of irritable indig- 
 nation, were quite enough. Harry turned on his heel and was striding 
 away, when Mr. Featherstone exclaimed, " Stop ! we must not part 
 thus ; I do feel a very sincere regard, Sir, — perhaps you may think 
 better of your intention to give up the Church — perhaps your 
 
 uncle " But Harry only very slightly touched the proffered 
 
 hand and marched off. 
 
 "Very singular young man," thought the agitated father. "He 
 saved our poor boy once — but to very little good purpose, I fear. 
 The wretched lad's wild oats take a long while sowing. Eh, dear, 
 
 its a troublesome world — very . What ! give up /^zooo a year 
 
 rather than enter holy orders ! Wonderful ! . . . . Hope I 
 haven't kept you waiting, Sir John." 
 
 " Don't mention it," answered the complaisant baronet. " Why, 
 Featherstone," he added, "What a charming young lady your 
 youngest daughter is growing. She'll be as dangerous as her 
 eldest sister, I suspect." 
 
 " I'm highly flattered, Sir John. We ought to be much obliged 
 to our daughters, I'm sure, when they bring us such valued alliances 
 as this with your esteemed family. But ah ! they are sadly perplex- 
 ing treasures — sadly perplexing — yes." 
 
 [HARRY FORTESCUE TO LEILA FEATHERSTONE.] 
 
 "Great Ormond St., March / 
 
 " I cannot leave London without daring to send you one line, to 
 pray you to pardon me, and to confess that I did wrong. I beg you 
 to forget wholly my mad conduct ; and if you are spoken to about 
 it by your father and mother, pray tell them what I have now said. 
 
 " I never thought of its being wrong till your father spoke to ms 
 afterwards. Pray forgive me. May I ask you for just a line to say 
 you do — and that you will try not to think of me with anger, or as a 
 man devoid of honour ? I will not intrude upon you again till I 
 have earned the right. It will be years before I shall have a right 
 to speak to anyone as I did to-day to you. But I never shall so 
 speak to anyone else while you remain as you are. Do not think I 
 want to bind you in the slightest degree by saying this. God in 
 Heaven knows I do not. He knows I only wish to see you happy
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 173 
 
 and beloved as deeply as He can make you — as with His help I 
 thought I could make you ; and as, in truth, you well deserve to be. 
 Once more, forgive me. Farewell. 
 
 "H. F." 
 
 It cost him some hours during a sleepless night to concoct this 
 epistle. Perhaps it took Leila Featherstone longer to answer it thus : 
 
 "I thank you very sincerely for your letter. I thank you for 
 writing one that I could show my mother without fear and without 
 more pain than I had felt before. And I thank you — oh, how much 
 — for all you have felt towards me. I cannot say more. I have 
 very much enjoyed making your acquaintance, and am sorry it is 
 now better we should not meet. I shall always feel deeply grateful 
 to you on my dear brother's account. But I know that you do not 
 ask for gratitude. Yes, I am too young to think of anything else. 
 I do not know — I am not sure that I ever could give more. But it 
 is a long time to look forward to. 
 
 " Let me add this, Mr. Fortescue, I never would take such love as 
 you offered me unless I could give all mine in return. 
 
 " Believe me, gratefully, 
 
 "L. F." 
 
 No, she could not write that which she was going to do mechani- 
 cally — " Yours — " and with a start and a sigh, and almost a cry, she 
 just hurriedly closed the letter. When it was all over, the reaction 
 came with bitter crying and head-ache. But this too passed away, 
 and she went back to her daily duties and studies. During the 
 ensuing weeks she moved about pale and quiet, and felt sometimes 
 very fierce, and at others very sad ; but at least five years older, and 
 considerably wiser. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " One, two, three ! Capital ! Miss Grant has hit the gold ! " 
 exclaimed Fanny Rivers, clapping her hands. "We have beaten 
 them by sixteen ! Bravo ! Miss Nancy. Play up, band, — ' Sec the 
 conquering hero comes!' Crown her brows with laurel! Make 
 way for the Queen of the May ! " And the laughing girl burst into
 
 174 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 snatches of song ; and dancing around her victim, flung sprays of 
 lilac and laburnum upon her path, and made graceful but futile 
 efforts to compel her to submit to have her chesnut locks covered 
 with a wreath of laurel. 
 
 The admiring spectators, themselves all armed with bows and 
 arrows, consisted of Ellen Fortescue and her aunt, Lady Baines ; 
 Miss Tylney, the two Miss Grants, Leila Featherstone, two young 
 ladies from a neighbouring mansion, and a very pale, pensive Lon- 
 don governess, come down for fresh air and loving sympathy, both 
 of which she always found, winter and summer, at Neville Court, 
 in great abundance. 
 
 "I consider the shooting this afternoon has been superb," 
 remarked Miss Fortescue, with gay empressemcnt . 
 
 " So do I," responded Fanny., very vivaciously, while she executed 
 a pas seal to her own warbling, " and I account for it entirely on 
 the self-evident fact that there are no horrid men-creatures here. 
 Tira la, tira la, la, la, la !— Trab, trab, trab ! " 
 
 " I declare you are like a ridiculous mischievous piece of swan's- 
 down, you naughty, frolicsome Fan," cried Nelly, at some further 
 vagaries of that young lady's. 
 
 " Thistledown, my dear," cried Fanny. " You don't know how I 
 plague my acquaintances ! " 
 
 " But I do." 
 
 "Ladies, tea and coffee and a syllabub await us on the bowling- 
 green. Let the victor lead the way," added Miss Fortescue, "and 
 Miss Rivers is requested to wait upon the company, for her sins, 
 singing at intervals." 
 
 " Oh, that will be charming ! — won't I "play you all manner of 
 tricks. There's a squirrel ! I vow I'll have it." 
 
 A very happy party they were, under the shade of the great oaks. 
 The Grants had taken a house near Dorking for the summer months, 
 and Fanny Rivers was on a visit to them. Leila had been so warmly 
 pressed to come and stay a month at Neville Court by Miss Fortescue, 
 that her parents noticing at last her evident depression and want of 
 health, which she had long tried to conceal, gave their consent, on 
 the understanding that the dangerous brother would not be asked 
 there. They gave it reluctantly, for their home now was rather 
 desolate. Alfred self- exiled, Adelaide' married, Leila moping. 
 " Whatever is the world coming to," thought Mrs. Featherstone. 
 
 The shadows were lengthening on the broad soft turf and the 
 fair archers were strolling towards the house. As they passed the 
 targets Fanny removed one of them, and putting herself in its 
 place, exclaimed —
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 175 
 
 " Now Lily dear, now's your time ! String your bow and speed 
 your shaft. Fancy me that charming he. Here's my heart — quick, 
 make it smart. Why ! dost thou turn away, my loved and lovely 
 one ? Why that's the fun, the only fun that's worth a lady's shoot- 
 ing. Oh ! dear, how stupid you are, Lily-bullero ! She wants to 
 make us believe she never tried to break a heart yet, Bessy. Now, 
 don't we know better ? " 
 
 " You are becoming extremely improper, my dear," answered the 
 young lady thus addressed. " Don't you see how grave Miss Edwards 
 looks ? " 
 
 "Ah!" replied Fanny, with a mischievous expression, "I am 
 afraid you and I have kept bad company of late. But Leila dear, 
 never mind her. I know you can give way to weaker moods if — 
 if duty calls. You can descend to gladden the hearts of youthful 
 
 Cambridge dons . Oh, heavens, Bessy, what have I done ? 
 
 Hide me, I'm in despair : how could I tell " — (looking up implor- 
 ingly in Bessy's demurely smiling face) — " that there was a whole 
 powder magazine there, and that my little farthing taper would 
 explode it ? " 
 
 " No," whispered Miss Tylney, in her soft, clear, voice, just 
 behind them, making the two merry, mischievous girls start like 
 the guilty things which they were, "you couldn't tell — but perhaps 
 there was no magazine ; fire, however, is a dangerous plaything." 
 
 " Life is meant to be merry, dear Miss Tylney," pleaded the 
 young nymph, with a pretty twinkling smile. 
 
 " Not altogether, fair mischief, but I do love merry hearts right 
 dearly. Only — only — " 
 
 " You won't have your favourites quizzed ?" 
 
 " No, I don't mean that. Sometimes it's remarkably good for 
 them. I was thinking of the subject, not the person." 
 
 " Eh, well-a-day ! Lady Caroline. Of all subjects under the 
 sun, flirting and love-making, and all such intolerable folly and 
 fiddle-faddle, are the most usual and most legitimate subjects for 
 fun. Besides, Leila is such a very charming and superior young 
 person, we should die of envy if we couldn't poke a little fun at her." 
 "What should flirting and love-making end in ?" 
 " Oh, bother ! Marriage, I suppose," said Miss Bessy. 
 " Oh, tweedle-dum ! Marriage, I'm afraid," said Miss Fanny. 
 "And that is not at all an important affair, / suppose," replied 
 Miss Tylney, with an arch yet serious smile. 
 
 "Go away!" exclaimed Fanny, playfully, repulsing Miss Fortes- 
 cue, who now approached. " This is not for good folks like you, 
 Miss Fortescue ! Only for little sinners, like Bessy and me. Now,
 
 176 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 dear Miss Tylney, give us a delightful little preachment, all to our- 
 selves, and we'll be so good, won't we Bessy dear ? And I'll never." 
 dropping her voice to a whisper, "flirt, even with Mr. Ned the 
 Knowing one, again — no, never — till I'm engaged to somebody 
 else." 
 
 So the little preachment went on in a snug little nook, amid the 
 deepening twilight, while two sweet voices, accompanied by the 
 piano, in the distant drawing room, rose and fell together in strains 
 that were wafted from the open French windows. Near those windows 
 the rest of the party were gathered, sitting, standing, or reclining in 
 picturesque attitudes and elegant dresses, with their fair young 
 faces attuned to the music, like living statues grouped by some 
 great artist. 
 
 The expression, in a certain celebrated letter, applied to faithful 
 disciples, viz., "living stones," is apt to strike at first as painfully 
 incongruous, till we reflect that those stones were part of a " living 
 temple," or church. But perhaps it might— looking at that fair 
 group, transfixed and motionless under the music's spell — also be 
 permitted a weak brother to think of " living marble," and of that 
 statue brought to life whereof poor Gerald, bending over his tragedy, 
 had so passionately dreamed. 
 
 The distant church clock pealed the hour of ten. The ladies' 
 carriages come up the drive. Shawls were in request. Lips met 
 in loving kisses. The high spirits of an earlier hour were quite 
 subdued. The two specially playful kittens, who had been listening 
 to the discourse in the arbour, seemed under the influence of some 
 saddening yet holy spell, and lingered round Miss Tylney, as loth 
 to go, taking leave of her at last with an affectionate almost tearful 
 embrace. And then the whole fairy scene melted away as by 
 enchantment, and Leila leaned against the drawing-room window 
 frame, looking at the stars, and wondering to find herself in such 
 perfect quiet, and alone. 
 
 " Good night," Avhispered a voice behind her. 
 
 " Dear Miss Tylney, will you tell us ?" pleaded Leila. 
 
 "What, my child?" 
 
 " Do, dear Miss Tylney," chimed in Ellen. 
 
 " Do please tell us what you said to them in the arbour — about — " 
 
 " Flirting and marrying," supplied Ellen. 
 
 " Not to night, darling," replied Miss Tylney. " Good night, 
 and God bless you." 
 
 She turned to retire, and then Leila noticed the tears on her pale 
 cheeks.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " I know what you mean by that look, Lilybell," remarked Miss 
 Tylney, the next evening, as the three ladies sat, work in hand, in 
 the little arbour; "but should you not finish reading to us this 
 ' Conquest of Granada ?' " 
 
 "There is some better conquest, I think, you can tell us about, 
 Caroline," replied Miss Fortescue. 
 
 "Ah, but mine are sadly old-fashioned notions. And what 
 interest can there be in an old maid's story ? " 
 
 " Dear Miss Tylney," said Leila, as she leaned her head sorrow- 
 fully yet peacefully against that lady's shoulder, " don't you tell me 
 we all have, or ought to have, our ' Saracens to conquer ? ' I am 
 sure you have won peace. Teach me. Am I so much less worthy 
 your teaching than Fanny and Bessy ? What were you saying to 
 them ? " 
 
 A hearty kiss was the first answer Miss Tylney gave her. The 
 second was — 
 
 "I will tell you and Ellen more than I told them, if you really 
 wish it — more than I ever told any human being before. But 
 what I told them was little more than this, that I had long believed 
 God had made men and women so different and yet with such 
 wonderfully attractive powers for each other, and given them such 
 deep sympathies with each other, for a higher purpose than mere 
 amusement. Is it not so, Leila ?" 
 
 " I have believed it." 
 
 " Must there not be a very solemn and yet glorious meaning in 
 this relationship of the two sexes, when we see how beautiful and 
 awful is the true love of a man and woman for each other, from the 
 first passionate 'falling in love,' as we call it, onwards to the 
 marriage vows and wedded love, and then to the final parting, when 
 the hearts which had been one are divided by the death-warrant ? 
 Was it not a wedding, Leila, which our Saviour chose as the 
 occasion for first manifesting His glory ? And docs He not 
 describe Himself as the Bridegroom of Humanity ? Do not words 
 seem utterly inadequate when we want to speak of the holiness and 
 beauty of this marriage bond, with all that leads up to it and flows 
 from it — and allj'that it is, and all that it symbolizes ? I can't talk 
 of it— but you understand, Lilybell,— Ellen ? " The lady paused. 
 
 " Pray, pray go on," murmured Ellen. 
 
 M
 
 178 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "I cannot speak of it, dearest. When I most realize all that I 
 think our Heavenly Father in His wonderful love intended, and 
 what a glimpse it gives us into the heavenly meaning of those 
 words, 'God is Love — '" She paused again, but, after a short 
 silence, continued thus : " I mean that then I feel with a degree 
 of pain I cannot describe how horribly all this holiness and divine 
 beauty and tender love is desecrated — how dear, silly girls make 
 a mere idle sport of it, — how men — how men," and her voice 
 faltered, and her bosom heaved as if in some strong agony — " how 
 men defile and curse it with their intolerable vileness. Oh, Nelly, 
 Nelly ! " she exclaimed, bursting into tears. 
 
 Ellen soothed her with affectionate tenderness, and Leila knelt 
 beside her, clasping one of her hands, and murmuring, "Forgive, 
 forgive me for asking." But Miss Tylney, soon recovering herself 
 by a great effort, said: "It is for you to forgive me for being so 
 foolish. I do want to speak on this matter to you. I do want to 
 live to help, if it be ever so humbly, to bring about a better state ; 
 and it is women who must work for it. You have each of you, I 
 think, much to do. Oh, if women generally — if they only would 
 take up this great solemn question. They have it in their own 
 power : it does, indeed it does, rest with them." 
 
 " Women are the greatest sufferers by men's wickedness, 
 I believe," said Ellen, "and, somehow, women do not seem to 
 care so much about what their own sex suffer, because of the 
 unselfishness of their nature, which seems to make them think it 
 natural they should suffer for others .... And then, again, 
 there is their natural shrinking from such subjects, which prevents 
 their throwing themselves into the work of preventing or remedying 
 all this evil." 
 
 " Nelly, I'm sure you do not think of what you are saying. Is 
 there not motive enough to work when we think of the moral ruin 
 which men bring on themselves here— the appalling misery and 
 destruction they are preparing for themselves hereafter ? Is not 
 this quite as great as any evil women bring upon themselves, and 
 infinitely greater than any amount of suffering with which a merciful 
 Providence chastises those women, or the partners in their guilt, 
 on earth? Nay, is not the whole burden of guilt — the whole 
 damning weight of sin in many cases — on the man's soul ? Would 
 women ever give themselves up to this deadly sin, if men, taking the 
 basest advantage of their trustful love, did not first tempt and ruin 
 them? Women are often vain and foolish, but not profligate till 
 betrayed." 
 
 " What can we do ? " asked Ellen, sadly, after a short pause.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. ■ 1 79 
 
 " This, Ellen : bear witness against the immoral opinions of 
 society. And this j/o/t can do, Leila Featherstone. If a man ever 
 asks you to love him, and be his wife — if ever a woman gives you 
 her confidence, and asks you to advise her in this solemn matter — 
 you can ask if the man's soul and life are as pure as your own. 
 Few men would think of asking that woman to marry them, whose 
 life had been defiled by licentiousness ; and does not God ask of 
 man the same purity which man demands of woman ? I do not, 
 of course, say perfection. But I do say • equal Purity.' The same 
 standard must be applied to both, for both are spiritual beings, 
 equal in the sight of God. The sou/ of each is the immortal 
 being ; it is as spiritual beings only that they can become children 
 of God, dwellers in heaven, or inhabitants of hell. 'In Christ 
 there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither male nor female.' And 
 looking to the very awful words of our Saviour in regard to this 
 relationship of the sexes, I do say that a woman is bound to ask for 
 the same purity in the man who would make her his wife which he 
 requires of her. It can, indeed it can be no true marriage, Ellen, 
 if that purity is wanting on either side." 
 
 " I believe it, Caroline, with my whole heart," replied Miss 
 Fortescue. 
 
 " But, oh ! Miss Tylney," pleaded Leila, " surely you speak of sin 
 which is found only in the lowest depths of degradation. How can 
 this matter affect us, and those we meet? I never thought — " 
 she stopped. 
 
 " Dear child ! I could almost pray God that you might die in 
 your innocence and ignorance, rather than live to know all that 
 men too often are, yes, in our own society — what is justified among 
 them, practised, and approved. It seems cruel to tell you this. 
 Yet no great evil is ever conquered without martyrs ; and some 
 women, oh Leila, some must know !" 
 
 Leila felt too much overpowered to speak. It seemed to her as 
 if a whole hell of wickedness, of which before she had only heard 
 the faintest far-off whispers, had suddenly yawned at her feet. 
 "Could it be right," thought Miss Tylney, "thus to enlighten one 
 so young and pure ?" At length she continued — 
 
 " My own dear Leila, I would not for worlds have brought this 
 dark shadow over your life, but that the world can be redeemed, 
 humanly speaking, only through the martyrdom — the patient 
 bearing of the cross — of those who can witness a good confession 
 for the truth and right. When God sees those who are able to 
 bear this cross, He calls them, and offers it. I believe He has 
 bidden me speak to you now."
 
 l8o GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Leila looked up with a bright light in her eloquent eyes. 
 
 " And there was another thought that has made me specially want 
 to speak to you, Lily, on this sad business," said Miss Tylney, as 
 with a touching tremulousness in her tone, she continued, "You are 
 not too young to be loved, or to love. I would save you, if I may, 
 from my own misery." It was some time before she could add — 
 " I was not older than you when a frequent guest at my father's, 
 amiable, refined, accomplished, with a very- winning tongue, called 
 out my interest in him by that which he showed in me. I knew 
 he loved me long before he spoke of it ; and when, at length, he 
 told me all, I felt that I could give myself to him with all the love 
 God meant a woman to feel for the man whom she accepts as her 
 future husband. But then, Lily, I did not know what a burden 
 and curse lay upon English life. Like you, I thought that all such 
 vileness was something afar off — found only in the festering sores 
 of a corrupt civilization — that young men, who were introduced 
 into our society, who were welcomed by our fathers and mothers, 
 and who asked for, sought our affections, would at least pass muster 
 with the better class of savages. I loved and trusted him with my 
 whole heart. I confessed in words a little of what I felt, when he 
 spoke with such passionate eagerness ; and I think he read far 
 more in my face than I dared to tell him. And then, Lily, when 
 we were so happy in our mutual trust, and when I began talking to 
 him of high and holy things, and thought we would draw near to 
 God's presence together, and ask His blessing to keep us pure in 
 His holy Son, and to let the divine light of His love fall in 
 its sanctity upon our mutual affection — then (please, Leila," and 
 the speaker's voice sank into an unnatural softness and calmness, 
 while she clasped Miss Fortescue's hand tightly in her own, 
 " measure something of my love for you by my telling you all 
 
 this) then, gradually, I found how shamefully his life had been 
 
 desecrated, by what he said most young men regarded as necessary 
 and allowable indulgence. How far, far apart we really were, 
 when I thought we were so very near ! And then,"— (a silence) — 
 " then — we parted— outwardly — but the true separation — that had 
 been made before." 
 
 After a few moments, Miss Fortescue said, "Did he seem 
 astonished ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered Miss Tylney. "He was too much amazed at 
 my indignation and grief to answer seriously or coherently at first : 
 and then there were expostulations, and all given as if I were a 
 poor, little, mistaken child, to be humoured and coaxed ; as one 
 who was making herself rather ridiculous about trifling and inevit-
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 181 
 
 able follies, instead," — and her eyes flashed with indignation 
 through her tears, — " instead of a woman who had been cruelly 
 insulted and wronged by a man asking her to be his wife, who for 
 years had been cutting himself off, by continual sin, from all the 
 divine sanctities of marriage ! Oh, Leila, my beloved Lilvbell ! 
 let my sorrow be sufficient for us both." 
 
 She gave Leila a passionate kiss, as the tears streamed from her 
 eyes, turned away, and walked rapidly towards the house. 
 
 There was a long silence, broken at length by Ellen saying — 
 " Yes, and then, in that world where they neither marry nor are 
 given in marriage, shall she not receive for her brave, holy 
 faithfulness, 
 
 * * * For all her pains and fears, 
 The day of woe and watchful night ; 
 For all her sorrows, alL her tears, 
 An over-payment of delight ? " 
 
 " And she will come, bringing many poor, fallen, penitent, rescued 
 outcasts with her," continued Ellen. " Now you understand some- 
 thing of the blessed work she is doing at that refuge she established 
 in Camberwell, and why she has laboured and prayed so earnestly 
 during so many years for its poor inmates." ■ 
 
 " I see it all now," murmured Leila. " But oh, how very, very 
 sad it all is." 
 
 " Sad, indeed," replied Ellen. "But I believe Caroline is right. 
 If this great terrible evil is ever to be checked, we women must 
 learn to set our faces against it." 
 
 " God help me never to forget it," said Leila, at length. " But 
 oh, Miss Fortescue, those whom we care about .... surely they 
 are pure ?" 
 
 Then Ellen could restrain herself no longer. Harry, during his 
 Easter holiday, had poured out to her with such deep earnestness, 
 his love for Leila, and his sister had listened with such infinite 
 delight, that although he had subsequently written a brief account 
 of his final talk with Mr. Featherstone, she could not now forbear 
 saying : — 
 
 " Dear Lily, I have so often, so very much longed to see you and 
 Harry understand each other. I've thought you were so truly made 
 for each other. I do love and esteem you both so very highly, 
 
 dearest " (she drew Lilybell, who was covered with blushes, 
 
 nearer to her) "and he has. told me, darling, how fervently he lias 
 
 hoped and prayed that you would some day " She bent over 
 
 her favourite and kissed the down-drooping eyelids and long dark
 
 1 82 GERALD A\ T D HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 lashes. Then the lids were raised, and the large earnest eyes 
 looked up at her with so beseeching an expression, and such 
 fathomless depths of trusting love in them, as she murmured 
 
 " And is he then — do you think ? is he such a pure, noble — such 
 a true man, dear, dear Miss Fortescue, as a true woman may ?" 
 
 But the arm which had been pressing her so lovingly to the 
 sister's heart dropped. It was as if a torpedo shock went through 
 them both. Ellen shivered, as if in mortal pain, while she sighed 
 out something like " Oh ! that I might altogether say yes — but " 
 
 Leila, a moment before, had been full of a strange joy ; then 
 that heavy sigh and " but " brought her for the moment greater 
 suffering than anything else she had ever felt in her life. 
 
 " And yet, my Lily, he is very, very penitent, and as sorrowful as 
 he is noble ; and he is not — oh, no, God forbid! — he is not such as 
 Miss Tylney spoke of; he has never, never lived in sin, and his 
 future life, indeed, it ever will be, dearest, pure and lofty, and worthy 
 of a pure and noble woman's heart. And oh, Leila, none of us can 
 know how constant and terrible are the temptations young men yield 
 to, or resist and triumph over, under the present state of things. 
 I do believe there is infinite nobleness in many of these young 
 men's souls, only it is their wretched, cruel education, and the 
 companionship." 
 
 " ' We all may ken the ill that's done, but none know what's 
 resisted,'" Leila whispered ; and her poor little, sorrowful, fluttering 
 heart was somewhat comforted. 
 
 When she next met Miss Tylney, she could not help thinking of 
 " saint-worship," with far greater leniency than she had done pre- 
 viously, and with difficulty refrained from kneeling down to kiss the 
 hem of her garment, and to ask her blessing. " An old maid, will 
 the- world call her?" said she to herself — with what Adelaide called 
 her "grim white woman's smile" — " I think that must often be a 
 title standing high in the ' Saints' Peerage.' " 
 
 Then her thoughts flew up to Clerkenwell, and hovered about 
 there until she could sit down at her desk, go on with the fanciful 
 tale she was writing for Alfred to illustrate, and then concoct a 
 loving little note to him. She felt sure he was still unstained by 
 gross vice. And so, once launched into thoughts of him, she soon 
 recovered her peace of mind, and was at rest. But the rest of 
 heroines and martyrs in this world is not long unbroken.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Yes, of course, it was a very pleasant time for Gerald. Never had 
 he been so happy since he was a child, rollicking in the hay or 
 romping in Christmas games. It was, as Jean Paul would have 
 called it, "the beautiful flower-time" of his life, brief but blessed. 
 By doing strenuous battle against all envy and jealousy, dwelling 
 not on what Leila Featherstone might have been to him but what 
 she was to Harry, he gradually was able to think of her and be at 
 peace. She dwelt in his imagination "like a star, apart" — a holy 
 and beautiful idea, far above mortal passion and earthly desire. 
 So cricketing, riding, and gardening, walks and talks with his 
 mother, arbour building, and long rambles in Epping Forest, 
 alternated charmingly with composition, Sir Walter Scott, and 
 Hallam's "Middle Ages." 
 
 And Gerald's mother was supremely happy, too, in having her 
 son at home, and seeing him so intensely rejoicing in all his 
 favourite pursuits— happier than she had been for many a day. 
 Gerald felt thankful to the day of his death, but especially after 
 what took place not very long subsequently, that he had had these 
 few happy months in her society. 
 
 The tragedy grew apace, his dramatic and poetic power increas- 
 ing in geometrical proportion with practice. In the last act he felt 
 all the poet's frenzy seizing him with absorbing power, and he 
 wrote scene after scene with a rush of inspiration and joy that 
 amazed himself. About two o'clock one summer's morning Gerald 
 wrote down the last words, naturally ending with — " Dies. [The 
 curtain drops.] " Extinguishing his lamp and throwing open his 
 window, he looked out on the dim landscape in the faint dawn, 
 believing that now at last he had risen above the world to the 
 " Halls of the gods," and sooner or later, if not in his lifetime then 
 when he had gone to his rest, that world would think of him, with 
 honour and love ; would be stirred to the depths of its great throbbing 
 heart by his creations, and would remember him. Immortal hours ! 
 But how could he gain the audience needful to consummate his 
 success ? The play must be acted, if he was to be either crowned 
 or freed. Where was the man — aye, more — where was the woman 
 who would worthily impersonate his glorious dreams ? One great 
 tragedian alone at that time trod the boards of the English stage, 
 but he was fallen on evil times, and into yet more evil hands.
 
 184 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Gerald obtained an introduction to him, had a gracious and kind 
 reception, deposited the precious manuscript in the great man's 
 hands, was told to call again in three or four weeks, and during 
 that period " waited " not patiently " for the verdict." 
 
 While so waiting he called two or three times on Alfred Feather- 
 stone, and at first was very cordially received, but rather coolly 
 afterwards — at least he fancied so — and feared to intrude. 
 
 He tried unsuccessfully to get him down for a day or two to 
 Hartland, and also endeavoured in vain to inveigle him once into 
 a row up the river. The first and second time he called Alfred was 
 painting enthusiastically — the third he was listlessly reading " Don 
 Juan," as he reclined on the sofa of his twelve-foot square sitting- 
 room. The fourth was this wise. Gerald had suddenly remembered, 
 one fine morning about three weeks after an interview with Mr. 
 Macready, in Lincoln's Inn, that the prizes were to be distributed 
 that day at the " London University," by Lord Brougham. With a 
 bounding heart he cantered up through Islington to the neighbour- 
 hood of Gower Street, resolving to witness the inspiring ceremony (in 
 the capacity of a veteran warrior looking down on youthful heroes), 
 and then to inflict his company on the lonely artist in Clerkenwell. 
 As he entered the well-known spacious fore-court, and passed 
 under the shadow of the noble portico, the old spell of enchant- 
 ment came over him, and the memories, the hopes, the resolves of 
 his youthful prime made his eyes a little dim, and his heart beat 
 quickly. But he mingled with the crowd (all strangers to him, alas ! 
 now) with a proud and buoyant consciousness that those hopes 
 and stern resolves were not altogether " fallen leaves." He could 
 bear to stand on the hallowed ground and see the young aspirants 
 for learning and fame pressing forward in their academic career, 
 some of them receiving from the hands of the great statesman, 
 orator, reformer, philosopher, the honours which he (Gerald) had 
 once felt to be the highest reward and greatest happiness earth 
 could offer, but which he himself never gained— he could behold 
 their triumphs now without bitterness of soul. He seemed to have 
 got far beyond all that, and to be striving, a man among men, for 
 a nobler crown. He looked on the deep-furrowed countenance 
 and the lofty mien of the wonderful man (who was still one of his 
 English heroes) with reverent hero-worship ; but he remembered 
 Schiller and Goethe, and whispered to himself that true dramatic 
 art was higher than the stormy conflicts of the senate and the bar; 
 and might lead to a mightier, wider, more enduring sway over the 
 destinies of mankind than evto the eloquence and statesmanship 
 of Henry Brougham.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 85 
 
 Mad, mad, was he not ? fit for a Poet's bedlam. *-.:*/*•* 
 
 Cheer after cheer now rang through the lofty theatre as the 
 successful candidates came up to receive their honours at the hand 
 of Lord Brougham, who was then at the very summit of his great- 
 ness, indisputably the foremost man of all his time. Yet louder, 
 heartier cheers 'greeted the noble orator when he gave his magni- 
 ficent closing address, and few hearts, in the bosom of either 
 young or old, that were not proud — many to enthusiastic reverence 
 — of the founder of their University, the reformer of laws, the 
 defender of liberty, the emancipator of the .slave, the guardian 
 genius and the indomitable advocate of education, the impersona- 
 tion of so much that was then most dear to educated Englishmen 
 of the Liberal school. 
 
 The exciting ceremony at length was over, and Arlington was 
 wending his solitary way to a neighbouring chop-house, preparatory 
 to dropping in on Master Freddy, when a gentle poke in the back 
 made him veer briskly round as a loud " Ha, ha ! " saluted his ears. 
 Pierce, Hackett, and brother Dick surrounded him. 
 
 " We knew it was you," shouted the latter. 
 
 " By his stern grandeur, and that breadth of beam in the upper 
 decks ! — eh ? " cried Pierce. 
 
 "Lor! I had seen him in the theatre all along, looking as 
 solemn as a judge," mumbled Hackett. 
 
 "Thinking what a muff old Harry Brougham was making of 
 himself," responded Pierce, maliciously, for Gerry's appreciation 
 of the brilliant statesman was well known. 
 
 " No, not a bit of it," grunted out one of two other men who 
 had just come up, proving on examination to be Bob Nicholson 
 and Ned the Knowing. " He was thinking when he should be 
 Lord Arlington and President of the Council. Tip us your daddle, 
 old fellow ! How do ? Age since you've shewn among us." 
 
 " Ned ! " cried Hackett, " how goes the nursery for sucking 
 Shakespeares down in that hole of yours there in Leadenhall Street ? 
 I expect you'll turn out some first-rate poets." 
 
 "Do you keep Gerry Arlington in a cage, and make him spout 
 to you in the intervals of severe business, via ' motley and bulls ' ? " 
 inquired grunting Bob. 
 
 " Vice tom-fool ! No, we can always send to your office for that," 
 answered Ned, with dignity. " Don't mind him, Arlington. He's 
 now on the 'Weekly Snarler,' besides reporting for the ' Morning 
 Angel,' the which agrees with him far better— in fact, it suits him 
 to a T." Then, spacing out a circle and making a bow, Ned thus 
 addressed them: "Young men, you do not know the majestic —
 
 1 86 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 I may say, the lordly — presence in which you stand. This — this 
 individual," pointing to Arlington, who gazed in mild compassion 
 on the scene, "has become a gentleman. He has left the shop. 
 He takes his pleasure. He is a great man.' 
 
 "Ye gods ! Then let him treat us to champagne. 
 
 " Not so ; rather to mock-turtle and heavy wet." ' 
 
 " Ye kind but greedy bumpkins, hear ! " replied Gerald, with 
 dramatic propriety; "since we are met (worse luck for us) let us 
 now have a regular feed together, all, — for ' Auld Lang Syne.' I vote 
 we {prunes) adjourn to dine. If the medicals have no money, Ned, 
 we'll stand treat." 
 
 "Hear, hear! Tremendous applause in the galleries!" And 
 so they marched along, three and three — the said medicals and 
 Ned boisterously leading the way, Gerry, Dick, and Nicholson 
 following more leisurely behind. 
 
 Arlington knew his only chance of gaining Richard's confidence, 
 and of hearing the truth about Richard himself, was to be friendly 
 with his companions. Besides, his genial and sociable disposition 
 was sometimes too strong even for his taste and refinement ; and 
 hence he rejoiced in most sorts of companionship, at least, as long 
 as his conscience or taste were not too much offended. So they 
 all repaired to a neighbouring tavern, much frequented by the 
 former Sieves of the Univ. Lon., Gower Street. 
 
 " Where's our illustrious Ned ? " inquired Gerald, while waiting 
 for the rump steaks and oyster sauce. 
 
 " Down in the street," answered Dick, looking out of the window, 
 " doing the polite to " 
 
 "A nymph of the pave, I'll be bound," quoth Pierce. 
 
 " What, at this time of day ! " answered Richard, contemptuously. 
 " Gammon ! he's cottoning with a policeman. I fear, brother 
 Gerald, you're going to be apprehended." 
 
 " What's the crime, brother Dick ? " 
 
 " Writing bad poetry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " When the chorus of 
 laughter subsided, Nicholson remarked with his usual sweetness 
 of manner : 
 
 "That ridiculous little ass, young Grant, is always fraternizing 
 with the ' peelers,' tipping and treating them. It is such a lark to 
 see them capping him on the sly, and he strutting along as big as 
 the Lord Mayor." 
 
 " Oh golley! " cried Pierce. 
 
 " And then," continued Nicholson, "at the faintest scent of a 
 row anywhere, night or morning, away goes Neddy, shouting for a 
 policeman. And he has always got some secret suspicions and
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 87 
 
 mysterious information about burglars and pickpockets, and the 
 last new murder, which he diligently communicates to them." 
 
 " Fact is," observed Pierce, " Ned's an arrant coward, and he 
 never feels safe except beside their big bulk." 
 
 " Well, 1 must say, you'd hardly know the Strand now at nights," 
 replied Bob; '"it's as quiet as a cabman's conscience." 
 
 "Ah, curse the quiet, and the raw lobsters too, into any amount 
 of— what you please," suggested Hackett. 
 
 "Haw! haw! haw! Hackett's as sore as a hackney-coach- 
 horse under the collar, about the ' peelers ! ' Haw ! haw ! ha ! ha I 
 He was collared himself the other night, by George !" sang out 
 Pierce. 
 
 " Hold your d — d tongue," cried Hackett, grinning from ear to 
 ear. 
 
 "And was carried off," continued Pierce, as well as his laughter 
 would let him, " to, to the station-house — ho ! ho ! — night before 
 last, along with two drunken costermongers — ah ! ah ! ah ! — and 
 an Irish nymph, in a wheelbarrow — ha ! ha ! — I shall never forget 
 it. Haw ! haw ! haw ! " 
 
 " And fined five shillings next morning at Marlboro' Street, as I 
 can testify on oath, if required," put in Bob the Smiler. " Here, 
 Knowing Ned," continued he, as that small-sized but alert young 
 gentleman made his appearance along with the rump steaks, " you 
 are requested to inform this honourable company what the deuce 
 you find so attractive in the society of policemen ? " 
 
 " Gentlemen," replied Ned, as he set down a tankard of ale 
 which he had emptied at a draught, " I will enlighten you. A new 
 policeman (long life to Bobby Peel !) is to my mind, gentlemen, 
 a splendid realization of one's highest imagination;:, as the gentle- 
 man opposite would say — i.e., of Order and Law. I love to watch 
 a nascent row — furtively, may be, promote it " — (" You /" growled 
 Bob, with stern contempt) — " and then to behold the blue Apollo 
 stalk up sedately— a word or two at most — perhaps the. truncheon 
 shown, just shown, no more — and all is peace. Oh, but it's grand, 
 my hearties ! And yet I wonder at myself. For once I do re- 
 member in my tender youth (you see I've caught the 'atspoetica' 
 from this ' poetic ass,' my fellow-clerk— oh, that Bramble were but 
 here ! ) a Paddington stage-coachman, when the ' peelers ' first 
 budded, convinced me they were the most fatal infringement on 
 public liberty and the rights of Englishmen since ' Magna Charta,' 
 and I got down from the box in Finsbury Square, consecrating my 
 life to overthrowing the accursed institution." 
 
 "They were only just in time." remarked Pierce. "Do you
 
 1 88 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 remember the fight outside Temple Bar, when the mob rose, in the 
 Reform Bill days?" 
 
 " Don't I, just," replied Hackett. " The skulls were cracking like 
 egg-shells. I proclaimed myself a surgeon, and was safe in the 
 thick of it. The jolliest row / was ever in. We never get such 
 now-a-days, bother ! Thank'ee for a 'tater.'" 
 
 "By-the-bye, what was the jaw about in Saint Stephen's last 
 night, Bob my charmer?" 
 
 " Is he gone into Parliament, then ? What a pleasant time they 
 must have of it if Bob's there," remarked Gerald. " But how did 
 he get in ? The rotten boroughs are gone." 
 
 "Sir," answered Bob, "the largest constituency honours the 
 ' man of the people.' I champion the ' shoeless.' Come, tip us 
 the oyster sauce, Ned, if you aren't going to eat 'em all yourself. 
 Didn't you know, Sir, I was returned for the West Riding a month 
 ago by the Have-nots to bleed the bloated aristocracy who have ? 
 Ah, you'll see me prime minister some day." 
 
 "In the island of Barrataria ? " inquired Gerald. 
 
 " Come, no fine words here," growled Hackett. 
 
 "It only means the Paradise of disappointed cabmen, unsought- 
 for medicals, briefless barristers, and seedy opera-dancers, my dear," 
 answered Ned, patronizingly. " Mr. Arlington, our trusty Bob, as 
 I told you, disdaining the aid of dull-eyed solicitors, has become 
 a writer for the ' Weekly Snarler," that being the weakest and most 
 snarlingest paper wherewith he was acquainted. By-and-bye he 
 hopes to get the reins himself; and oh my ! won't he, and don't 
 he, cut up the Whigs and the Radicals, and the great men and the 
 little men, and all new books ; and won't he just go into the 'pit,' 
 when a new tragedy in five acts is coming out, and help to damn 
 it like a Briton over-night; and won't he just show it up in the 
 ' Morning Angel ' and the ' Weekly Snarler ' next morning, and 
 hint at the author's name, and his mercantile antecedents ?" 
 
 "Get me a bit of rope then, Ned," rejoined Gerald. " I'll give 
 him the end of it first and then hang myself with it afterwards, unless 
 you'll promise not to praise it yourself anywhere." 
 
 "How quiet our infant sits on his perch to day," quoth Pierce, 
 nodding towards Richard. 
 
 "Ugh! don't 'ee see its nurse and father confessor's come?" 
 retorted Hackett in an under-tonc, winking at Gerald. 
 
 " How ridiculously like each other the par mobiles fratrum are 
 growing," was emitted by Ned's shrill tones. 
 
 "Diable!" cried Bob, indignantly, "if you never learnt Latin, 
 why the d 1 do you try to quote it ?"
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 89 
 
 " I say, my boy, I've been practising in the shooting gallery three 
 hours a week, and I don't show a very large figure to my opponent. 
 No man insults me, remember, with Mmpunity." The last word 
 with great vehemence. " I answer you as Dr. Parr once responded 
 to an impudent young scamp, like you, who set him right in a 
 
 Greek quotation yes, I extinguish you with all my scorn, and 
 
 reply, in a voice of thunder, ' boy, I have forgotten more Latin (I 
 mean Greek) than you ever knew.' " 
 
 " I swear I shouldn't know 'em apart," said Pierce, looking askant 
 at the two brothers. 
 
 " No, nor their voices in the dark," rejoined Bob, contemplatively. 
 
 " What do you think," continued he, in a confidential aside 
 
 to Pierce, "young Slogan, of Guy's (you know the young muff), 
 
 actually told me the other evening that he had seen Gerald 
 
 Arlington, after supping at the Albion, walk into mother H 's 
 
 a little top-heavy, ha! ha! He was rather disgusted, because he 
 had known something of Arlington at University College, met him 
 now and then in society, had formed an immensely high opinion of 
 him, and then to see his hero going down to your level, for instance. 
 Pierce. No offence." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Pierce. "What a shame! I suppose it 
 was rowdy Dick, after all !" he added, still aside. 
 
 "To be sure. It's the two Dromios brought to life again." 
 " I say," sang out Pierce, " your brother will treat you, Arlington, 
 some day, as badly as Sheridan in the gutter served poor Wilber- 
 force. But perhaps Mr. Gerald Arlington, in the course of years, 
 will deserve it." 
 
 " Shut up, you beggar!" ejaculated the younger Arlington, with 
 his mouth full. " It's you get drunk and then fancy I'm cut. It's 
 an infernal shame to blacken a poor fellow's character like this." 
 
 " Pot calling the kettle black," remarked Hackett. " Now, I'll 
 put you up to a trick or two concerning this lively young sprat's 
 doings about town," continued he, addressing the elder brother ; 
 for, as he whispered to Pierce, " it would be a good lark to get up 
 a row" between the brothers, seeing how vexed Gerald looked, 
 and having long nursed a grudge against him for snubbing him in 
 former days when Gerald was disgusted with his coarseness. So, 
 in spite of Richard's attempted opposition, he proceeded to detail 
 a certain recent "spree" until even Pierce and Nicholson, with 
 suppressed merriment, declared it was " too bad." Gerald quietly 
 rose and was wishing them good evening when Ned and Pierce 
 rushed at the door, all except Hackett vowing he shouldn't go, and 
 all in turn swearing at Hackett for "a beast;" finally, they besought
 
 190 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Gerald so pathetically to stay and sing them a song that he was 
 mollified, and resumed his seat for a little while, but refused the 
 song. Grunting Bob tried to give a cheerful turn to the conversation 
 by inquiring of Ned the particulars of his recent interview with the 
 policeman. Ned, feeling for Gerald, and being considerably dis- 
 gusted himself with Hackett, rattled away, saying, "Talk of larks, 
 indeed ! why, only last night I had a jolly flare up, though I was 
 sorry a bit for poor Freddy. Well, you see, I had heard there was 
 to be what they call a 'temperance' meeting, in Saffron Hill, of all 
 places in the world, and that there would be a regular shindy and 
 lots of fun, for, you know, these temperance chaps really say nobody 
 is to drink any beer, spirits, and so forth, and so the publicans in 
 the neighbourhood had got a lot of roughs and pickpockets 
 together, primed them well, provided them with the usual stock- 
 in-trade of rotten eggs, cabbage-stalks, dead kittens, &c, and were 
 then going to let them loose at the temperance meeting. Well, I 
 got an inkling of it, and, by George ! it was better than a panto- 
 mime. I haven't laughed so much for an age — and the orators 
 caught it right and left, and " 
 
 " You went for a policeman ?" 
 
 " Of course ; fetched half-a-dozen, and when the curtain dropped 
 on the row turned in for half an hour at Sadler's Wells." He 
 hadn't intended to tell them any more, but couldn't resist the 
 pleasure. "And then what do you think? Coming home about 
 midnight, just as I turned the corner of Coldbath Fields Prison, 
 what should I see but a fellow dancing about with his shirt over his 
 breeches, brandishing what he calls a Scandinavian scimitar, and 
 yelling like mad, with a great crowd hallooing, and a lot of women, 
 some screaming as he made cuts at them, and others laughing as if 
 they'd split." 
 
 " Fetched a policeman ? " inquired Bob. 
 
 " No; there was one had got hold of the poor zany before I could 
 say Jack Robinson, and took him off in the twinkling of a bedpost. 
 Who on earth do you think it was ? But I shan't tell you." 
 
 Now, Ned really did not want to tell, but, of course, having got 
 so far his companions would not let him stop, and, besides, it was 
 very pleasant to be an object of eager interest to his hearers, so on 
 he went. 
 
 "Why, poor Freddy Featherstone." 
 
 Gerald winced as if in pain. 
 
 " Ah, I heard the other day he was doing some wild freaks in 
 Clerkenwell, " said Pierce. " Drunk ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly— that's the worst of it. He was locked up ;
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 19 1 
 
 and I was asking my friend, the inspector, just now, if he had. 
 heard any particulars, as it was kept out of the newspapers, and 
 I couldn't hear anything about it at Bow Street this morning." 
 
 " Why, the worst of it ? " asked Arlington, with an effort. Grant 
 touched his forehead significantly, and was silent. 
 
 The men were listening quietly enough now. 
 
 " Poor devil ! " sighed Pierce, at length. 
 
 " Oh, gammon ! " growled Hackett, "who said so ?" 
 
 " Divisional surgeon at the lock-up last night. I just went in to 
 see fair play, of course. Surgeon said he was no more drunk than 
 I was." 
 
 " Bosh ! that's not saying much ;" and the whole party laughed 
 with a sense of comfortable relief. Pierce and Gerald, however, 
 were by no means convinced, though the latter tried to be. 
 
 " Poor Freddy ! " said the former, " he was a d d good fellow, 
 
 what little I've seen of him — sung a capital song in a way, you 
 know, and told stories better than any man I ever knew, though 
 they were rather smutty sometimes. I hope he won't come to 
 grief. If there had been anything wrong in the line you mean 
 the divisional surgeon would have kept him. Where is he now ? " 
 
 "At his lodgings, I understand." 
 
 " Oh, then, it's all fiddlesticks ! Pass the jug. Hang this dirty 
 wash ! Let's have punch. What do vou say, mv merry men, 
 all?" 
 
 But they were not merry men at all. Grumbling Bob propounded 
 the sentiment that it was growing flat, and that if they wished 
 to preserve mutual respect they had better separate ; and when 
 Arlington rose and rang for the bill, the party speedily settled 
 accounts, and dispersed. Gerald tried hard to get Richard to walk 
 with him part of the way, at all events, towards Clerkenwell. This 
 was what had kept him in his seat for the previous hour. But that 
 young gentleman, with natural sagacity in his own opinion, and 
 with suicidal folly as a question of fact, considered it best to keep 
 out of his brother's way, whether at home or in London, if he 
 suspected a storm was brewing. He knew that storm would come 
 some time or other, but (as he also opined in his wisdom) the 
 longer it was delayed the better. 
 
 " I shall see you on Saturday, you know, Gerry," he replied to 
 Gerald's quiet but earnest entreaty for his company ; " I am coming 
 down to Hartland then. I really cannot come now. Vou wouldn't 
 have me break a positive engagement, of course. Good-bye, old 
 boy ; we can't all be such saints as you ! Don't peach : you never 
 were a sneak. It wasn't half as bad as that fellow made out. Only
 
 192 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 a jolly lark — Ha ! ha ! " And so, like some other young gentleman, 
 he ran jovially down the "Incline" towards the "Dismal Swamp" 
 at the bottom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Not very cheerfully Gerald Arlington now wended his way to 
 Alfred Featherstone's lodgings. He was unhappy about Alfred 
 himself (though, perhaps, if the truth were told, chiefly on Leilas 
 account), but more so on his brother's. What were all his dreams 
 of artistic power and fame, and, above all, what were his aspirations 
 and endeavours after a general millennium, when placed side by 
 side with the fact that his own brother was slipping down into 
 such disgusting depths of coarseness and vice ? He had several 
 times begged of him to give up Hackett's company altogether, and 
 not to be over intimate with Pierce, threatening to tell their father 
 if there were not a considerable reformation in his morals and 
 manners. But Richard had always protested so vehemently against 
 the imputations Gerald cast upon his friends' characters, and pro- 
 mised so fair for the future, that the latter was pacified and for a 
 time deceived. But the whole state of the case had been made 
 pretty plain to him that evening. What miserable vanities he 
 seemed to himself to be pursuing while such tragic realities were 
 transacting themselves close around him. 
 
 One thing was clear — that the time had come for speaking to 
 his father. And he resolved that whatever their joint cogitations 
 might suggest as to the best means for helping Richard out of his 
 evil courses, he would doit even if it involved giving up his idolized 
 literary pursuits. Much relieved by this determination, but oppressed 
 with a sense- of Alfred Featherstone's wretched condition, he 
 
 knocked at the open door of No. , Elm Street, Clerkenwell. 
 
 The day had been growing more and more sultry, and was now 
 settling down into a close thunderous evening. He was shown up 
 to the first pair-front by a slipshod girl, with a customary grin upon 
 her dirty face, and told to walk in. This he did, after a preliminary 
 knock, which remained unansweretl. 
 
 There sat Alfred on the sofa, his back to the open window, with
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 93 
 
 a neat little Turkish fez on his curly head, a clay pipe beside him, 
 and the curious-looking weapon, which had created so much dismay 
 the night before, at his feet. But he himself was staring into 
 vacancy — apparently did not notice Gerald's quiet entrance. There 
 was something so sad and strange in his whole look and manner 
 that the words of greeting died away on Gerald's tongue. The still 
 handsome face was drawn and haggard. The unbuttoned, dirty 
 shirt, with its turned-down collar, a la Byron, and shoeless feet, with 
 his tawdry embroidered jacket, spoke painfully of the morale of the 
 wearer. But the look in the man's eyes was something which 
 Gerald had never seen before, though he had more than once read 
 of it. Greatly shocked, he stood speechless for an instant, and then, 
 by a true instinct, began in a quiet, indifferent tone : " Why, 
 Featherstone, you don't know your luck to-night. I'm come to 
 give you a full, true, and particular account of Lord Brougham's 
 grand distribution of prizes to-day at our old Alma Ma/er.'" 
 
 At the first sound of Gerald's voice, Featherstone turned his head 
 slowly towards him, with the same strange look. Then, as the 
 speaker proceeded, he jumped up — the horrid stare vanished — and, 
 with an expression of intense relief, he caught hold of Gerald's 
 hand. 
 
 "That's right, old chap! Thank'ee for coming. Glad to see 
 you, by the powers ! Have you dined ? Ah, well then, have some 
 punch ? Or, no — you prefer tea ?" And he rang the bell furiously. 
 " Well, I'm glad to see you, Gerry, boy. Fact is, I'm getting moped 
 to death here — you understand ? " 
 
 " You don't seem to work very hard at the easel, Fred. That's 
 the best receipt for goods spirits, isn't it, — hard work?" 
 
 "Oh, drat the easel! I don't know why, but don't you see, I 
 never feel any interest in it now." 
 
 " Yet, 'pon my word," replied Arlington, " this is a beautiful 
 thing you have got here, if I may be allowed," so saying, he 
 removed the cloth which partially hid an exquisite half-finished 
 oil painting, representing a warrior on foot holding back his 
 rearing charger, and bending one knee to a lovely damsel who 
 bore a marvellous resemblance to Leila Featherstone, while with 
 his drawn sword he waved back his tumultuous followers. The 
 maiden, who, though slight and graceful, looked almost majestic in 
 her lofty purity, stood gazing with rapt expression on the hills 
 beyond the embattled legions — the nearest of whom, like their 
 chieftain, seemed ready to worship the youthful prophetess as if 
 she were a saint just come down from heaven. A stormy sunset, 
 breaking over a wild, mountainous-looking country, completed the 
 
 N
 
 194 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 design, which, though still very unfinished, showed remarkable 
 power. 
 
 "Do you like it? well, I did once ; but, I don't know," and he 
 laughed a short, scornful laugh. " I begin to fancy life altogether 
 is a rare bit of humbug." 
 
 "Ah, Freddy, you wouldn't think so if you only did justice to 
 your genius, and worked away heart and soul at your grand calling. 
 By Jupiter, what a painter you might make if you would only ' deny 
 yourself,' as the great German and the old Book say ! But I fancy 
 
 — if without offence, as we are in the moralizing strain " and 
 
 he paused, inquiringly. 
 
 " Fire away, old fellow." 
 
 " I fancy you have too much to do with this kind of thing," 
 pointing to two or three pictures of opera dancers, " and also that 
 sort of thing," rapping a black bottle. Then he caught sight of a 
 new picture on the wall, and exclaimed, " Now, Featherstone, 'pon 
 my word, that is too bad. It is utterly abominable. Give us a 
 match ; let me burn it ; " and he reached out his hand to the print, 
 but Alfred clutched his arm fiercely, shouting, " By Jove ! you 
 shan't. It's my only company, you beggar. Why, I turn its face 
 to the wall when I go out, man ! — so it's only those who peep that 
 suffer ! Ha, ha ! Come, come, Gerry, don't bore me, that's a 
 good fellow," added he, throwing himself languidly in an arm 
 chair. "Discourse pleasantly. I'm fairly used up." 
 
 "Not fairly, Featherstone," answered Arlington ; "I should say 
 shamefully. You were meant for something better than all this." 
 
 Alfred suddenly said, in an excited tone — 
 
 " I believe you're right about the women and the bottle ; hut, 
 fact is, I did give up all that sort of thing when I first came here, 
 and I could have got along splendidly, I fancy, if I had lived near 
 the 'paternal,' looked in upon them now and then, and had niv 
 little sister to see me sometimes. But, fact is, the gov'nor cut up 
 uncommonly rough, and wouldn't have any intercourse ; and then 
 I got hypped, and you seemed shy of me, and I did not know any 
 jolly fellows besides of the better sort, and so at last had to fall 
 back on the old lot and two or three Cambridge scamps now 
 hanging out in Lincoln's Inn — thorough-paced high cock-a- 
 lorums, you know — and we all went to the bad together. That's 
 the fact, Master Gerry, and no mistake ! Have a little drop in 
 your tea (producing the black bottle) ; just a little. Won't 'ee ? 
 Well, don't look so savage." 
 
 " Has Miss Featherstone, then, never been to see you ? " asked 
 Gerald, after a pause.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 95 
 
 "Aye, once, God bless her; but not till it was too late, and I'd 
 rather she had not come when she did come. But I'll tell you 
 what, my lad — curse the pot, it's empty again — I'll tell you, Master 
 Gerry, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer. I've got an 
 invitation to Cowes, and I mean to have a run down there ; after 
 that, over to Paris ; and then in October I shall be off to Cambridge 
 — take lodgings, and paint like blazes. There'll be lots of company 
 there, and plenty of fun, and that's all I want to keep me going. I 
 shall sell this picture for a hundred and fifty, and then knock off 
 
 another ; and as soon as I have got a trifle put by, I'm d d if I 
 
 don't marry some pretty girl who'll serve for a model, and keep me 
 in good spirits all the year round. Don't you see, I'll become a 
 respectable old codger in that way, so steady and exemplary you 
 won't know me, you villain. In fact, I shall be too good for you 
 then. You'll have gone over to the enemy by that time, and 
 become a regular rake yourself, for you can't keep up all these St. 
 Joseph-sort of ways for ever, my boy, mind that. There'll be a 
 reaction. You'll break out some day, as sure as fate." And 
 so he kept rattling on, not in a very edifying fashion. Suddenly, 
 a slight knock was heard, and in reply to Featherstone's gruff 
 " Come in," a lovely apparition presented itself at the open door. 
 Gerald stepped back in amazement ; and Featherstone, for an 
 instant, looked at his sister aghast. 
 
 There she stood, with a nosegay in her hand for her brother's 
 chimney-piece, loving and lovely, smiling, and half curtseying in 
 her pretty confusion — and what with the contrast between her 
 sweet innocent face and the general surroundings, Gerald said to 
 himself it was like a seraph coming down into the midst of a 
 dance of chimney-sweeps. But in a moment Featherstone re- 
 covered himself, and exclaiming — " Not here, Leila ! Not here, 
 child. It stinks so of tobacco ! " hurried her into the front room, 
 which opened out of the one they had been sitting in, slammed to 
 the door, made her sit down in a chair, gave her a kiss, and flung 
 himself on the sofa. 
 
 " What on earth do you come here for, Leila ? It's not the 
 thing, you know, at all. I told you so before." 
 
 Poor Leila had looked happy, though timid, when she first came in, 
 but this greeting bewildered her and brought the tears to her eyes. 
 
 " Mamma is gone to Hartland, and I got leave to stop at dear 
 old nurse Gleig's, — you remember her, Alfred ? She has been living 
 some time in Clerkenwell, and it's only five minutes' walk from 
 here— and I thought — Alfred, you know you said you would like to 
 see me sometimes," she hesitated.
 
 196 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " But how are you to get home again ? I can't " 
 
 " Oh mamma will call for me at Mrs. Gleig's, as she returns. 
 I have just an hour," added she, with her old playful smile ; " if 
 you will let me stay and 'mooze you a bit as we used to say. But," 
 lowering her voice, "you must send that other pair of whiskers 
 away to take a walk meanwhile. Who is it ? " 
 
 " What, that fellow ? Oh ! Gerald Arlington, that's all. Don't 
 you recollect him ? He'll stay quiet enough there." 
 
 Now Leila had been glad of an excuse for not going to Hartland 
 house with her mother, because she did not wish to meet Gerald, 
 though she could not tell exactly why. She knew he had not called 
 upon them for months, and she hardened herself in girlish pride at 
 the thought of meeting him now. And yet (such are the incon- 
 sistencies of the youthful heart) she could not help feeling glad 
 that they were thus again brought near to each other, and very 
 thankful that he had come to see her brother. For her thoughts 
 quickly, of course, reverted to the one absorbing idea — that 
 brother's state and prospects. 
 
 " You are not looking well, caro mio," she whispered, leaning 
 caressingly over him. 
 
 " Nonsense, Leila, don't talk stuff, that's a dear. Fact is, Lily, 
 I have an engagement," and he rose up. Leila's distress and 
 astonishment at her reception was now merged in alarm lest he 
 should slip away, after all her efforts and stratagems to come and 
 see him. 
 
 " But I want to see the picture, Freddy. Have you nearly finished 
 it ? " she added imploringly. 
 
 Alfred gazed for a few moments at his sister. The wild hard 
 look left his face. He clasped his hands passionately across his 
 forehead, threw himself on his knees at her feet, and actually burst 
 into tears. Poor Leila took his hands in hers and exclaimed — 
 
 " Dear, dear Alfred, what is the matter ? Tell me, do, Freddy 
 dear— let me help you. I know you must be very unhappy. Oh, 
 what is it ? Why— did you— ever — go away— from home. Freddy, 
 don't cry so ! " 
 
 She was frightened at the violence of his anguish ; and when he 
 gasped out " water," she flew into the next room, calling to Mr. 
 Arlington, "come! quickly! water! Alfred is ill— what shall I 
 do?" Gerald hastily rang the bell, caught up a tumbler of water. 
 and hurried into the next room ; but the strange being who was the 
 object of all this anxiety, had already passed into another mood, 
 and looking up, with a dull smile, from the sofa, where he had again 
 thrown himself, he said to Gerald
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 1 97 
 
 "Don't look scared. Fiddle-de-dee. It's all right. Tell the 
 girl, when she comes, to bring some more hot water for tea." 
 
 Gerald went back into the other room and tried to read. Leila sat 
 down by her brother, and taking his hand, went on hurriedly — 
 
 "Alfred, do come home again, that's a dear good fellow. It can't 
 be good for you living here." 
 
 "And knuckle down to our dad, I suppose, and pitch the paint 
 brush to ' Old Nick,' and drudge away in the shop again, eh ?" 
 
 " No, no, Freddy ; that won't do. I think — I do think if you 
 would come home and show him your picture, and ask his forgive- 
 ness, and tell him all about yourself, he would let you work on, for 
 now you can show him something, can you not ? Oh, I do so long 
 to see it, and I am sure if it's at all like what it ought to be, he will 
 be mollified, Freddino." 
 
 " It's too late," answered Alfred, gloomily. " The governor has 
 treated me shamefully. 
 
 " Oh, but think how you had disappointed and vexed him, dear." 
 
 " It was abominable," replied her brother, "to forbid you ever to 
 come and see me." 
 
 "But, you know, I got that statute repealed." 
 
 "Yes, too late — like everything else in this world. If you could 
 have come once or twice from the first, as you promised " 
 
 Gerald knocked at the door, and brought in a cup of tea. He 
 and Leila interchanged distant bows. 
 
 "Oh ! do get me the picture now, Alfred," pleaded Leila. Her 
 brother moved wearily to fetch it. Through the open door Leila 
 saw her pretty nosegay lying on the floor. Following Alfred, she 
 just stepped into the studio to pick it up, and looked around for a 
 vase to place it in — dropped it, and came back into the front room. 
 Alfred, turning, saw where her eyes had been, and saw, too, an 
 expression in them he had never beheld there before. He tore 
 the print in pieces, followed his sister into the front room, shut-to 
 the door, and then absolutely cowered beneath her fierce, indignant 
 look — he, the reckless roue, before that young girl's glance. Her 
 first impulse was to fold her light muslin shawl over her shoulders 
 and walk silently out of the house. And then her eye fell on the 
 noble picture, and from that it wandered to the artist lying on the 
 sofa, with his face half buried in his hands, looking so utterly 
 humbled and wretched; and then her thoughts ilew back to the hills 
 of Westmoreland; and back, back again to their childhood; to their 
 little, gardens behind the green-house in their early home at Wim- 
 bledon; and she thought of all he had been, and all la- might 
 have been — aye, and of all he might even yet, by God's help, become
 
 I98 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 for good ; or, by the devil's help, and his friends forsaking him, for 
 evil. So she turned back from the door and came up to him once 
 more. She put her hand on his shoulder, and driving back her 
 indignation and tears with strong effort, and mastering her voice 
 with difficulty, for she seemed to be choking, she knelt down beside 
 him and murmured, coldly, sadly 
 
 " Not, oh! not too late yet, Alfred. If you will only come home 
 . . And if papa still refuses, — then, if you will come and 
 live nearer to us, and will put away all that is disgracing and 
 ruining you, I will come, in spite of everybody, and see you even- 
 day — I know I should do right in that, brother. And if father and 
 mother will let me, and you'll live a new life, I will come and stay 
 with you, wherever you are." 
 
 He answered only with a groan, and at the sight of his utter 
 wretchedness, her righteous wrath was fast melting into the old 
 yearning of pity and love. The door between the two rooms was 
 ajar, so that Gerald could not help hearing all she said. He did 
 not like to close it, partly because of the interruption at such a 
 moment, partly because he almost feared what Featherstone's next 
 outburst might be. As he heard her low tones of sweet sorrowful 
 pleading, he thought how willingly he would endure any suffering 
 if he might but be able to rescue them both from all this miserable 
 coil. 
 
 " Oh ! Alfred, Alfred ! " continued poor Leila, " look at me, and tell 
 me you will give up your bad ways. ... I will do anything 
 for you, if you'll only be good, and be like your old self. You've 
 only been bad and miserable because we were all kept away from 
 you. I know I could cheer you if you were mopy. ... I will 
 read and sing to you while you are painting. ... I can't bring 
 the piano, but I have learnt the accordion, and though it is a little 
 like a Jew's harp " (Gerald knew the sad half playful smile that 
 must be on her face), " yet it will do, dear, to set us off in a duet 
 now and then." There was a pause. Then in deeper, still more 
 earnest tones : 
 
 "Alfred, dear, look up, and say you will come home, and live a 
 manly Christian life. I'm sure you have great genius — that picture " 
 (but the misery of having seen it for the first time under such 
 circumstances, was almost too much for her, and her voice trembled) 
 " that picture, dear, is wonderful — I am sure it will quite change 
 papa — and, oh, do not break our hearts. Mamma does pine for 
 you so." . . . Her brother writhed as if in agony, still he did 
 not raise his head. "Alfred, will you not listen to me? Remember 
 how our mother has loved you ; she never thwarted you "
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 199 
 
 " Would to God she had ! " groaned her son. This was a terribly 
 sore point, and Leila saw her mistake, for Alfred more than once 
 had bitterly blamed his mother for what he called her " weak 
 indulgence " of him as a boy. 
 
 " But, dear Alfred, she is your mother and would do anything for 
 you any moment to see you happy ; think of the old pleasant days, 
 brother mine, when you were not ashamed to look us all, and so 
 merrily, in the face. Remember how we used to go wandering 
 about the fields together looking for the first primroses, and 
 how we used to kneel down together at night to say our 
 prayers " 
 
 " By heaven, Leila, this is more than I can stand — " and he 
 sprung from the sofa and rushed upstairs to his bedroom, leaving 
 his sister pale and trembling. Gerald felt that he must go to her 
 and say a word or two of comfort ; and the look of trustful thank- 
 fulness, shining through all her misery and tears with which she 
 greeted him, was worth something. 
 
 " I have loved him so, Mr. Arlington, ever since I could walk," 
 said she, looking out of the window with a dreamy, tearful gaze. 
 " And he has been a very kind brother to me. Is it not true — 
 you know more than I can or may do — is it not true that he is 
 going on in a very sad, wicked way ? I think, Mr. Arlington, you 
 feel all this to be wrong. I know, for he has told me, you have 
 tried to help him to live a truer life. What can I do ? — what can 
 we do to save him ? " There was a strange sweet comfort to her 
 weary soul in that little word " we." There was intense happiness 
 in it for the moment to Gerald. It required a great effort not to 
 take her hand, and promise that he would serve her and her brother, 
 loyally for ever. But the face of his absent friend rose up between 
 himself and her. With a constrained and somewhat cold manner, 
 he answered — 
 
 " Yes, Miss Featherstone, it is all true what you have said, and 
 all that I can do to help you may rely on. Everything, I believe, 
 depends on your being able to get him home ; or, at all events, 
 you must see him every day. Nothing short of your constant 
 influence " 
 
 " Oh, if I did but know what my duty would be, should my father 
 refuse .... This seems to me the saddest of all trials, to see 
 those we love destroying each other's welfare and happiness. What 
 am I to do ? Mr. Arlington, your words were a great help to me 
 once. But what were all my former little troubles compared to 
 this ! But pray go and see him now. Do not leave him till he is 
 quieter. I must leave very soon."
 
 200 GERALD AND HIS FRIEXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Gerald went up to Featherstone's room, and, before long, came 
 down with a more cheerful countenance. 
 
 " He has promised me to go home on Saturday (to-day is 
 Tuesday), and say anything to his father you urge, provided he 
 has a line from you, in the meantime, to say that he will be 
 forgiven, and kindly received. Then, he says, future plans can be 
 settled afterwards." 
 
 "Thank God ! thank God ! " murmured poor Leila, " and thank 
 you, too, Mr Arlington — oh, so much ! But don't leave him." 
 
 " He is tired out, and going to bed ; but he says he is quite calm 
 and cheery now, if only you'll forgive him — so different from what 
 he was before you came " — and their eyes met in a curiously tender, 
 mutually grateful sort of way. It was but for a moment. Both 
 remembered an old friend at Cambridge, and both drew back into 
 their hard shells, though their hearts, for the instant, were very 
 near each other. 
 
 Gerald turned to get his hat. Leila put on her bonnet, and, 
 looking in the glass, saw Gerald, through the open parlour door, 
 pick up the poor little nosegay, kiss it, and put it carefully into the 
 water-jug on the table. And she saw, also, the expression on his 
 face. 
 
 "You must allow me to escort you to your Mrs. Somebody," said 
 Gerald, when they got into the street. 
 
 "Oh, it is not far, thank you," answered the young lady. "And 
 your horse, I see, is waiting for you. What a pretty creature ! " 
 Leila loved horses, and could not resist patting the beautiful 
 animal, which an ostler had brought, according to orders, from the 
 Mews near Gower Street. Gerald felt envious in spite of his 
 principles. 
 
 " I can lead him, Miss Featherstone, if you will allow me to 
 accompany you — or the man can follow us with him — if my com- 
 pany is not disagreeable," added he, for she hesitated. " I think 
 I had better, it is getting late." 
 
 So he walked beside her. He thought he might have just this 
 last little treat. But they both felt grievously constrained. Leila, 
 however, remembered to say : " I ought to have returned you 
 those books you sent me, Mr. Arlington, some time ago. I very 
 much enjoyed reading them ; though I can't say I understand half 
 of what Schiller means about 'Play' and the Play-something .... 
 impulse, isn't it?" Who could help laughing? Not Gerald. 
 Then he answered : " But what one does understand is so grand 
 and interesting that it makes the book wonderfully charming." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," returned Leila, with a little captivating blush.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 201 
 
 " Do you not feel, Miss Featherstone, that thoughts like those 
 he utters have a power, as I once said, to lift you above all these 
 sorrows and cares, into a purer freer life ?" And Leila Featherstone 
 felt, as she always did when he talked with her, that he, at all 
 events, had that power, and that through his interpretation, art 
 and asthetic converse, raised her on eagles' wings, till her earthly 
 life lay dwarfed beneath her. And for this she felt inexpressibly 
 grateful to him, as to no other human being. She felt grateful 
 too just then for a minor cause — viz., that he had kissed her poor 
 little flowers. And that made her remember his look at the 
 Gardiner's, and it suddenly began to be clear to her why he had 
 so abruptly left the party that night. Hence she could not help 
 feeling altogether more, when they came to part at Nurse Gleig's 
 door, than she quite liked for Mr. Fortescue's sake, and certainly 
 more than she wished to show, yet could not quite conceal. So 
 that she turned swiftly away in bright sparkling confusion, but the 
 tone of her " Good-night" sank deep into poor Gerry's soul. 
 
 Ah, and " poor " Leila ! For while his artistic dreams had so 
 impressed and captivated her without really touching her heart, 
 she saw him now in a what to her seemed a far nobler light. She 
 felt, and she saw how Alfred felt, the moral power of the man. 
 No words could tell the comfort, the sweet sense of peace, that 
 stole over her, amid the misery of that scene in Elm Street, at the 
 contrast between Gerald's purity and strength and her unhappy 
 brother's disordered viciousness. Did she not also feel the more 
 drawn towards, or at least interested in Gerald, because (except 
 for the caress bestowed on the flowers) he seemed not to care half 
 so much for herself as formerly ? Very likely. Such is human 
 nature ; and life altogether is rather perplexing. Yet it was not 
 perhaps very surprising, that when the young lad)- was fairly 
 swallowed up by Mrs. Gleig's humble domicile, and the ostler 
 had got an extra tip, and with cheerful stride departed rapidly 
 therewith to the " Cat and Bagpipes," Gerald led his nag round a 
 corner, and then pretending to alter the girths, lest passers-by 
 should witness, he reverently kissed the spot on his favourite's 
 neck which those fair fingers had lately patted, mournfully remark- 
 ing to his pony the while — 
 
 " I say, Gypsey, I wish I were kissing her instead — no I don't. 
 But oh, Harry boy, I do wish you had been here to-day instead of 
 me. Yet you won't grudge me that kiss, old fellow ! Heigh ho ! 
 Hang the sex, and all creation ! Cut away, Jenny !" 
 
 Thereupon with a groan and a laugh, he sprang to the 
 and galloped home.
 
 202 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Leila told her father and mother most of what had passed in 
 Elm Street. Mr. Featherstone, though at first indignant and 
 miserable, was nevertheless secretly delighted at the thought of 
 Alfred's returning home. Mrs. Featherstone was alternately in 
 tears and ecstacies. But her husband had no idea of at once 
 surrendering the dignified position he now occupied towards a 
 rebellious son, at length to be a suppliant at his feet, with his 
 somewhat exasperating wife nearly in a similar posture. He was 
 very fond of Leila, and rejoiced that the reconciliation should 
 come through her means, but even she must not be made happy 
 too soon. He had been greatly sinned against, and a certain 
 amount of retribution'was required by justice. 
 
 So looking grave, and indeed severe, he said " he must think it 
 over, and would tell Leila what to write in a day or two." He did 
 not refer to the subject the following morning, and was too busy 
 even on the Thursday morning for Leila to get a talk with him, 
 while on the Thursday evening two gentlemen came to dinner, 
 and she had no opportunity till just before going to bed, when 
 she whispered, " May I not write to Alfred ? please tell me ; " and 
 she looked at her father so piteously that he was on the point of 
 saying " Tell him I will let him come back, and God bless him." 
 
 But he did not say it. How strangely and terribly the evil habits 
 of years cling round us in the very crisis of our lives, and drag us 
 down into some fatal gulf. 
 
 Two of Mr. Featherstone's besetting sins all his life had been 
 indecision, and an overwhelming sense of his own importance ; so 
 at this critical moment, whereon results of the last importance to 
 more than one human being were hanging, he covered up his 
 better nature, and his kind paternal affections, and only answered 
 Leila as he kissed her, " Leave it to me, my dear — leave it to me ; 
 I shall do what is right. Good night." 
 
 Poor Leila went to bed with a heavy heart. She would have had 
 a far heavier one had she been able to look then into her brother's 
 studio and have seen two young men, dressed in tip-top style, 
 alternately chaffing Featherstone, and persuading him to give them 
 some promise, which he seemed very reluctant to do. They were 
 handsome, gentlemanly fellows, and seemed to feel a great interest 
 in the young artist. 
 
 " Why, you never could be such a sap, Featherstone, as not to 
 come ! " exclaimed the younger of the two. " It's the finest offer 
 short of a dukedom man can make. There's Lord Leaver, and 
 Tommy Clifford, and Captain Highflyer; and then the regatta 
 coming off. Think of it, my boy. Oh, gemini ! won't it be fun ! "
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 203 
 
 and the speaker drew in a long breath of cigar-smoke with a 
 rapturous sigh. 
 
 " Well, Berkeley," at length answered Featherstone with grave 
 deliberation, " listen. I wait till Saturday morning ; if I don't hear 
 from the governor by then, I'm your man all the world over. Won't 
 budge an inch tijl then. So, tally-ho ! my buck .... and 
 flank up the wheeler ! " 
 
 "Done!" exclaimed both the men, for they saw there was 
 nothing else to be got out of him, and when the cigars were 
 finished they took their leave, after a vain attempt to get Alfred to 
 turn out for a lounge down Regent Street, and a peep in at a 
 neighbouring promenade concert-room. 
 
 Very good fellows they were generally considered, as the world 
 goes, remarkably genteel — very good fellows. But they had no 
 sisters ; Alfred Featherstone had, and that night he was firm. 
 
 The next morning Leila woke with a bad headache, and so 
 much feverishness that her mother insisted on her keeping her bed. 
 
 " But, mother, have you not some message for Alfred ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear ; all right," answered Mrs. Featherstone, looking very 
 happy. "Your father has agreed to his coming home, and I am 
 going to write to him after breakfast." 
 
 But tradesmen came and must be attended to. Then the note 
 was written, and order given to take it immediately to Elm Street. 
 It was full of maternal love, and ended by saying that the writer 
 would come in the carriage the following morning at eleven o'clock 
 to fetch her son and his picture. But when " Jeames " received 
 this note, with instructions to march off with it into the far-off wilds 
 of Clerkenwell, he calmly remarked (aside) that he was not hired to 
 be a twopenny postman, and finding besides that he would be wanted 
 to go out with the carriage in the afternoon, and should be in danger 
 of losing his dinner if he went on this discreditable errand, he pre- 
 tended to understand that he was to take the letter to the post, and 
 resolved to entrust it to the care of his Majesty's servants accord- 
 ingly. Accidents, however, will happen. Having laid it on the 
 slab in the servants' hall while he answered the bell, somebody by 
 chance knocked it down, and it could not be found till the after- 
 noon post was gone (there were not quite so many deliveries then 
 as now). The footman, however, on his return home slipped it 
 into the box, and assured his mistress, when she inquired, that it 
 was all right. 
 
 Arlington rode up on Thursday to see Alfred. Found him cool 
 and hopeful, and expecting a letter from his mother or sister by 
 each post. Left him, therefore, in a cheerful frame of mind, and
 
 204 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 departed quite hopeful and happy himself. But this was before the 
 visit of those " very good fellows " above mentioned. 
 
 Some time ago folks heard that a man got adrift in a boat a little 
 above Niagara Falls, without oar or sail. Ropes were hurled to save 
 him. He almost caught one, but not quite. He drifted close to a 
 small island. For one instant he might have leaped out and pro- 
 bably have caught the bough of an over-hanging tree. But the one 
 instant was lost, and then it was too late. He had no other chance ! 
 People crowded to the banks, drawn by his shrieks for help. They 
 could only pray for him. Rapidly he neared the edge — stood up 
 one moment with clasped hands — and the next was over the Falls, 
 plunged into another world than this. 
 
 On Friday night Alfred Featherstone stood leaning against his 
 open window, anxious and indignant. 
 
 " Why in the name of Him who made us, if He did make us, 
 doesn't Leila write ? It's not her jfault. No, its the governor's. 
 He can't forgive. Then let him die unforgiving. I care for 
 nobody, and nobody cares for me ! Such a jolly lark as you never 
 did see ! Ah ! curse the fates ! Well, 'it's no good crying over 
 spilt milk ! Hark away, my beauties ! ' Goes to bed mellow ! Goes 
 to bed mellow ! and dies a jolly fellow ! Dies a jolly fellow ! ' That's 
 the pace ! Ah ! but my poor little Lilybell, I do love you a bit. I 
 can't bear leaving you in this fashion. If I go now, I shall never 
 come home again — I know it. Never, never. If he can't forgive now, 
 and make it all pleasant, he never will. It's plain he can't ; and 
 she can't bear writing to say so. But I wonder she's never been 
 here since. I know she'd have come if it had not been bad news. 
 Perhaps she'll come to-morrow morning, before they are here. Well, 
 well, what's the good of fussing ? Let's all go the devil in our own 
 way ! A letter may come to-morrow ; and pray the saints it may ! 
 And yet, then, what a treat to lose * * * * * Gammon and 
 spinach ! what's the odds as long as you are happy. Go to the devil 
 and shake yourself!" Whereupon he went to bed. 
 
 At ten o'clock the next morning, a neat little dog-cart, with two 
 splendid thoroughbreds, in tandem, stood at a door in Elm Street. 
 One "very good fellow" held the "ribbands;" the other was in 
 Alfred's studio, helping him to thrust some things into a carpet-bag. 
 A dashing young "tiger" stood at the horses' heads, who pawed 
 and snorted at the delay. Alfred and his friend sallied forth. Then 
 Alfred lingered on the doorstep ; looked up the street and down 
 the street in vain. No letter — no postman. His friends grew 
 impatient. He slowly comes down the steps ; then up they all 
 climb into the dog-cart. The tiger ricochets backwards, when the
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 205 
 
 horses dash off; then flies up behind, as the dog-cart rushes down 
 the street ; and on a glorious July clay — London soon traversed 
 — the whole party, swiftly, merrily, bowl away down the Portsmouth 
 Road, bound for Cowes, and jollity, and a few other consequences. 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards Mrs. Featherstone's note arrived. 
 A little later, as she and Leila were preparing to drive, in dignified 
 state, from Portland Place to the deserted lodgings, a knock at the 
 door — not the postman's, nor a tradesman's — arrested their steps. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Gerald Arlington, would it not have been as well had you 
 kept a little closer to that poor fellow till you had got him safe 
 home — have stuck to him as your friend Harry did, once upon a 
 time, in the dark waters ? 
 
 Whoever asks that question, it is certain that the young gentle- 
 man thus appealed to had satisfied his conscience by that canter 
 up to Elm Street on Thursday afternoon — having excellent reasons 
 for not doing any more just then to ensure Alfred's safe arrival at 
 his father's house. Besides, he had promised to come and see 
 him off on Saturday morning, and so went his way. Yes — excellent 
 reasons. One of them was, that he was very busy again. The idea 
 of a novel had come rushing in upon him, and he thought it would 
 be more likely, perhaps, to bring him cash than the drama. So he 
 had begun sketching out the plot with almost as much ardour and 
 joy as he had worked before at his play. People may differ in 
 opinion as to whether this constituted a sufficient reason for leaving 
 Featherstone to drift over the Falls. But then Gerald didn't know 
 about the Falls. We seldom do. But another and better reason 
 was his anxiety about Richard, lie was trying to find out the facts 
 before talking with his father. When he was sure of the said facts 
 he spoke out plainly. 
 
 Mr. Arlington was grieved, and his pride was evidently hurl ; 
 still, not so much grieved as Gerald expected. He evidently 
 seemed to think there must be a certain amount of " wild oats " 
 sown by all young men. He had always shrunk from vice of 
 every description himself, but he had regarded it in other men
 
 206 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 with a sort of compassionate disgust and tolerant scorn that did 
 not conduce to a stern condemnation of evil, or to the cultivation 
 of a lofty standard of purity and nobleness, even in those with 
 whom he was most intimate. 
 
 Like many other parents, also, he made the mistake of erring on 
 the side of reticence in such matters with regard to his sons. It 
 is a most delicate and difficult thing, no doubt, for a parent to know- 
 when and what to say to a child on the subject ; but Mr. Arlington 
 had erred in being too reserved. 
 
 Yet he once made a remark to his eldest son, just at the critical 
 period when he was emerging from youth into young-manhood, for 
 which that son was ever after grateful to him, and which, simple as 
 it was, did him an amount of good he did not fully understand till 
 years after. "You will find," he said, ''as you mix with young men, 
 that proposals will be made to you of a very derogatory character ; 
 but if you at once resist them they will not be repeated." 
 
 And Gerald felt keenly that his father was giving him credit for 
 intending to live a manly pure life, was taking it for granted not 
 that he needed even to be warned or exhorted against yielding to 
 temptations, but that he merely required a helping word to en- 
 courage him in offering that opposition to evil suggestions which 
 he was sure to be ready to give. 
 
 If, however, Mr. Arlington had not taken too much for granted 
 in the case of his eldest boy, he saw plainly and painfully enough 
 now that he had done so in regard to Richard especially. 
 
 The coarseness which Gerald hinted at vexed him greatly. 
 
 " What ts the reason, Gerald ? He had precisely the same advan- 
 tage as yourself." 
 
 " Not quite, father," replied his son. " Richard was too young to 
 know or care about Catherine." (The elder sister who had died.} 
 "While she lived I cannot tell you the wonderful blessing she was 
 to me. It was a terrible loss to Richard never to have known much 
 of his sister." 
 
 Mr. Arlington drew a long, heavy sigh. His lost daughter had 
 been idolized by both parents. 
 
 "And then, father, mother's health, I think, did not allow her to 
 do as much for Richard as she did for me. And then there were 
 Aunt Caroline's conversations and teachings which Dick never 
 cared for." 
 
 His father looked doubtful at this last suggestion, and Gerald 
 went on hurriedly 
 
 "But all the real mischief, I think, began at school. After I left 
 Beachum two or three blackguards came from another school, and
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 207 
 
 by degrees nearly the whole of the upper forms seem to have 
 become tainted." 
 
 " Ton my word," said Mr. Arlington, "it's wonderful what a deal 
 of harm one or two black sheep may do in a school." 
 
 " And those fellows were thoroughly black, I'm convinced," 
 continued Gerald. "They led Richard into all sorts of bad ways. 
 The school, you see, was stronger for evil, I suppose, than his 
 home was for good. I only found all this out lately, or I should 
 have spoken to you sooner, but I thought it better to try all I 
 could myself first." 
 
 " Quite right. I will send him on a three-months' trip to 
 Canada and back. That will break the connections he has formed, 
 and give him time to think. There is a very sensible young man 
 going out as surgeon in an emigrant ship chartered by Mr. Grant. 
 He is the son of a director of the Royal Exchange, and will do 
 what he can for Richard, I know. I got him the berth. When 
 your brother comes home, you and he must live together in London 
 somehow or other — at least, for a time." 
 
 " I will do anything, father, you think best." 
 
 "When do you expect to hear about your play from Mr. Mac- 
 ready, Gerald ? " 
 
 "I was going to tell you, father. I have a note this morning, 
 appointing me to meet him on Tuesday next." 
 
 Mr. Arlington's answer was the usual, "Oh !" It was little more 
 than a grunt, but meant to be kindly. 
 
 They rode up to Town together the next morning, till Gerald 
 branched off to Elm Street. When the door of Featherstone's 
 lodgings was opened, he saw, by a glance at the girl's face, some- 
 thing was wrong. 
 
 " Is Mr. Featherstone ill again ?" he hastily exclaimed. 
 
 " N — n — no, Sir, but he's gone ! " — and the dirty apron went up 
 to the poor dirty eyes. 
 
 " Gone ! When ? — where ? " Gerald's heart sank within him. 
 
 " Don't know, Sir — this morning, Sir." 
 
 When Gerald had extracted all the particulars he could, he was 
 turning, very dismally; to depart, when the girl called after him. 
 
 " Please Sir, there be a letter a-come for him. What's to do 
 with it ? " 
 
 He went up into the ill-starred artist's deserted rooms. The 
 pictures and gimcracks were all packed away. But the poor little 
 flowers were still in the vase where he had placed them after the re- 
 conciliation on Tuesday. He took them, half-faded as they were, 
 wiped them tenderly, and placed them in his bosom, while the
 
 208 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 unwashed maid peeped— curious. On the table lay a note directed 
 in Mrs. Featherstone's hand-writing, with the fatal post-mark on 
 it, "Too late." 
 
 " The post-master never said anything more true than that," 
 thought Gerald ; and, thrusting it into his pocket, he made his way 
 as fast as he could to Mr. Featherstone's. 
 
 The wrath of the father, the tears of Leila, the hysterics of the 
 mother can be imagined, not described. Mr. Featherstone found 
 temporary relief in discharging the guilty footman on the spot, and 
 driving off to his counting-house as fast as his fat old horses could 
 get there. Gerald was retiring, sadly enough, from the house, 
 when he heard Leila softly call him, and, turning, he saw her 
 beckon him into the dining room. 
 
 " Mr. Arlington," she began, " Mamma wished me to thank" — 
 then she fairly broke down, and, covering her face with her hands, 
 sank on a chair. She was trying hard to restrain her sobs, and 
 speak. But all that Gerald could hear at intervals was, " Oh, 
 Mr. Arlington — that it should all have come to this ! " 
 
 The memories of the past, the many bright hopes she had been 
 cherishing for the future, were too much for her fortitude. She had 
 risen that morning so very happy. The past seemed to be only a 
 miserable dream. Her brother was to be welcomed home again 
 like the Prodigal Son in the parable, and to give himself up to his 
 noble art, and she would sit and read and work beside him, and 
 write tales for him to illustrate, and they would have those old 
 happy walks together again, but with far higher thoughts and aims 
 in common than before. Those dreams — well, all were vanished 
 now ! She had had the same strange unconquerable presentiment 
 as Alfred had been haunted with— that if he did not come now he 
 never would — founded, no doubt, partly on their knowledge of their 
 father's character. But she did not know till that moment how- 
 much she had been influenced by this feeling, nor how much she 
 had been living in bright anticipations of his return. The shock 
 of awaking was very great, coming as it did after the excitement of 
 the last few days and her indisposition the day before. Gerald 
 had never seen anyone so unhappy since his mother wept over the 
 dead body of his sister, and to sec this beautiful high-hearted girl 
 in such anguish almost unmanned him. He besought her in the 
 tenderest tones to compose herself, and kept uttering incoherent 
 comfort till he hit on the only true consolation, as far as poor Leila 
 at that moment could receive any at all. 
 
 "I will go down to Cowes!*' he exclaimed, walking to the 
 window. "I'm sure, from what he said, he's gone there — and then,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 200. 
 
 perhaps, Miss Featherstone — perhaps he will even now come 
 back." 
 
 Mother and daughter caught at the idea with immense gratitude, 
 but little hope. So Gerald went down with the mail that night 
 with Leila's look of thanks haunting him, and returned, as might 
 have been expected, on the Monday — alone ; wishing, more than 
 words can tell, he had never left Leila Featherstone's brother for an 
 hour till he was once more safe in her home. Yet when he brought 
 back the sorrowful news to Mrs. Featherstone and her daughter 
 that Alfred, after fair promises and much emotion, had finally given 
 him the slip and gone off in the yacht, he could not help trying to 
 stay their tears by vague hopes that, when the wandering Prodigal 
 had had a brief holiday, he would yet come back. Of course, he 
 gave such excellent reasons for his hopes that, when Mrs. Feather- 
 stone sailed out of the room to inspect a new servant (motioning 
 Leila majestically to follow), she repeated her stately thanks, and 
 Leila felt bound to remain a few seconds to do the same. Then 
 Gerald, overcome by her mournful look and tearful eyes, thought 
 he might try and divert her sad thoughts for a few minutes by 
 mentioning that he had an appointment with the great tragedian 
 for that morning. Is it to be wondered at that she looked up with 
 quick eager sympathy, and replied, with a faint blush, to his 
 inquiry whether she would care to hear the verdict : 
 
 <f Indeed, Mr. Arlington, I shall wish very much to know your fate. 
 We do not leave here till " Then she stopped in some con- 
 fusion, fearing she was saying too much. Gerald was again nearly 
 off his balance. He could not help thinking that Leila was feeling 
 very differently about him and his tragedy now to what she was last 
 winter, and then the thought would rush in whether he was not 
 making too great a sacrifice to friendship in leaving Leila Feather- 
 stone to Harry's fitful wooing. He hadn't bargained when he gave 
 her up for seeing her under such terribly captivating circumstances, 
 or being thrown again into such intimate and even tender relation- 
 ship with her. Yet he felt he could have stood all this and not 
 harboured a thought unjust to his friend had that friend continued 
 to manifest the same lofty yet ardent devotion to her which 
 characterized the first few months of his attachment ; though the 
 more he saw of the depth and tenderness of Leila's nature, as well 
 as of her intellectual aspirations, the more he doubted if Fortescue 
 either did really appreciate her now, or ever would love her as she 
 deserved. 
 
 But while these thoughts were darting through his mind, and he 
 was once more, as we said, on the point of taking the young lady's 
 
 o
 
 210 GERALD AND HIS FRIEXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 hand and passionately demanding an explanation of the state of 
 her affections, Leila averted the crisis by offering the hand in 
 question with a curious mixture of shyness, grateful regard, and 
 characteristic hauteur, and immediately vanishing through the open 
 door. Gerald wended his way in a very tumultuous condition to 
 Lincoln's Inn, while the maiden found herself in her own room, 
 feeling (without clearly comprehending why) as more than once 
 before, that this poetic dreamer, with his mysterious eyes and 
 strangely captivating voice, was wondrous fascinating, and was 
 bringing her young yet weary heart, amid its sorrows, some subtle 
 fragrant breath of rest and peace, as well as of life and power. 
 She still, indeed, cherished a very genuine and romantic admiration 
 for Mr. Fortescue, but the retrospect of her conversations with him 
 was less and less satisfactory. And being, therefore, increasingly 
 averse to think herself bound to admire nobody else, she was the 
 more willing to be grateful to one who not only had striven hard 
 to lead her brother to better paths, but had twined the sweet 
 comfort of a new poetic life with her constrained and dismal 
 home experiences, and who at the same time seemed to be still 
 anxious to make her share in his own poetic dreams. 
 
 But were those dreams to be gloriously fulfilled or rudely crushed 
 for ever ? If he were unable to get his play performed what would 
 his father naturally think and say ? Was he to return to the slavery 
 and spiritual death (as he viewed it) of Leadenhall Street, rendered 
 doubly wretched by the temporary freedom and new life in which 
 he had been revelling? But suppose, indeed, that his play were 
 really acted and then damned ! ! ! . . . Why then, like Caesar, he 
 would wrap his robe around him and sink to death at the feet of an 
 ungrateful world ! . . . Arlington had never realized fully, until 
 he was walking that day to the great actor's chambers, the narrow- 
 ness of the razor-bridge which so often forms the only junction 
 between the ideal Mount Olympus and the hard, actual " terra 
 firma" on which a man must somehow or other plant his foot if 
 he would bring the ideal down to influence the actual world. 
 * a- * % * ■:■ v.- 
 
 Gerald had left the Featherstones' house no doubt fully intending 
 to return to it. And he left Mr. Macready's chambers with the same 
 intention, full of exulting gladness, for he had heard there words of 
 praise from the great tragedian concerning his drama, and above 
 all, a promise which made him wild with joy and most delusive 
 expectation. 
 
 " I shall recommend it to Mr. " (the manager of the theatre 
 
 where he was then performing), " and if he accepts it, Mr. Arlington,
 
 GERALD AND HIS ERIEND THE DOCTOR. 2 1 1 
 
 I shall be very glad to perform in it." Yes, it was no dream, this 
 was the verdict. Surely, then, the victory had now been gained for 
 ever — the great life battle fought and won, with a triumphant 
 career of power and fame opened up to him that should have no 
 end but death. For if a man of such undoubted genius and long 
 experience as Mr. Macready could not only speak of his play thus 
 
 highly and be willing to recommend it to the manager of 
 
 Theatre, but actually be ready to commit his own great reputation 
 to the enterprise of performing in it, how could it help being 
 successful ? And would not that bring him an independent liveli- 
 hood, as well as all else he asked for ? 
 
 Are the great life battles, then, fought and won by sitting at a 
 desk and writing ? Well, mighty deeds are done by writing, no 
 doubt. Words are a tremendous power. Luther's, we are told, 
 were " half battles." Milton did something in " Defence of the 
 People of England " by writing. But then, Luther and Milton 
 were Luther and Milton. 
 
 Yet a young man who can win the public ear, and, through a 
 noble actor, fascinate the public heart, would he not already be a 
 power in the State ? No — not a bit of it. But he would then 
 have planted his foot on the first step of the ladder, and if he can 
 climb — why then 
 
 Such a view of the case, however, as this would have been rather 
 amazing to poor Gerald. Still more an opinion that might at the 
 same time have been volunteered — viz., that a successful leader in 
 the " Times " or " Morning Chronicle," would have been a far 
 more likely opening in the Great Britain of that day to the power 
 and reputation for which he craved than the finest tragedy. The 
 youth thought men were formed for refined enjoyment in all things 
 Beautiful, for divine delights in Music, Poetry, and Art ; and that 
 their heaven-born instincts would impel them, if gradually, yet 
 irresistibly to bend beneath a true artist-poet's sceptre, and work 
 with him in substituting for all ugliness, discord, and disorder, — 
 beauty, order, and peace. 
 
 Were not Shakespeare and those gods of his idolatry, Goethe and 
 Schiller, mighty powers on the earth ? What a world-wide in- 
 fluence might not Byron have wielded had he but been able to 
 learn that great lesson whereof Goethe speaks — viz., " Life, in the 
 true sense of the term, can be said to begin only with RENUN- 
 CIATION ? " 
 
 Men wrangle and fight, thought Gerald, and bury themselves in 
 Mammon-holes, in sensuality, in worldliness, only because the 
 higher influences of Art, of the Beautiful in all its thousand forms,
 
 2 12 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 are not fairly brought to bear upon them. This creed he believed 
 in with all the passionate fervour of a martyr ready to die for his 
 belief. Was the man born altogether in a wrong latitude ? Should 
 he not have been cradled in Weimar, Athens, or Florence ? It 
 was a queer place, this London, for such dreams. But Nature is 
 always graciously seeking to supplement us. Doubtless, modern 
 England needs men with faith in Art, in " the Beautiful." 
 
 So it might have been well for London if it could have looked 
 kindly on the young gentleman who that day left the arch-magician's 
 sanctuary in Lincoln's Inn with feelings of intense and overflowing 
 happiness. But it might be matter for curious inquiry whether the 
 profoundly grateful, as well as reverent, way in which he pressed 
 the tragedian's hand at parting, and looked up in his face, awoke 
 in that gentleman's bosom some slight remorse ; for well he knew 
 how poor a chance existed of the manager's consenting to bring 
 out a new five-act tragedy, or indeed a legitimate drama of any 
 kind. 
 
 The miserable monopoly of the two big houses, Covent Garden 
 and Drury Lane, had been blighting the English stage for years, 
 and it had nearly reached, at that time, its lowest depths of degra- 
 dation. Now, Mr. Macready, with the true instinct of genius, saw 
 the inherent merit of Gerald's production amid its many faults, and 
 seemed also to feel a sincere interest in the enthusiastic young 
 author. In spite of the labour he must have given to fit it for the 
 stage, he would have been most thankful to have aided in placing 
 it worthily before an audience, if only to have exchanged the 
 wretched trash in which he was then too often compelled to 
 appear, for the noble and passionate character of the hero of this 
 drama. But in the then condition of the English theatres, the 
 great actor knew there was as little hope for the author as for 
 himself when he kindly assured Gerald that he " would perform in 
 it if Mr. B accepted i/." Yet it was all he could say, and there- 
 fore he said it. So Gerald walked away through Lincoln's Inn and 
 Red Lion Square with the words of his favourite German sounding 
 through his brain, not in the desponding gloom which enveloped 
 the soul of him who composed them, and too often, heretofore, of 
 the youth who was now repeating them to himself, but with all the 
 fresh buoyant hope and consciousness of power which whispered 
 to his deceived and romantic heart that he might achieve a happier 
 fate than Schiller's, and live, not to weep over the melancholy 
 failure of his glorious " Idealen," but to realize them all in the 
 bright career that now lay opening before him. . . . Thus ran 
 the song ("Es dehnte mit," &c.), as he did it roughly into English
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 2I3 
 
 while he walked along, reciting to himself with secret and enthu- 
 siastic joy: — 
 
 " A mighty all-embracing force 
 His shackled breast inspired 
 To start upon the paths of Life, 
 With glorious purpose fired ; 
 To live in noble deed and thrilling word, 
 In sculpture's heavenly art, and strings by music stirred. 
 * # % % % * 
 
 How sprang the youth with courage winged, 
 
 In all the madness of his joy, 
 (Uncurbed as yet by cruel cares) 
 To give his ardent powers employ. " 
 
 And then came the beautiful verse, " Wie tanzte vor des Lebens 
 Wagen," &c. 
 
 " Aye ! " he exclaimed — 
 
 " Behold before the Car of Life 
 How dance th' angelic company ! 
 See Love with all its sweet reward, 
 And Fortune with its golden wreath, 
 And Fame with radiant starry crown, 
 And Truth that shines on all beneath 
 Like Sun in mid-day splendour." 
 
 "Yes, yes, ye glorious heavens above ! " he whispered to him- 
 self as he looked upwards, seeming to expect he should behold 
 those beautiful angels floating bodily there, " I'll win them all ! 
 and praise the glorious Giver evermore." 
 
 Those brilliant and romantic but rather unseasonable dreams 
 lasted till he got to Russell Square ; and then, for one moment, 
 there came another thought, sweeter, brighter far. Whom was he 
 going to tell of his success ? Aye, one moment of intense gladness, 
 and then his pace slackened, and he stopped. There rose up before 
 him, stern and sad and pleading, the image of his friend * * * 
 
 Mother and daughter meanwhile had been transacting their 
 business in Oxford Street and elsewhere, with hurried step, and 
 returned, palpitating with hope, only to be again disappointed. 
 
 " No, Mr. Alfred has not yet arrived, ma'am ; but I have been to 
 the ' White Horse Cellar,' ma'am, and there's a coach from Ports- 
 mouth gets in about 5 o'clock." 
 
 So they lunched, and waited. The carriage was ordered at half- 
 past four. Leila sat in the drawing-room, trying to read " Gib! 
 Decline and Fall ;" really humming a tune from " La Sonnambula," 
 and beating time with her foot — listening — listening. Was she
 
 214 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 listening for some other step as well as that of Alfred ? If she 
 were, it was, could be, only because of the generous interest some- 
 body else had shown in her brother. But she glanced more than 
 once at her watch. And as the time wore on, and Gerald came not, 
 she drew proudly into herself, and thought how weakly he was 
 abandoning the path of humble duty in Leadenhall Street for a 
 phantom chase of poetic dreaming, that could only end in plunging 
 him into a morass. And then she thought, perhaps he may have 
 been detained. He evidently very much wished to come. And 
 then the words which she had once heard applied to Gerald by 
 Harry, would keep sounding ominously in her ear, and they were 
 the words of a certain Book, and they kept murmuring this : 
 " Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel." 
 
 Then the image of Mr. Fortescue rose strong and stately before 
 her. But soon every other thought was swept away by a passionate 
 craving to see her brother safe once again at home. And then she 
 heard a knock, and flew furtively to the window blinds. It was not 
 Alfred, nor Mr. Arlington, only a boy with a note from a gentleman 
 to Miss Featherstone. She looked at it shyly, opened it slowly, and 
 with the faintest little blush, read it at a glance, and flung it on the 
 table, with something between a sigh and a sneer. The note 
 simply stated the tragedian's opinion of Gerald's drama, and the 
 conditional promise he had given of acting in it if he could get it 
 accepted, adding that he, the writer, was obliged, with great regret, 
 to leave London without calling in Portland Place ; and concluding 
 with words of hope and comfort about Alfred. Should the latter not 
 soon return, and should there be any opening by which he could be 
 of the slightest use to any of the family, he should be only too 
 deeply thankful to avail himself of it. He entreated her to let him 
 know in such case, and remained — (yes, he thought he might just 
 add this)— "dear Miss Featherstone, gratefully yours, Gerald 
 Arlington." 
 
 Gratefully ? Yes. Did he not owe her a glimpse into Paradise ; 
 and though he might not enter it, ought he not to thank her for it ? 
 Well, who knows ? probably he was far nearer Heaven in making 
 that sacrifice to friendship, than even if he had been leaving Port- 
 land Place the accepted lover of his beautiful angel. She, mean- 
 while, stood looking at the note, as it lay on the table, with erect 
 head, dilated nostril, fixedly. Then she took it up again, read it, 
 re-read it, hid it away with a sigh, and never knew before how much 
 she had lately cared for the writer. Then, blushing indignantly at 
 the thoughts in her heart, she proudly, fiercely, tore the note to 
 pieces, and flung them into the grate.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 21$ 
 
 When Mrs. Featherstone and her daughter had waited in Picca- 
 dilly till the Portsmouth coach came in, but with it no son nor 
 brother, and the word " Home " passed in solemn and sonorous 
 accents from her poor mother's lips, the dark shadow fell again 
 over Leila's soul ; and the small circle of three sat that evening in 
 their melancholy, beautiful home at Wimbledon in silence and in 
 gloom. Afterwards, and for many a day, when " hope deferred " 
 for her brother's return had wholly sickened and died, Leila lived 
 only in such light as she strove desperately to bring around her 
 parents' hearts — light which, when she sought it from Heaven in 
 accordance with her mother's stern Calvinistic training, too often 
 she seemed to seek in vain. Then her thoughts flew back for 
 consolation and strength to earth. She knew that Cambridge men. 
 were fast leaving the banks of the Cam, but none she cared about 
 found their way to Wimbledon. Flowers, one of Heaven's best 
 gifts to a pure and sorrowing heart, were a great enjoyment ; hard 
 study, and above all, her piano, her chief resource. 
 
 Music with her was a passion ; and, happily, she had those 
 natural gifts for it (instrumentally, not vocally) which enabled her 
 to throw her whole soul into it, and to find both in the great 
 Masters, and in her own wild improvisations (which were often 
 full of beauty), a constant source of happiness. Without this 
 relief, during long months and years of trial, her health would 
 probably have given way, and the restless, aspiring, spirit have 
 prematurely fretted itself into the rest of the grave. 
 
 Mr. Arlington was amiable when the result of the momentous 
 interview with Mr. Macready was announced. 
 
 Business matters, as well as public affairs, were, on the whole, 
 still brightening a little. A part of the great railway had been 
 opened amid enthusiastic cheers, feasting, and congratulatory 
 speeches. That other still greater enterprise of bridging the 
 Atlantic with steam- ships was proceeding with dogged British 
 determination, in spite of the learned but now humiliated pro- 
 fessors. And a couple more line vessels destined for the New 
 York line were fast approaching completion in Messrs. Wigram 
 and Green's ship-yard at Blackwall. Hence, Mr. Arlington was 
 still disposed to take a cheerful view of matters, and reflected that 
 after all Gerald might prove to be a genius of some sort ; and if 
 he was not to rise in the City, might he not get into Parliament, 
 and grasp the honours which he himself had declined ? 
 
 Very great was Mr. Arlington's hereditary love and honour for 
 Chatham and Fox. If his son really manifested great ability, and
 
 2l6 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 kept from drinking, gambling, &c, he might become — who could 
 tell ? We all have our dreams — even wise, grey-headed fathers. 
 
 So Gerald Arlington remained for a time at Hartland house, 
 writing scraps of poetry and tales, reading Byron and Byron's life, 
 Tennyson, " Wilhelm Meister," Schiller's "Die Ideale," "Contarini 
 Fleming," and Bulwer, " softly floating on his tuneful way," singing 
 and dreaming. It was " Adonais" within sight of London smoke. 
 Never, probably, since Adam dawdled about in Paradise, was man 
 happier in his way than Gerald those few months, save when 
 tumultuous fervent longings for his Eve broke the stern fetters in 
 which he usually bound them. 
 
 Harry came once to see him and "rowed" him vehemently for 
 not working hard at " Thucydides, Quinctilian, Aristotle's Logic and 
 Rhetoric, the 'Differential Calculus,' and all that sort of thing." 
 He continued: "You know you've often told me you haven't a 
 chance of becoming a great orator, poet, and philanthropist, old 
 gentleman, if you don't work like a brick at these things. And,, as 
 for all this rubbish, Gerry, oh Jupiter ! " — and he tossed contemp- 
 tuously aside the young poet's most cherished effusions. " Now 
 don't be fierce. I only speak, Gerry, because " — and his voice 
 dropped to an insinuating whisper with that delightfully caustic, 
 yet comic smile, which had often disarmed all kinds of wrath — 
 " because you see, I know how much better things you could write 
 
 if you'd only work. Look here ! I met a gentleman at G 's 
 
 room in St. Catherine's the other day, who enquired very kindly 
 after you. I mean Claude what's-his-name, the artist. Didn't 
 you meet him once at the Featherstone's ?" 
 
 Poor Gerald thought of somebody who sat beside him that night, 
 and answered, with constraint, " Yes." 
 
 " Well, he spoke with genuine interest about you, and of what 
 he had since heard about you, I think from that great tragic gun, 
 Macready. And then he went on so. Oh ! I wish you had heard 
 him." 
 
 " Tell me all you can. I should like to know." 
 
 Harry produced his pocket-book. 
 
 " I made a few notes for your benefit when I got home, so, if 
 you insist, I'll see what I can make of them. Hum— ha — well, he 
 said you had a true and noble conception of the province and power 
 of art — and that will make you proud. Johnny — but, he added, he 
 didn't believe you or any young man had a notion of the stern 
 wrestlings of the spirit, and tremendously hard work of the brain, 
 which a true artist must go through if he would be faithful to his 
 calling. And that should make you humble, Johnny. He spoke
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 217 
 
 of how young folks (that's you) were right, nobly right, in believing 
 in the possibility of realizing your beautiful ideals in the world, and 
 of bringing harmony and beauty out of discord and strife, and 
 didn't he say it all so eloquently that we sat listening like Scotch- 
 men to the bagpipes ! But he added that the tendency of giving 
 oneself up to such a life, unless you worked intensely hard, and 
 also mingled in the rough realities of life, was to make a man 
 sentimental and flabby, unfit to lead and elevate his age. There — 
 I can't make out any more." 
 
 " You're a trump to have got all that ! It's worth a bushel of 
 friends' flattery or doctors' drugs. Though my doctor's physic is 
 priceless. Now, tell us all about yourself." 
 
 " All right. But tell me first why you look so jaded and dreamy, 
 black under the eyes. Going to kill yourself with poetry, sen- 
 timent, and love ? What's the matter with you, my poet ? I shall 
 have to drug you." 
 
 " Pooh ! nothing. I was up half the night, galloping over 
 Wanstead Flats and Epping Forest by moonlight. That's all." 
 
 Harry lifted up his hands in amazement. " Well, you are a — 
 moon-calf." 
 
 " Grandest fun going, my doctor. That's life, if you please." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Gerald, all that would be splendid if it tvas fun — if, in 
 fact, you had any fun left in you. But you haven't, and you'll never 
 write anything worth reading — indeed, I doubt if you'll ever do 
 anything worth doing, if you can't get back that old spirit of fun 
 or humour, or whatever you call it " 
 
 " Harry — I can't" replied Gerald, emphatically and dismally. 
 " It's no good trying. Life does seem to me so very serious — so 
 horribly stern. It's quite enough to be cheerful, without pretending 
 to be merry. Nobody in earnest can have much fun in them, I 
 fancy ; at least I can't understand how they manage it, except now 
 and then." 
 
 " Then you don't think I'm one of the earnest folks when I chaff 
 my Gerry," said Fortescue, " and make him laugh like a Christian. 
 Remember, none of the beasts can laugh e.vcept the hyama." 
 
 " I don't think you're your best self then, I must allow, though 
 it's very jolly and refreshing to hear you, my doctor, and greatly as 
 I enjoy the weakness it is to be feared I mourn over your fallen 
 state at such times. Our Puritan forefathers didn't laugh much, I 
 trow. Fancy Cromwell and his Ironsides having any fun in 
 them." 
 
 Harry seemed considerably amused at this view of things, though 
 he gave a great sigh when he had done laughing, and Gerald was
 
 2l8 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 smiling a little, though he evidently suspected most laughter to be 
 " the crackling of thorns " under an empty pot. 
 
 "But come, old fellow," remarked Arlington, presently. "Give 
 us your own experiences. You make a deal too much talk about 
 me. What have you been doing for your own salvation ? " 
 
 So then Harry told his friend that he had arranged with an 
 eminent surgeon at the hospital in London where Richard Arlington 
 was attending, to take him as a pupil, and that he was to begin 
 walking the said hospital next October. 
 
 " I shall leave Cambridge, gladly and sadly, Gerry, but it is a bad 
 habit to dwell on the past. ' Hark forward's ' the cry ! " 
 
 Then he described how he was reading medicine and surgery, 
 and how the study thereof grew more and more fascinating. 
 
 " You see, Gerry, I do believe in health. I believe the ' corpus 
 sanum' has a vast deal to do with the ' mens conscia recti' And I 
 have a profound faith in God's will to have health in His universe, 
 not disease. Between ourselves, you know, there's a vast deal of 
 nonsense talked by the parsons and goody-folk about God's dis- 
 pensations and chastisements, and ' submission to God's will,' and 
 so forth, when the poor fools whom they try to comfort or humble 
 in this fashion have only themselves to thank for it. If God cares 
 about us at all, I'm certain He wishes us to be healthy and not sick 
 — to mind the laws of nature, and not to break them as if He 
 hadn't made them. Doesn't He love order, if He loves anything ? 
 and what is disease, I should like to know, but disorder ? " 
 
 " I suppose that's all very true. And yet I fancy you might 
 easily make false gods out of your ' Health' and ' Order,' and 
 ' Nature,' Harry." 
 
 " For why ? " inquired the doctor. 
 
 " Clearly because enthusiastic doctors, from their constant studies 
 and] work, must be tempted to worship health — and after all there 
 are much finer things than that — and if you once get an idol 
 you are sure to sacrifice to it what is far nobler than the thing 
 itself." 
 
 " You speak like a prophet, you think like a sage. It is very 
 surprising in one of your age, Gerry — as you used to remark. But 
 mind you don't make a Moloch of Art, while you warn me against 
 my ' fond idolatry.' Look at that poor devil, Featherstone, what 
 good does Art do for him ?" 
 
 " What good ! why it's the only thing that lifts him above 
 
 the state of hog. See how it raised and purified him when he first 
 gave himself up to it. Its just the one ennobling point in his 
 nature — just the fulcrum by which, I believe in my heart, we might
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 219 
 
 yet lift him out of his slough— if anything would. I only fear he's 
 past lifting now by any lever, poor beggar " 
 
 " But what about that young destroying swan-necked beauty, 
 Featherstone's slim little sister ?" said Fortescue. "God forgive 
 her ; she's a deadly serpent to me." 
 
 " Oh, she was all right when I last heard of her. Going to 
 call ? " 
 
 " Not I." 
 
 Gerald turned round, and glared upon Fortescue with a look of 
 savage astonishment. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" he managed to ask at length. Harry 
 laid hold of Gerald's arm with the grip of a blacksmith. 
 
 " Look here. Her father spoke to me before I left town." His 
 brows lowered and all the latent ruffian gleamed from his eyes. 
 " I know pow how men come to kill each other ! I'll never let 
 that man speak to me again, till I am able to look him in the 
 face, and know that I have a right to ask his daughter to be my 
 
 wife And— and — it will be years — Fears 1 — before I can do 
 
 that. My uncle has vowed he'll cut me off with a hundred the day 
 I leave Cambridge unordained — years, Gerald, years before I can 
 earn enough. And, oh, ye gods ! she is so lovely, and as clever as 
 she is fair. There will be scores of fellows courting her .... 
 Her father's rich and every aristocratic, smug, well-to-do black- 
 guard Gerry, Gerry, pity me ! " 
 
 And the strong man hid his face in his hands, then suddenly 
 whirled himself round, caught Gerald's hand and said : 
 
 " But you'll watch for me, Gerry, you'll be able to see her — speak 
 for me — won't you, Gerry ? I can live on hope for years." 
 
 Gerald could not answer. 
 
 " Speak, man, speak ! for the love of heaven ! You don't want 
 her yourself! no, no, I know you don't." 
 
 " Want her myself," at length said Gerald, slowly, with " ghastly 
 grin" of mixed scorn and compassion. " No, my Hal, I'm not 
 quite such a spooney as you." (Then with his old smile) " I 
 can't afford to let my mind run on such trumpery. Art, art, I tell 
 you, oh, my poor frantic Saadi, Art, as I have told you before, Art 
 is my mistress ! " But Fortescue looked at him gloomily, and the 
 friends separated on rather uncomfortable terms. Happy it would 
 have been for both of them, if Gerald had but possessed enough 
 wisdom and presence of mind to have said — " Well, if you hadn't 
 put up for her, Harry, no doubt I should. I think her very charm- 
 ing, and mean to keep out of her way. Of course I'm not going to 
 cut you out, — easily as I might do it, equally of course, if I chose,
 
 220 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 you dear, blessed old moon-calf." And so, with a laugh and a 
 hearty pressure of the hand, they would have mutually understood 
 each other, and no harm would have been done. 
 
 Happy also, says a right-minded philosophic parent, if Gerald 
 could have added a word as to " the absurdity, not to say, 
 impropriety, of courting, and making themselves miserable, about 
 a girl whom they had neither of them the slightest chance of ask- 
 ing in marriage for years to come, and who was almost certain in 
 the meantime to be carried off by some more fortunate suitor. 
 They were both too young, Gerry ought therefore to have remarked, 
 for such nonsense." Why didn't he think, at all events, of finishing 
 up with a reference to his beloved ancient Germans, " Qui 
 diutissume, &c," and have concluded with saying : 
 
 " Harry, old boy, we were friends long before we knew this girl. 
 We won't let a woman break up that which is worth more than 
 most things that life can give, to wit, a genuine, tough old friend- 
 ship, begun when we were boys, and strengthening as we have 
 grown." 
 
 Oh ! how easy it is for wise grey-headed men to see and enforce 
 the right conduct upon hot-blooded youth. But who is ever wise 
 enough in his own youth either to see or to act accordingly ? In 
 fact, does anybody profit by others' experience ? Well says the 
 proverb, "If things were to be done twice, all would be well." 
 
 So for want of grey-headed wisdom, the young fools parted in 
 folly. But after a time, with characteristic resolution, Master Harry 
 thrust his suspicions aside, and, ere long, recovered all his old faith 
 in the friend who deserved something better at his hands than even 
 the heartiest trust he could give him. Gerald was always ready for 
 a "forgive and forget" with most people, especially, of course, 
 with Harry, so they soon shook hands, metaphorically, again in 
 "most beautiful letters ! " 
 
 Later in the summer, Mr. and Mrs. Arlington, with Miss Tylney, 
 having gone to Hastings, Gerald accompanied Fortescue in a short 
 walking tour, through Sussex, the New Forest, and part of Dorset- 
 shire, in the course of which Gerald found himself, one bright star- 
 light night, standing on one side of a grave in a churchyard at 
 Beachum. His friend stood on the other side, silent, uncovered ; 
 and seemed to be inwardly praying. The monotonous dash of the 
 waves on the distant beach were the only sounds that broke the 
 hush of night. At length Harry stretched out his hand across the 
 grave to Gerry, saying : " May the Loid help me to remember you, 
 father, and all your words." Then they went back to their inn. 
 silently as they came.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 221 
 
 "Remember?" Yes. Will not memory, for many of us, be the 
 true hell hereafter ? 
 
 Harry's father — that father's life and words — his grave — were not 
 matters to be forgotten in a day. How is it we so often fail to 
 recollect the " right thing " at the. right time ? We remember clearly 
 enough before, and after. 
 
 The next day Gerald and Harry took a long row, and had a bathe 
 from the boat, a mile or two out at sea ; previous o which last 
 operation, however, Gerald proposed they should upset the boat 
 and see how they would act, and be able to swim in their clothes 
 on a certain emergency. Harry, of course, was charmed with the 
 idea, and they only refrained on reflecting that in all probability 
 they should irrecoverably spoil their watches ! Then, the day after, 
 they got the master at Gerry's old school to give the boys a holiday, 
 and played a game of cricket with them on the downs, when Harry 
 astonished them with his terrific bowling, and had to be toned 
 down ; and Gerry made some wonderful swipes, but was finally 
 caught out by a smart lad, who was immensely cheered in conse- 
 quence. Hare and hounds followed, with a brilliant run ; and then 
 a pic-nic feast among the gorse bushes. The boys, of course, were 
 all in high spirits, and long remembered that holiday ; but it is to 
 be feared the hearts of their visitors were sometimes heavy with 
 exceeding longings to be boys themselves, once again. 
 
 It so happened that Harry met Miss Featherstone once that vaca- 
 tion, and on one of the most dangerous occasions for susceptible 
 hearts — viz., a wedding, where his sister reluctantly figured as a 
 bridesmaid to gratify a dear old friend. Leila for some time had 
 been feeling more than usually depressed. Her brother's conduct 
 was weighing heavily on her heart, and her home was dull and 
 dreary. In her loneliness she had sometimes ardently longed to 
 hear Harry Fortescue's manly tones of cheery hope and benevolent 
 aspiration, or to know why Gerald Arlington had never called since 
 they parted at the Wimbledon ball. But she knew she was not to 
 give "any encouragement" at present to Mr. Fortescue under pain 
 of that paternal displeasure which she had been brought up from 
 childhood to fear as the heaviest of all calamities. So when she, 
 also decked as a bridesmaid, met him at the wedding, looking of 
 course more charming than ever, the consciousness of a strange 
 happiness and of much of the old fascination in Harry's presence 
 fell upon her and made her set a double guard on her manner 
 towards him, while her lover, trembling with excitement, argued 
 with himself that if she cared ever so little for him she would be sure, 
 in spite of hostile papa and mamma, to give him a few kind words
 
 222 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 to live on for the next year or two. When he did get them they 
 were so different from what he wanted that his suspicions of Gerry 
 strengthened, and then he thought — why, if he, Gerry, really loved 
 her, how could she help being in love with him ? " But then, con- 
 found it!" he exclaimed that night to a London lamp-post, 
 "why couldn't the man tell me. so and have done with it? That's 
 the meaning of it all and no mistake. She's in love with him and 
 he with her, and so she don't care a rap for me. Confound all 
 love-making! . . . But she needn't have been so infernally 
 contemptuous over it ; she cared for me once, I'll swear !" 
 
 Blind beetle as he was, Fortescue now decided that " Leila, the 
 witch," was arrogant and cold, or was certainly in love, if not with 
 Gerald then with some other fellow, and with proud indifference in 
 return he met what he thought was her proud disdain. So, grind- 
 ing his teeth, the poor fellow went up to London and entered at the 
 hospital, began his attendance at lectures, and his work in the 
 dissecting-room, but began it more utterly hopeless, more wrathful 
 with all women in general (Nelly alone excepted) and with Miss 
 Featherstone in particular, more thoroughly given up to a low, 
 material view of existence, more entirely sceptical as to truths and 
 memories once associated so brightly, lovingly, with his father's 
 voice and looks, than ever in his life before. In short, he was 
 exactly in the right state to fraternise with the medical students of 
 that generation, such as too many of them then were, in the great 
 metropolitan medical schools. 
 
 Leila, on her part, went home feeling more perplexed with the 
 mysteries of life than usual ; sometimes very angry with herself for 
 not speaking more kindly to Mr. Fortescue, sometimes very indig- 
 nant with him for not paying her more attention, altogether very 
 much out of temper with everybody, yet wholly ignorant of the 
 terrible mischief which the paternal commands laid upon her were 
 working for her hapless lover. 
 
 Her piano, as heretofore, but especially ever since that discourse 
 with Gerald Arlington about Art and " Play," was still her great 
 resource. She practised unweariedly, and composed no end of 
 "variations" on Scotch and Irish melodies ; others besides herself 
 rejoiced in her playing ; yet it could not altogether cure the heart- 
 ache. 
 
 But there was one blessing still awaiting her — somewhere perhaps 
 for that unhappy lover of hers also — though a long way off. She 
 had been allowed by her parents again to accept a pressing invita- 
 tion from Ellen Fortescue to Neville Court, on their receiving, as 
 once before, a private assurance from that lady that the dangerous
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 223 
 
 Mr. Fortescne should not be invited, or, indeed, permitted to visit 
 its sacred precincts during their daughter's stay. 
 
 Mr. Featherstone, at the constant and urgent instigation of his 
 wife, supported by Leila, made several indirect overtures to Alfred 
 to come back to the paternal roof; but even if they had not 
 involved something like confession and apology as a condition of 
 his return, which he swore he would never make, Alfred was now 
 too far sunk in loose and sottish ways to endure the thought of ever 
 living with his parents and sister again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 " Yes, darling, refreshment and a wonderful peace are provided 
 for those who are chastened because they are loved, when the time 
 comes for them to rest from the Great Refiner's scorching fire." 
 So said Miss Fortescue to her young visitor as they strolled among 
 the rhododendron bushes the morning after Leila's arrival. 
 
 Poor Leila lived for months on the prospect of a visit to Neville 
 Court till she got there, and then laid her weary head on Ellen's 
 loving bosom in such deep thankfulness and peace as only those 
 can experience who have long been in conflict or pain. All the 
 arrangements at Miss Fortescue's mansion were admirably adapted 
 for the object to which she had devoted her life. She had looked 
 round her large, beautiful house and grounds, and then at the 
 sallow faces and pining hearts of her poor sisters in the great 
 Babylon toiling as governesses or dressmakers, and she resolved to 
 make her home a place where a few of them at least might rest now 
 and then on their weary pilgrimage to the " Better Land." This, 
 she thought, would be the best way of consecrating the blessings of 
 Providence to a purpose worthy of Him who had bestowed them, 
 and she thought she might thus also have some sweet little tales to 
 tell one who was waiting for her in that Land. She didn't doubt he 
 was still employed, if not exactly in such enterprises as that in 
 which he heroically lost his life, yet in beneficent labours of some 
 kind or other in heaven ; and she longed to show him day by day 
 she was working in a similar spirit while yet on earth. Hence, 
 while Miss Fortescue always went for an excursion to the seaside
 
 224 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOC 1 OK. 
 
 or on the Continent, during about two months in the year to keep 
 her own spirit fresh and braced both for work and enjoyment, she 
 was accustomed during the remaining ten months to have at 
 Neville Court, for a few weeks or days, according to circumstances, 
 a succession of over-wrought governesses or friendless, hardworking 
 young milliners, dressmakers, and so forth, with whom she had 
 become acquainted through her friends in London, or through a 
 benevolent metropolitan clergyman, brother to the incumbent of 
 her own parish. Then she generally contrived to have Miss 
 Tylney, or Leila, or some other educated, agreeable ladies to help 
 to make a cheerful circle and keep up an atmosphere of artistic 
 influences, while a simple, unaffected piety gave its peaceful elevated 
 tone to the whole establishment. 
 
 She had built a fine glass-roofed hall for winter concerts and 
 dances, in which also her guests could take refuge from the weather 
 if needful during out-door festivities. Although there were a few- 
 magnificent tropical plants and trees in it, the effect of music was 
 singularly good owing to the care taken in rounding off corners. 
 Music, drawing, a great supply of books — new and old, various 
 games and delightful conversation — the feeling that you might do 
 just as you liked and were under no compulsion, except that of 
 attending punctually at meal times (for utter lawlessness she well 
 knew was not refreshing) ; above all, the gentle, genial loving spirit 
 of the mistress of the household gave a wonderful charm to a 
 sojourn at " The Garden of Eden," as Neville Court was usually 
 denominated among its privileged London visitors. And though 
 the contrast no doubt was often dreary enough when those visitors 
 returned to the huge metropolis, yet they were at once strengthened 
 for present burdens and " saved by hope" for the future — not the 
 hope merely of coming there again some day, though that was a 
 continual joy to many of them, but also of coming some day to one 
 of the "many mansions" in a Father's House, of which Neville 
 Court seemed to them a bright prophecy ; that house from which 
 (if once entered) they believed they would " go out no more." 
 
 "Lilybcll," said Miss Fortescue, one day soon after the former 
 had arrived, as they sat in a certain arbour already familiar to the 
 reader, while Miss Tylney was walking up and down the lawn with 
 two very pale young ladies in black, recently imported from the 
 neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square, "attend, my dear, — Miss 
 Tylney has mentioned such a capital idea which she said her 
 nephew, Gerald Arlington, had suggested to her one day when she 
 was describing our doings down here. He says that dramatic repre- 
 sentations are generally so theatrical — so much done for mere show
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 225 
 
 and, therefore, so formal and constrained — besides, it is generally 
 mere acting for money, all which, complaineth he, is very wretched, 
 and ought to be resisted. Children don't act in that way, and their 
 dramatic performances are as incessant as they are charming and 
 unaffected. We want simply to clothe in flesh and blood the 
 poet's conceptions, you see, my Lily, and to realize his ideal." 
 
 "Equally profound and interesting, fair lady," replied her 
 pensive visitor. " Pray go on." 
 
 " Well, so Caroline says we are to act portions of some of 
 Shakespeare's plays, walking about the grounds — not as if they 
 were plays, you understand, with spectators to look on, but as if 
 for the time being we were really transformed into his characters, 
 and had got into some other world where they were all living 
 realities." 
 
 " Oh, that does sound very charming," exclaimed her listener, 
 lifting her head languidly from the mossy back of the seat on which 
 she was reclining. " But I could never learn my part." 
 
 " You may all have books, if you please, and take furtive glances 
 at them behind the shrubs. And we think of beginning with " As 
 You Like It," because the lawn and shrubbery will do so famously 
 for the sweet Forest of Ardennes. And then you see, Lilybell, we 
 are to stroll about quite unconcernedly, but especially to avoid any 
 exertion or demonstration beyond that which comes quite naturally 
 to us from imagining ourselves totally different beings from what 
 we are." 
 
 (< I am afraid it will require a vast deal of imagination, dear Miss 
 Fortescuc." 
 
 " Oh ! but Shakespere helps us so wonderfully, that if we only 
 study our parts a little carefully in our own rooms, we shall soon 
 be quite inspired, I expect. And then Mrs. Jamieson's beautiful 
 'Characteristics of Woman' are full of inspiration. You have a 
 great deal more of that commodity, imagination, you beloved little 
 puss, than I have ; and even I can already fancy myself Celia or 
 Touchstone." Then, as she caressed the beautiful silky head and soft 
 face which she had quietly drawn down to her own, she whispered, 
 " Think what a delightful healing power this complete change of 
 thoughts and this play of the imagination will exert on the minds 
 of those dear jaded Misses Brookfield." That was quite enough to 
 make Leila enter heartily into the plan, for it made her think how 
 exactly this was what formerly brought such comfort to her own 
 heart, when, once upon a time, far back in the past, that youthful 
 Perseus had alighted beside her, and, after emancipating herself, 
 had bade her make artistic influences move "o'er the waters wild" 
 
 P
 
 226 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 for the redemption of others, at the bidding of conscience and in 
 the service of love. 
 
 "But we will say nothing about it to them, you know, Lily" 
 (pointing to the pale young ladies) " until they are a little more 
 refreshed by this pure bracing air and your delicious playing." 
 
 " And your unparalleled singing," interposed Leila. 
 
 " And then, don't you see," continued Ellen, " we will begin by 
 reading it aloud in parts, so that they shall get interested in it, and 
 long to realize it before we suggest the acting." 
 
 " Oh, capital ! You are a splendid convalescent-hospital-sister- 
 of-mercy-and-head-nurse kind of a saint, dearest Ellen. I declare 
 I'll go and study the costumes in that old book of yours at once." 
 (Kisses her, and about to exit, singing " Begone, dull care ! ") 
 
 "Stop one minute, Lilybell," said Miss Fortescue, "I want to 
 tell you about my little maid Jessy, that you may say a good word 
 to her when she comes to do your hair to-night. You know what 
 a dear, good little creature she is. Well, it seems that youth whom 
 you once saw as a merry boy when we called that day on her 
 mother, the son of the drunken brickmaker, is actually persecuting 
 her with his rough rustic attentions, and she wants strengthening to 
 refuse to keep ' company with him,' as their phrase goes ; at all 
 events at present. It is very desirable she should not have her tone 
 of mind and character lowered you perceive, my child, by the 
 influences to which she would be exposed if she consorted with him 
 and his family ; and she is so exceedingly amiable and soft that 
 she would be in great danger of sinking to his and their level, 
 instead of raising him to hers." 
 
 " I comprehend, my liege lady," answered Leila, making a 
 curtsy. "Any further commands? Has the father, by-the-bye, 
 continued to reform his tipsy self since your last account ?" 
 
 " Not uniformly, I fear. He is better, but John (coachman) told 
 me he saw both father and son the other evening singing and 
 drinking in a public-house. Oh, those wretched tap-rooms !" 
 
 " Yes, but I have heard your brother, Ellen, say the men who go 
 there must have company, and that the fault is in their having no 
 other place where they can meet their friends." 
 
 " True, I know he says that, but he don't say what is to be done 
 instead, and I am sure I don't know. It's very sad for their families, 
 I know that." 
 
 " Poor little Jessy. I should think she has need of friends, 
 indeed, now that her poor mother is gone, and no father or brother 
 to take care of her. What a sweet lace and expression she herself 
 has."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 227 
 
 " Yes, but she is a little too vain of her prettiness, I fear, and you 
 must strengthen her against that weakness also. I hope I may 
 always be able to shield and guide her myself, by Divine help ; but 
 sometimes I dread the responsibility, and am weak and heartless 
 enough to wish — no, not that exactly. — Allons ! anx costumes /" 
 
 Though sorely against her inclination, Ellen generally resisted 
 the temptation to speak a word for her brother to Leila Feather- 
 stone, feeling, of course, that she was on her honour to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Featherstone. Once, indeed, in momentary forgetfulness, she 
 said something of hope that one day Leila might be her sister in 
 actual truth, and not merely by a figure of affectionate speech. But 
 Leila looked wild and distressed, answering — 
 
 " Dearest, I want to get rid of all those kind of thoughts till my 
 
 father and mother 1 feel so utterly bewildered — I believe I ought 
 
 not to think at all on the subject at present." 
 
 "Yes, my darling, I understand — forgive me — it was quite an 
 accidental mistake of mine. You shall be at peace. It is far best 
 as you say. Let us ask the Misses Brookfield if they would like a 
 drive before tea. You haven't been to Leith Hill, I declare, since 
 vou came this time, Lily. The views will be lovely this afternoon. 
 How exquisitely that thrush is singing. Come." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The great tragedian's engagement at Theatre had come 
 
 abruptly to an end. True-hearted gentleman though he was, 
 his fiery nature could not brook the insults deliberately offered 
 him there to drive him to resign, and with his fall all the young 
 poet's hopes came to the ground also. The drama was returned to 
 him with unfeigned regret and friendly words of genuine artistic 
 sympathy. But what was anyone's, even Macready's sympathy, 
 worth to a man whose whole life-dream was shattered by this blow! 
 Gerald felt as if he should never care to look on the sunshine 
 again. But perhaps he was mistaken. 
 
 A sanguine theatrical friend suggested to him that he might at 
 least try the manager of the rival establishment ; and the drowning 
 man caught at the straw. So then came a visit of "forlorn hope" to
 
 2 28 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 the manager and lessee of Covent Garden Theatre, where nothing 
 but " spectacle " and burlesque was patronized, and who amused 
 the gloomy author for a little time with very fair words and polite 
 generalities, until his own patience and his father's were worn 
 out. Thereupon father and son met once more in hostile array. 
 Business was still in a tolerably hopeful condition. Mr. Feather- 
 stone had been pursuaded to join Mr. Arlington in a large hemp 
 and tallow speculation, he bringing the capital while Mr. Arlington 
 found the brains. The shares both of Railway and Steam Naviga- 
 tion Companies were going up like wild-fire ; and Mr. Arlington, 
 had just succeeded in one other object, he long had at heart, viz., 
 in getting all the Fire Insurance Companies of the metropolis to 
 join in organizing one common "London Fire Brigade." The 
 new basin of the London Docks, which he had so pertinaciously 
 contended for during many years, was at last completed, and had 
 proved a great success. Nevertheless, all this did not make Mr. 
 Arlington one whit less determined not to let his son live an idle 
 literary life, which he felt sure could only be prolific of all kinds 
 of mischief. But he was quite willing to offer Gerald some other 
 occupation which he hoped might be more interesting to him than 
 ship-brokering, and at the same time leave him sufficient leisure for 
 literary composition and study. He found three or four excellent 
 openings, and duly laid them one after another before the heart- 
 sick poet. 
 
 Gerald asked for one more brief delay. He set to work and 
 developed his play according to the ideas which had crowded his 
 mind while writing it, into a dramatic romance, giving it the com- 
 plete form, which the exigencies of a composition for the stage 
 previously forbade. That noble drama, "Philip Van Artevelde," 
 had long been his ideal in this department, and he wrote with joy. 
 When his labours were finished, he almost exulted in the dis 
 appointment which had driven him to attempt re-writing his con- 
 ceptions in their more fully-matured aspect. Then came two or 
 three weeks' illness, as a natural result of working day and night in 
 a state of frantic excitement. Immediately on recovering, he took 
 his manuscript to an eminent publisher, whose reader graciously 
 approved, and soon it was actually in print. For a few weeks 
 Gerald was in the seventh heavens. Friends were amazed and 
 deligbted. Leila Featherstone read it with a rapt interest and 
 admiration, while every now and then she made wild, scornful 
 criticisms by way of protest against her own enthusiasm. In vain. 
 She was fairly carried away in spite of herself, and closed the book 
 when, after three hours consecutive reading, she arrived at the end.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 22Q 
 
 with a passionate burst of tears, which she was equally unable to 
 resist or comprehend. But she knew well in her secret heart how 
 much she wished the author would call and talk to her once again 
 of ./Esthetic culture. 
 
 A few second-rate journals and reviews discerned and praised 
 the merits of the dramatic romance, the higher-class publications 
 had no time to do so, — glanced as it, approved, were puzzled, and 
 with "faint praise" dismissed the production of an unknown man. 
 
 But it was capital game for the rest. Moreover, it so happened 
 that Bob Nicholson's " Weekly Snarler " was just then in want of a 
 few more victims. 
 
 Bob went on the judicious principle of giving praise to works 
 sent for review in just such a proportion as would prevent the 
 public saying no books were ever praised. It is perhaps only 
 reasonable that critics should be allowed to praise and blame 
 alternately in the course of the same review, and to limit the 
 supply of either commodity in a tolerably fixed ratio. For a critic 
 may easily lose reputation for sound judgment and discrimination 
 if he gives habitually, or even occasionally, considerably more 
 praise than censure. But Bob practised the "alternate" system on 
 a vaster scale. He snarled and slashed as the general rule, but. 
 grudgingly made an exception in favour of about ten per cent, of 
 his authors. As ill-luck would have it, when poor Arlington's 
 romance came on his table he had just used up his small stock of 
 — perhaps we had better not say justice and truthfulness, as spiteful 
 victims said he knew nothing about those virtues — but of clemency. 
 To do him, however, the justice for which he would have scorned 
 himself had he rendered it to others, he felt sorry for a moment 
 when he saw Arlington's name on the title-page, and actually 
 wished it had come a week sooner ; then he could have " cut up " 
 one or two other works instead, and have spared his old acquaint- 
 ance. But, of course, private weaknesses must not interfere with 
 public duties. It was his duty to make the "Weekly Snarler" sell. 
 It was his pleasure to exercise his peculiar gifts— -judex damnatur, 
 &c. Authors existed to furnish him with prey. It would never do 
 to let fellows write "rot" without castigating it, or to suffer authors 
 generally to multiply too fast, which they certainly would do if not 
 duly "catted." The profession of an author was far too tempting, 
 — they had a great deal of pleasure in writing their rubbish, and then 
 in seeing it in print. Nemesis required that they should suffer in 
 proportion, after the publication thereof. So he hardened his heart 
 against them (not that this was a very difficult matter), and satisfied 
 his conscience, about which he had rather more trouble; raised
 
 230 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 the reputation of the " Snarler " to an immeasurable height, as the 
 cleve-est, severest, most satirical, and therefore most amusing, 
 weekly journal ever started ; procured a large circulation at the 
 cost of an indefinite amount of injustice, untruthfulness, and 
 mischief, combined with a certain amount of unquestionable 
 public good. Thus he contrived to realize a nice little income, 
 and as he had kept clear, for the most part, of young men's 
 ordinary vices, he was able to make his widowed mother, to whom 
 he was an exemplary son, extremely comfortable. (He had been 
 jilted when he was three and twenty, and resolved he would never 
 invest in a matrimonial speculation again.) 
 
 Under these circumstances "he put Gerry Arlington's drama 
 into his sausage machine, mauled and mangled it like a cobra 
 capella," quoth Neddy Grant to his sisters, with a charming confu- 
 sion of metaphors, though certainly with considerable truth in both 
 of them. Bob Nicholson no doubt really thought himself very wise- 
 and clever, and so he was in a certain way ; but after all, object the 
 suffering authors, it is a very inferior power which is required to cut 
 down or cut up a tree compared with that which is needed to make 
 it live and grow. Destruction, though often needful, is not quite so 
 godlike as construction, nor killing as making alive. Xo doubt it 
 is easier even to burn down a house than to build one ever so 
 small. In reply to all which we would observe that it is certainly a 
 useful work to show up folly and to humble conceit. But then we 
 admit that a true critic will probably take even a greater delight in 
 discovering, encouraging, unfolding what is good and beautiful or 
 capable of becoming so. If he can't or don't do that we fully con- 
 cede that he's not fit to cut up a book which deserves it. In short. 
 he should have large and genial sympathies as well as a keen scent 
 for error and folly, inasmuch as no man can properly criticise a 
 book unless he understands it, and he can't understand it unless he 
 has .a certain amount of sympathy with it, which is true, by-the-bye. 
 of men as well as of books. Perhaps in this connection we may 
 remember how Coleridge once pungently remarked (we quote from 
 memory) "that any fool could be witty at the expense of the Bible, 
 for he had only to bring the sublime and the mean into contrast 
 when the incongruity at once produced the <>/</>< arati ce, at all events, 
 of wit, and was sure to secure a laugh. Now. the sublime was 
 always to be found in the Scriptures, and any fool could supply his 
 own meanness by way of contrast." The remark is offered to the 
 consideration, not only of certain popular preachers, but even with 
 awe and trembling, mutatis mutandis, to that of literary critics. 
 For might not a thousand fools be found, competent to see faulls
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 23 1 
 
 and follies and hold them up to ridicule, competent also to see 
 excellencies only in the light of their own vulgarity and spiteful- 
 ness, for one brain that could produce a work with any real life in 
 it ? Coleridge supplies another hint also to reviewers — "Oh, lady! 
 we receive but what we give" — and our judgments of the works of 
 others must of course depend greatly on the colour of our own 
 spectacles. Bring your own meanness, ill-nature, headache, envy, 
 or stupidity, O critic, into contact with whatever fine sentiment, 
 pathos, nobleness, may be found in a book, and the result may 
 perhaps be a most amusing critique. But discriminating criticism, 
 wise, appreciative, genial, and yet when needful most severe — ah ! 
 that is as invaluable as, possibly, it is rare. 
 
 The " Weekly Snarler," then, came out soon after Arlington's 
 " Dramatic Romance " was published with a delightfully caustic, 
 very amusing notice thereof, which made everybody who was any- 
 body laugh and avoid wasting time on the " Romance," and made 
 everybody else afraid to confess he or she had read it, or at least 
 thought it worth anybody else's reading ; and so before long 
 nobody asked for it at the libraries. This of course checked the 
 sale, and various smaller sharks took their cue from the great 
 satirist. But "dramatic romances" at the best are unsaleable 
 commodities and require a deal of advertising and a great many 
 literary friends, in and out of reviews, to secure them even a 
 moderate circulation however great their merit. Gerald Arlington 
 couldn't afford the advertising, and did not possess the friends. 
 His publishers, though eminently respectable, didn't care much 
 about " dramas," and were not enterprising in that direction. They 
 looked grave over the " Weekly Snarler," and in due course sent 
 the unlucky author an account for fifty pounds as the balance of 
 costs. That he might not, however, depart without some useful 
 lesson, one of the partners, a pleasant, gentlemanly, and highly- 
 cultivated man, in the course of a friendly interview, when hard 
 pressed by the unhappy author as to the causes of his failure, confi- 
 dentially inquired whether he did not think it "just possible that 
 his fo/ie lay in some other direction ! " 
 
 Of course the fact that this tragic-comic termination of his 
 poor little venture was fatal to Gerald Arlington's literary dreams 
 mattered not (at least at that time) to the " Weekly Snarler." The 
 editor and his widowed mother went on their way prosperously. If 
 a young man of great promise, and with very remarkable gifts for 
 gladdening, elevating, and generally benefiting society, but without 
 independent resources, had been prematurely snuffed out, what did 
 it signify? No doubt there were plenty more such to follow, and
 
 232 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 if not, why the world has much more need to laugh than to hi 
 "elevated" — to dine than to be "refined." Poetry was all very 
 well ages ago when people were " slow" or extremely " verdant," 
 and Art in any shape was useful still in promoting English manu- 
 factures and Technical Education, or as material for satire. But 
 the only things of real worth now-a-days were science, steam, 
 electricity, commerce, banking, bill-brokering, coals, cotton, manu- 
 factures generally, and ten per cent, as the crown and flower of 
 it all. 
 
 But, query ? If Gerald's production had been a work of real 
 genius could the "Weekly Snarler" and all the lesser sharks have 
 killed it ? A priori, we should certainly answer, No ; witness 
 "Keats" for instance. And though such treatment and want of 
 advertising, &c, might unquestionably extinguish a first-rate work 
 for a time, its real merits would probably be discovered in after 
 years, especially if the author could manage to publish something 
 else equally good before he died. But further reflection suggests 
 that it can never be really known till Doomsday what priceless 
 productions have been entirely lost to mankind through unjust 
 criticism and "a fortuitous concurrence" of adverse "atoms." 
 
 So when Gerald came home one day from a long ramble in 
 Epping Forest, where he had been indulging in delicious and 
 beautiful fancies, he found his publishers' letter and account, with 
 a parcel containing cuttings from all the reviews, duly forwarded to 
 him according to custom, by the said publishers. 
 
 Gerald bounded up to his room with eager hope and read the 
 
 reviews all through, went up to town next day to the aforesaid 
 
 publishers, had a private interview, came back to dinner with a 
 
 jaunty air, ate very little, but braved it out for an hour or two, then 
 
 . retired for the night to wrestle with his misery alone. 
 
 Great Britain, certainly, at that time, was no more like Suxe 
 Weimar or Jena than Gerald resembled Schiller or Goethe — perhaps 
 rather less so on the whole. 
 
 Well, the young English genius, at all events, had English 
 fortitude, and, in the course of the evening, collected all his manu- 
 scripts, and made a pile of the once trusted and beloved, now 
 detested idols. 
 
 There was his completed drama in one neat volume, cloth gilt, 
 12-mo., with all the above-named criticisms passed thereon. 
 Item — a sketch and first dozen chapters of a novel ; item — his 
 publisher's letters ; item — two dozen scraps of poems, lyrical, 
 epic, and — indescribable ; item — innumerable sketches of other 
 "tales" in prose and verse; lastly — a bran-new tragedy, subject,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. Z33 
 
 " Sicilian Vespers," sketched out — one act and a half written. 
 Scornfully, bitterly, he prepared to set fire to the heap, when a 
 late, loud ring at the outer gate, and soon after a knock at his own 
 door, informed him that his brother Richard had just returned 
 from Canada. With genuine gladness he started up, pitched the 
 book and manuscripts into a box, instead of lighting the sacrificial 
 pile, and hurried down stairs. 
 
 The meeting of the brothers was very cordial. For a few days 
 Gerald forgot his own private sorrows and plans in the interest he 
 felt in his brother's adventures, especially in the zeal with which, 
 though very cautiously, he tried to make Richard's return the occa- 
 sion for a new start in life, morally speaking. But the character 
 formed by years is not altered in a day ; and Gerald and his brother 
 were so totally different, moreover had so little in common, that 
 they generally misunderstood one another. Hence, though Richard 
 in some respects was improved by his late change of life, and 
 healthier surroundings, but little good seemed to come of their 
 conferences, except a slight inclination on the youth's part 
 towards a more respectable mode of existence, and a deepened 
 conviction that " Gerry was really an excellent fellow, only a great 
 deal too absurdly good for this degenerate world." Mr. Arlington, 
 however, talked very seriously with the returned scapegrace, and so 
 thoroughly frightened even Richard's audacious spirit, that he 
 really did turn over a new leaf. He worked hard at his profession, 
 kept out of debt, gave up severe drinking and bad company, except 
 by way of occasional relaxation, and generally behaved rather more 
 like a gentleman than in former days. Whatever good was in him 
 (and there were in him the seeds of much genuine good) now had 
 a better chance than ever since he had left school. Even in his 
 worst estate, there had always been a singular mixture of generosity 
 with his selfishness, and, for a time, no doubt, he honestly tried to 
 correct his worst failings. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 In most men's lives we find certain well-defined epochs, when they 
 take leave of an earlier stage, and through their own deeds or the 
 natural course of events, or through the action of others, have to 
 pass on to wholly changed conditions. The changes from home
 
 i$4 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 to school life, the parting from our boyhood, and later from our 
 youth, are eras in existence, common and distinct enough. Harry 
 Fortescue's entrance at St. — r— Hospital after his tumultuous and 
 disappointed wooing, was the beginning of a new epoch in his still 
 young and fervid existence. Gerald Arlington was now about to 
 close one period and commence another of his fitful career ; but to 
 describe the circumstances, which is needful for understanding sub- 
 sequent events, involves our allowing the current of inevitable events 
 to take us once more to one of those festive gatherings, without 
 which the parties in whom we are chiefly interested would then 
 have been as totally severed as if they had been at opposite poles. 
 
 It has been said that Gerald Arlington took time to consider his 
 father's proposals. While he was so considering, it happened that 
 an invitation to a grand archery and cricket party was received, 
 which Richard so vehemently begged might be accepted, that, 
 though none of the rest felt much inclined for it, Gerald found 
 himself one afternoon accompanying his father, mother, and 
 brother, in a mechanical way, to the beautiful grounds of one of 
 their county members. There to his surprise and dismay he met 
 Leila Featherstone, looking very lovely, very cold, and very proud. 
 She was surrounded by many young admirers of both sexes ; and 
 Gerald, waiting for his innings at cricket, overheard a stylish-look- 
 ing man (called the " Honourable " something) declare to a com- 
 panion reclining on the grass, as they watched the fair young 
 archers, that he wished he had "never seen that Featherstone 
 girl." Whereupon his friend remarked, with something between a 
 sigh and a malediction : 
 
 " By George, you've hit my stumps there, too. What a couple 
 of fools we are, Thurloe, to come among these girls who don't care 
 a button for younger sons, while they make even our blase hearts 
 ache for a week afterwards.'' 
 
 With affected nonchalance and aristocratic drawl his friend 
 replied : 
 
 "A girl like that oughtn't to go into society after she's engaged. 
 It's hard enough, sometimes, to see them when they're married." 
 
 "Is it true, then," returned the second speaker, still loud enough 
 for Gerald to hear, " that the Beautiful Panther is engaged ? " 
 (N.B. — A soubriquet by which I\Iiss Featherstone was beginning 
 to be known in certain circles.) 
 
 "Yes," replied his friend, "so I'm told. The new M.P. for 
 
 K has been a great ileal at the old dad's house ; I've met him 
 
 there twice, and everybody says the same. A splendid fellow he is 
 too — will cut a great figure in the House. Head over ears in love
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. ±35 
 
 with her. I could see that. He's not here to-day, that's why she 
 looks so cold and fierce." 
 
 " So abominably proud, you mean," said the other. 
 
 " Oh, aye, but she always looks that, I fancy. Think," he added, 
 as the object of their adoration walked with a light, springy, yet 
 stately step to the shooting post, "think what it would be, Jack, to 
 see the pride and coldness all vanishing from that heavenly face 
 and figure, before one's own wooing ! Diana and Endymion ! — by 
 all the Olympian gods ! " 
 
 "Oh, bother! " exclaimed his companion, with a sarcastic smile, 
 " shut up. You do the thing well, no doubt, Thurloe, but the 
 lady is too killing for a classical myth. Heaven help us, for 
 miserable sinners ! I wish she would marry and have done with it ; 
 one might flirt with her a little then." 
 
 "But tell me one thing," said Thurloe, as the other turned im- 
 patiently away, " do you really think the story of her engagement 
 to the M.P. is true ? Did she seem to return his flame ? " 
 
 "Well, no — I must say / shouldn't be satisfied with the small 
 change he got when I saw them together ; but for all that, I believe 
 it's true. The governor spoke of it as all but un fait accompli 'the 
 other clay at the Union Club to a certain friend of ours. Now let 
 us go and solace the physical man. This is dry work, after all, 
 and there's capital tipple here." 
 
 Gerald couldn't move whilst these men were talking. He felt 
 spell-bound, and they showed no anxiety to conceal their senti- 
 ments, bearing themselves in a sort of careless, high-bred way with 
 supreme indifference to listeners. He felt sure there was some 
 truth in all he had heard. It was not the first time such rumours 
 had reached him, but he had been too much accustomed to it to 
 have paid any great attention to them hitherto. Now, however, the 
 young men's talk made him miserable for at least half-an-hour ; 
 then he grappled with his folly and hurled it away, and sorrowed 
 more for his friend than for himself. He took an opportunity of 
 having a little conversation with the young lady in question, and 
 tried to say a word or two about Harry, but with the conviction on 
 his mind that she was all but engaged to the rising M.P. — no 
 wonder his manner made hers equally constrained— so he went to 
 the cricket stumps when his turn came thoroughly wretched, bul 
 thanking his stars devoutly that he had long given up all thoughts 
 of interfering with Harry, and fully persuaded not only that he 
 should not have had the slightest chance of gaining the lovely 
 enchantress's affections himself had he basely tried, but that she 
 had become utterly worldly, spoiled by flattery and frivolity; For
 
 236 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 a few minutes he thought he was bound to write and let his friend 
 know what had happened, and as far as their friendship was 
 concerned it would have been a happy thing had he done so, but 
 when he reflected on the "years" which that friend had declared 
 must elapse ere he could offer any woman a home he dismissed the 
 idea as only calculated to give Fortescue useless pain, and to do 
 injustice to Miss Featherstone besides. 
 
 So the evening drew on. Gerald had been making a good score, 
 as often happened, at the wickets ; and while a few of the men were 
 a little jealous, and others "cracked him up" immensely, many of 
 the fairer sex (some in consequence, some in spite of his drama or 
 the criticisms upon it) were quite ready to lionize him. But hi 
 gave nobody the opportunity ; and in spite of his serene aspect, 
 was pronounced to be nothing but "a melancholy Jacques" after 
 all. Three or four young ladies, in fact, went home not a little 
 disappointed, and much displeased, with Mr. Gerald Arlington's 
 behaviour at that party. They had never seen him so distrait — not 
 a smile or compliment for any of them. And, if truth must be 
 told, the light of more than one gay and brilliant circle in London 
 and its neighbourhood seemed to have gone out for a time, when 
 young Arlington shone in those circles no more. When, how- 
 ever, the whole party were assembled on the lawn for syllabubs 
 and sorjgs, previous to final departure, and somebody had 
 been tinkling a " light guitar," and one or two glees had been 
 executed, and his mother and Richard had rallied him on his 
 unsociableness, Jacques yielded to pressure, and gave the dis- 
 tinguished company two or three songs, the effect whereof seemed 
 considerable. Many of the company, staid grave matrons even, to 
 say nothing of enthusiastic young ladies and gentlemen, went away 
 affirming that they should be " quite haunted " by those songs. For 
 Arlington threw his once troubled but now victoriously passionate 
 heart into them, and while singing had caught sight for a 
 moment of Leila Featherstone's eyes gazing on him with a look he 
 could never forget. Somehow, too, he had a presentiment that it 
 was probably the last time he should ever sing in her presence, or, 
 perhaps, indeed, in civilized society at all. It was, therefore, as the 
 young ladies would doubtless have said if they had known the facts, 
 "a swan-like dirge," that came from the disappointed swain that 
 night, before finally dying to all the light and gladness, all the 
 sympathy and civilization of cultivated society, dying to all inter- 
 course with loving hearts and smiling friends, with fair women and 
 educated, gentlemanly men, and with one dearer than all. 
 
 Yet, except for a brief space after hearing o( Miss Feathers;
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 237 
 
 probable engagement, no one could accuse him of looking glum. 
 On the contrary, though he somewhat resembled a man walking in 
 his sleep, except when at cricket, there was a quiet, glad serenity on 
 the young poet's countenance worth noting, because it came from 
 a great secret sorrow, and an intended as well as an accomplished 
 sacrifice. All his literary and poetic dreams were no less utterly shat- 
 tered than his dream of love. But, as not seldom happens with some 
 men, triumph came to him out of defeat. Triumph over self and 
 self-indulgence of every sort, however mistaken (according to most 
 men's estimate) the course might be which he had resolved to 
 adopt. Hence, though the first pang on hearing of the engagement 
 was torture, and his first wild impulse was to draw Leila away from 
 the crowd and ask her plainly if his friend might still hope on, — 
 then if she answered no, lo passionately pour out his own long- 
 cherished love — he soon conquered that madness, and quietly 
 turned to take up again and resolutely carry the cross he had 
 chosen to lay on his own shoulders — unhappy on Harry's account, 
 but not on his own. Nor at all on Miss Featherstone's. 
 
 Poor Leila. Hers were bitter tears when she got home that night. 
 She felt very lonely and deserted. Light after light was being 
 extinguished, while false beacons and a fatal tide seemed luring 
 her on to a desolate shore. It was quite true that the gifted and 
 aspiring young senator had paid her very marked attentions, and 
 she knew that her parents greatly wished to encourage him. Hence 
 she could not frown on him or torment him with her sharp tongue 
 as she did other men occasionally, and so he continued to call, and 
 talk, and show an increasing interest. But the poor girl knew well 
 she had no heart to give him. Years hence it might be different, 
 but not then, and years hence she would be changed and not worth 
 the attentions of either senator, poet, or physician. Oh ! why was 
 there this mystery in Mr. Arlington ? or why might she not pour 
 out the full treasure of her love on his noble-hearted friend ? The 
 bewilderment and suspense were intolerable — yet they must be borne. 
 
 But there was one consciousness which she dared not face till it 
 forced itself on her, and then she passionately strove to crush it 
 out of sight. It was the thought that she might be so earnestly 
 longing for leave to be engaged to Mr. Fortescuc, partly, or even 
 chiefly, that thereby the miserable questionings which had long 
 harassed her respecting his friend might be banished for ever. 
 And with that strange mingling of what was sometimes bewitch- 
 ing, and sometimes unlovely satirical scorn with pathetic tender- 
 ness, which formed an essential part of her character, Leila found
 
 328 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 herself in the lonely night-watches, after that archer}' party, invoking 
 the help of her avowed lover in fitful verse against one who had 
 never confessed his passion, half mockingly singing to herself the 
 concluding verse, and breaking down with an indignantly-repressed 
 sigh at the end : — 
 
 " Then would this foolish heart be still, 
 And find its earthly rest in thee — 
 Nor ever care again to know 
 If (fiend of thine — cared aught for me." 
 
 At last she took her trouble where alone she could find relief, 
 and while praying to be forgiven for her rebellious self-will, she 
 found it was true that in the midst of their troubles "He gives His 
 beloved sleep." 
 
 As for Richard, he had not made a very successful debut, though 
 his remarkable personal resemblance to his brother gave him a good 
 introduction in most quarters. He was, however, considerably 
 impressed by Gerald's popularity, felt injured thereby, and greatly 
 disgusted ; but did not think he was jealous. While Richard was 
 "tooling home the family drag" as he phrased it, according to 
 his wont whenever he could get the chance, he came to the conclu- 
 sion that fashionable society didn't suit his book at all, and that 
 though the Cyder Cellars and the Coal Hole were tabooed, the 
 Argyll Rooms and other similar haunts were incomparably more 
 agreeable. 
 
 What followed will be best understood by a glance at a letter from 
 Gerald to his mother, who had been taken to Hastings shortly after 
 this rural fete by Mr. Arlington. She was still in very delicate 
 health, but was not considered worse. It was regarded merely as 
 a precautionary measure. 
 
 [GERALD ARLINGTON TO HIS MOTHER.] 
 
 " Hartland House, November, 1S35. 
 " Mother — I must tell you all— and you must not be vexed, but 
 feel sure as I do that I am doing right at last. My father has been 
 very kind ; but I cannot accept his proposals. If ever God called 
 a human being to give up everything this world can offer, and 
 work solely to help bring His people out of slavery, I heard that 
 call years and years ago. I believe all my troubles have come on 
 me through neglecting that call — and I will obey it now. I was 
 wrong to give way, and go to that counting-house — more wrong
 
 GERALD AND' HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR, 339 
 
 in my dreams of literary success, and artistic influence. The 
 miserable fetters of popular ignorance and sin are not to be 
 broken, and our suffering brothers set free from their intolerable 
 wrongs, by poets, any more than by millionaires. If I can spend 
 faithfully ten years in studying the conditions on which a nation's 
 well-being really depends, the laws that regulate their moral as 
 well as physical life, the true theory of government, and in master- 
 ing the science of oratory, as well as of composition, I may yet be 
 able, through Parliament or the press, to help move the world — 
 and guide it. But it was only when my father reminded me the 
 other day that being now twenty-three years of age I had come into 
 that little legacy of ^"200, which my grandmother left me, that I 
 saw how I could carry out my purpose, viz., break off my present 
 relations with society, and even with my friends, and work for a 
 time utterly alone. Do not think this strange, dearest mother. 
 All, in every age, who have been called to live for others, have had 
 to renounce home, or friends, or worldly hopes. If men like 
 Ignatius Loyola, and many a devout crusader in former days, could 
 give up everything that was dear to them for so poor a cause as 
 that to which they consecrated their lives, shall not we in this age be 
 willing to suffer and deny ourselves for the grandest cause that ever 
 needed workers and martyrs. Why even Alfred Featherstone gave 
 up all for a time to devote himself merely to Art. I may die with- 
 out having advanced the true interests of humanity a single step, 
 but I shall at least have been true to conscience, and answered the 
 pleading call to which I can never again be deaf. 
 
 "Therefore, dear mother, I must leave you and my father, and 
 the dear old home for a time. Do not try to find where I am gone, 
 I might not be able to resist your entreaties. I could not do so, 
 remember, once before. Good-bye, dear, dear mother. Tell my 
 father how it is almost intolerable to me to thwart his views and 
 to leave you and the beautiful home that he has so long given me. 
 But it cannot be right to go on living in a comfortable home, 
 whilst the poor all around us are being crushed by temptations and 
 wrongs. You know I once had another hope — a very, very beauti- 
 ful dream. But that, too, you know is gone. Harry Fortescue, as 
 I told you, loved her, and I would never try to rival him ; but I 
 believe neither he nor I have a chance. Henceforth I have only 
 one dream, one passion. If 1 can work out my own ideal, you 
 will hear of me, and after a time I trust often to see you again. I 
 am writing to night to Richard, who, thank God, seems going on 
 very well since he returned from Canada. He likes Harry 
 Fortescue, and Harry is most kind to him. Give my kindest love
 
 24Q GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 to my father and to dear Aunt Carry, and tell her all. Ever your 
 very affectionate son, 
 
 "Gerald Arlington." 
 
 The young reformer had worked out his conclusions amid sore 
 wrestlings of spirit, no doubt. It was indeed, as he truly said, 
 misery to oppose his father, and leave his mother. But it was 
 equally true his conscience left him no alternative. How many 
 of us have and will have to surfer bitterly not for obeying con- 
 science — that in itself must bring in some shape or other, no 
 doubt, a great reward — but for not having sought and gained the 
 light which would have enabled conscience to see more truly the 
 Divine Will. 
 
 One thing, amidst all his troubles and faithfulness, Gerald 
 Arlington did not do. It did not occur to him to ask for an 
 answer to his perplexities where he would surely have received it, 
 fully, clearly. He had never learnt to bring a question of this sort 
 to One who alone was able to give the answer, who was, and ever 
 had been, only waiting to be asked that He might givs both that 
 and everything else really needed. Yet if Gerald Arlington had 
 been told that he was living a godless life, that he was (so far) 
 unchristian, heathenish, he would have been very much astonished. 
 He thought he was rather a religious sort of fellow than otherwise. 
 So perhaps he was, as things go in these days. But, like some 
 other people, he took it for granted he knew all that God desired 
 of him, and should receive all that He desired to give him, without 
 the need of any special asking. So he worked out his problem 
 alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 When Gerald's letter had been read at Hasting?, Mr, Arlington 
 calmed his weeping wife and answered her entreaties that he 
 should instantly set off to London, find out the fugitive and bring 
 him down to Hastings— by assuring her that " Gerald was doing 
 the very best possible thing for himself under the circumstances,*' 
 --that he was showing an amount of steadfast resolution and 
 willingness to bear privation on behalf of what he believed, or
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 24 1 
 
 thought he believed, or was trying to persuade himself he believed, 
 to be his duty, which was a most hopeful sign. He was very glad, 
 he said, that their son had so much determination and pluck. He 
 would gain immensely by this experiment, but everything depended 
 on his being left to work it out for himself. He must on no 
 account be interfered with or helped ; otherwise he would be 
 ruined for life ; and at no distant period either the whole affair 
 must come over again, or he, Mr. Arlington, would have to support 
 him in idleness as long as he could afford it — after which Gerald, 
 who would have become a miserable, effeminate, dependent crea- 
 ture, would sink into some state of literary hack or under-clerk 
 — perhaps die a gambler. As it was, they might hope for the best 
 possible results. Their son would work hard — buy his experience 
 — and then come home to them in less than a twelvemonth, which 
 would not be a longer time than was spent by many a. young man 
 on his travels. " Afterwards he would buckle -to at business for the 
 rest of his days, find a good little wife, and learn that the man who 
 zvould really benefit his fellow-creatures must gain their confidence by 
 first doing well for himself." 
 
 Mrs. Arlington was comforted by these representations, though 
 sorely grieving over the loss of her son's presence from the little 
 family circle — the son whom she had loved the more tenderly 
 because of his resemblance to the daughter in Heaven, and because 
 that daughter was gone thither before him. 
 
 "If he had only left us some clue by which to send to him — 
 if — if — you know, dear — he might fall ill — and be among utter 
 strangers." 
 
 " He loves us too well, my dear wife, to suffer very greatly — 
 one bit more, in fact, than would be good for him — without letting 
 us know." 
 
 Yet Gerald's flight was a great shock to the strong, stern, loving 
 heart — though nobody guessed it. 
 
 And still deeper was the grief to the frail, worn soul and body 
 of his poor wife. 
 
 Alfred Featherstone did as he said he would — sold his picture, 
 though finished in a slovenly way, for a good price ; and, after a 
 profligate round of dissipation at Cowes and elsewhere, came to 
 
 live in lodgings near St. Hospital, in the same November 
 
 Term which witnessed the proceedings recorded in the last chapu-r. 
 When he wanted money, he painted something that would sell — 
 too often for unscrupulous dealers— and lived riotously on the pro- 
 ceeds till they were gone. He had given up the idea of Cambridge, 
 
 Q
 
 242 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 for, of course, he found all his old friends had left, or would soon 
 be gone. All the lingering- good influences of his sister's character, 
 and of her affection for him, seemed to have utterly vanished. 
 Much, even, as was hinted above, of his natural gentlemanly refine- 
 ment of mind, and frank generosity, which had for a long time 
 preserved him from some of the coarseness and grossest selfishness 
 of vice, had departed also. But he had cunning enough to 
 hide all this change from Harry Fortescue, for whom he had as 
 warm a regard as he could now feel for anyone, and who, for his 
 sister's sake, had shaken hands with him some time before. 
 Harry's society he greatly coveted, not only from that lingering, 
 real regard, but because the strong massive nature of the man gave 
 poor Featherstone a feeling of satisfaction and security of which 
 he often now stood greatly in need. For, if the truth must be told 
 — a thing he didn't wish — his high spirits alternated with fits of 
 terrible despondency and wretchedness. Of course he got what 
 comfort he could on all suitable and unsuitable occasions from 
 brandy-and-water, but he was holding as tight a rein upon himself 
 in that respect as possible, in consequence of the warnings of a 
 doctor at Cowes concerning possible delirium tremens. So he 
 sought society of the cheerful cast, and never felt so comfortable 
 as in Harry's apartments, except, of course, in music-saloons and 
 casinoes, when he could afford to go there. Fortescue felt a 
 genuine interest in him, no doubt on Leila's account, although 
 there was a perpetual and painful conflict as to whether he should 
 utterly and for ever banish that fair enchantress' image from his 
 mind, or trust to time, and, perhaps, Alfred's influence, for 
 gradually re-establishing his intimacy with the young lady. Alfred, 
 however, did not at first realize the hold he had upon Harry from 
 that cause ; in fact, he had by this time become unable to realize 
 the thought of any genuine, pure love of man for woman at all ; 
 and, on the other hand, he was every now and then greatly bored 
 by Harry's "prudery," as he called it. The objections his friend 
 made to accompanying him in divers expeditions and revels was a 
 constant annoyance, and the want of sympathy between them 
 thereby felt was a still greater nuisance. 
 
 Yet Harry was gradually, though unconsciously, feeling the 
 inevitable effect produced upon one's views of morality, when all 
 your friends declare that to be right which you have been 
 accustomed to think wrong, especially when you have no higher 
 court of appeal to which you habitually resort. His sheet-anchor 
 was his friendship for Gerald Arlington, and his still deep attach- 
 ment to Leila Featherstone.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 243 
 
 It will seem incredible perhaps to those who have never sounded 
 the depths of moral debasement which her brother had now reached, 
 but it is nevertheless true that as Alfred became aware of the 
 strength of this obstacle, he set himself to cut the strands. 
 
 Unfortunately he had only too plausible a means of doing it, and 
 he partly believed in the truth of what he urged, for he had heard 
 that the M.P. didn't make much progress. He was also able to 
 work on the generosity of Harry's character, and kill two birds with 
 one stone, for he was considerably jealous of Fortescue's friendship 
 for Gerald Arlington. 
 
 Hence one night, when he was trying to get Harry to a ballet- 
 dancer's supper-party, and the latter had been faintly yet persistently 
 giving answers to arguments which, with a curious infatuation for a 
 man of so much determination he let Featherstone urge, Fortescue 
 at length rather savagely exclaimed — 
 
 "Well, it's somewhat strange, after all, you should be driving that 
 coach when you know what I think about your sister ?" 
 
 Alfred's first impulse was to burst into a hearty and contemptuous 
 cachinnation, but warned by former experience, he assumed a 
 serious and decidedly impressive tone. Laying his hand affection- 
 ately on Harry's big arm, he said — 
 
 " Fortescue, for Heaven's sake don't fuss about her. I have long 
 been wanting to warn you not to make a fool of yourself in that 
 line. The fact is, she's spooney about young Arlington." 
 
 Harry started up as if stung by a viper, which he was. 
 
 "Aye, but she is," continued Featherstone; "and he is despe- 
 rately sweet upon her." • 
 
 "Proof — proof?" muttered Fortescue, between his teeth, and 
 looking dangerously at his companion. 
 
 " Why, I had suspected it for some time, from lots of little things. 
 But they met one day last summer at my lodgings, in Elm Street 
 — I think, now, most likely by appointment — and weren't they just 
 ogling and cooing all the time ! They thought I didn't notice it, 
 Harry" — and he gave an hilarious chuckle, which more than any- 
 thing else threw Harry off his guard — " but I did ; though I couldn't 
 help thinking it was a bit of a shame to you, considering your 
 highness's pretensions. Then they walked away together (she 
 patting his horse) up to her nurse's lodgings, where I daresay 
 they had another long chat together. But the best of the joke was, 
 that a fellow who knows Gerry, calling on me the next day, told 
 me — what d'ye think?" Here Alfred, oppressed with mirth at the 
 recollection, laughed unrestrainedly, till he caught sight of Harry's 
 countenance, and that quieted him at once. "He asked me wh<>
 
 24+ GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 that devilish pretty girl was Gerry Arlington had given his heart to, 
 for he had happened to walk behind them for some little distance, 
 and had then seen young Arlington actually kiss — not the young 
 lady, by gad ! — (though, perhaps, he did that afterwards) — but the 
 horse's neck she had been patting." And he could not help another 
 burst. 
 
 "Go on," said Fortescue, concealing his face; "anything 
 
 more 
 
 "Yes, yes, one thing beside. She brought up a nosegay that 
 day professedly, of course, for my mantel-piece — perhaps it was. 
 But, at all events, I saw those flowers, Harry, which I had left on 
 my mantel-piece, as plainly as I now see you, peeping out of the 
 inside breast pocket of his coat, the sly dog, when he came boring 
 after me down to Portsmouth, pretending he cared such a mighty 
 deal about me. Now, I've no doubt, between ourselves, it was all 
 to please Lily — the poor little jade — that he came down there. 
 Don't you think so ?" 
 
 "As a gentleman, will you swear to all this, Featherstone ? " 
 asked Harry, in a sort of quiet rage which would have rather upset 
 the young man so addressed, when he was less of a blackguard than 
 he had now become. 
 
 " No, I never swear. Ha ! ha ! But as a gentleman, and on 
 my honour, it is true. Every word is true, and I strongly suspect 
 they correspond occasionally now." 
 
 How easily truth and falsehood may be blended together by a 
 false heart ! Yes, and how easily falsehood may be made to look 
 like trjjth. 
 
 "Well, then, go to the devil, Featherstone ; I've nothing more to 
 say. Excuse me, old fellow ; forgive me. I am regularly upset, 
 coach and all. I am really very much obliged to you. Forgive 
 me, I'm turning sour. Good-night ! " 
 
 Featherstone went to his supper-party, half afraid he had a little 
 overshot the mark, and made Fortescue irrecoverably savage and 
 hostile. 
 
 Poor Harry. Yes, he was wildly savage — not with Featherstone 
 — chiefly, of course, with Gerald, and then with Leila, and finally 
 with himself. He could not help believing Alfred, for it all came 
 out so artlessly, accidentally as it were, and then it only confirmed 
 his own dark suspicions. "Is this, then/' thought he, "what 
 comes of friendship ? I could have believed it of a woman. They 
 arc so infernally fickle by nature, with all their sweetness and 
 saintship — curse them ! But Gerry, Gerry, I didn't think you'd 
 trip me up, after all the years we have been true to each other —
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 245 
 
 true friends once, if ever men were. I thought there was something 
 so genuinely noble and generous about him — I always thought he 
 was a better fellow than myself; but I would rather have died like 
 a rat in a hole than have treated him so. There's no good doubt- 
 ing it, for I have seen something myself. But, oh ! how different 
 from what I thought him. Surely he was once a grand fellow. 
 And yet I remember how those Emmanuel men, at the very time they 
 were extravagantly admiring him, after he had been 'wineing' there 
 one day, declared that he had a dangerous cross of the Italian 
 breed in him. And then to think how that poor little witch seemed 
 to care for me at Ambleside, and at the Gardiners' hop, and then 
 again in Kensington Gardens ! Oh, heavens ! I shall go crazy with 
 all this beggarly to-do. It is cursed hard to have to lose one's 
 faith in both friend and sweetheart at the same moment. But I, 
 living like St. Antony, for her sweet sake, and always caring so for 
 his good word ! The smoothed-faced hypocrite ! Nay, nay, Gerry, 
 I'm wronging you still, my boy. You didn't mean to wrong me, I 
 know you didn't. You struggled against your love for her as long 
 as you could, and didn't mean to give way at last — wasn't it so, my 
 poor Gerry ? You didn't mean to trip up your old friend, only the 
 temptation was too strong. No wonder, no wonder. Who the 
 devil could help falling in love with her ? And then 1 daresay he 
 found out accidentally she did not care a pin for me, and did care 
 for him. Shouldn't wonder, he is a more likely flame than this 
 ugly, hulking fellow here. She tried many a time, I remember now, 
 to talk to me on things I knew no more about than a Hampstead 
 jackass, and cared less. He was up to all that stuff, and she 
 knew the difference. Can't blame her; no, not a bit — nor him. 
 No, Gerry, I'll be friends with you still — as well as I can — when 
 I've got over this. God bless you both. But it makes life more 
 and more of a farce. It was mean of him not to tell me about it, 
 after all ; I can't forgive him for that yet, this many a day. Four 
 months ago, then, he was meeting her clandestinely, and putting 
 her flowers in his bosom ! Ugh ! And still let me go on hoping. 
 Why, by Heaven, it's since that I was at Hartland, and he never 
 
 uttered a syllable about even when I half quarrelled with him 
 
 about it. Oh! Gerald Arlington, that was base — you didn't mean 
 it — you thought you would leave it to time — you hadn't courage to 
 speak — but it's base to be cowardly. Oh, ye gods, life is a farce, 
 and my poor old dad was mistaken in more things than one. 
 Heigh-ho ! shuffle the cards— knaves are trumps,— and to Old Nick 
 with the honest men ! " 
 
 ****** •
 
 246 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " What's the matter there?" asked one hospital student, stopping 
 another on a dull November morning, soon after the above con- 
 versation, as they met just outside the gates of the large building 
 in Street. 
 
 "Where?" The first speaker pointed to a door at which one 
 of the hospital medical men was seen conversing earnestly with a 
 neighbouring general practitioner as they entered the house. 
 
 " Oh, Harry Fortescue in a fever, I believe. He's been watching 
 some cases about here for old Watson," answered the second man, 
 carelessly, as he resumed his walk. 
 
 Yes, and a pretty smart attack it was. Poor Harry raved and 
 threw the pillows about with very dismal energy. Alfred Feather- 
 stone had come the moment he heard of his friend's condition, 
 and was as kind and attentive as a very selfish roue could be. He 
 was perhaps the more diligent in his attentions for being slightly 
 inconvenienced at times by what remained of his conscience, when 
 Harry in delirium moaned drearily about Leila and Gerald, or 
 frantically abused them both; and then piteouslv called upon them 
 to tell him all they had to say about their love. The rosy-cheeked 
 general practitioner who had the chief charge of him, and who was 
 the gentleman in whose house Richard Arlington was boarding, of 
 course heard something of all this and privately confided to Alfred 
 his apprehension that Mr. Fortescue had been making a great fool 
 of himself about some silly girl, and maintained that young men 
 ought never to fall in love till they could marry. In this view 
 Master Alfred heartily concurred ; and then hinted that Fortescue 
 made a fool of himself " in the anchorite style " also ; which, of 
 course, "was intensely absurd of him." "You see the conse- 
 quences, doctor." The doctor shrugged his shoulders and then 
 slightly smiled. 
 
 "Do you think he'll pull through, Mr. Watson?" continued 
 Alfred. 
 
 "Well, I think he may — but it's touch-and-go, just now, you 
 see." 
 
 "Then if he does, may I ask one favour — and that is, that you 
 point out to him the folly of living in the ascetic way he's now 
 doing, with all these infernally absurd scruples — he'll never get 
 over this ridiculous infatuation which has brought him where he is, 
 while he lives like St. Joseph ! " 
 
 " Very likely not," answered the general practitioner meditatively, 
 then adding, " and if he gets over this bout — another would settle 
 his business." 
 
 "Then you must certainly make him understand, doctor, that he
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 247 
 
 must do as other men do if he wants to have his health. You 
 take, eh ? " 
 
 "I'll see, I'll see, Mr. Featherstone. You are quite right, physio- 
 logically — and pathologically, too, I may add. As to morality 
 — opinions differ — but we mustn't be too precise. There are 
 worse practices, no doubt, than those to which you refer. Poor 
 fellow — we'll do our best for him now, at all events. Good 
 morning, you make an excellent nurse, Mr. Featherstone, I'll 
 recommend you, when you want a situation." 
 
 Fortescue's convalescence was tolerably rapid, but he was for a 
 long time very weak and low-spirited. He didn't wonder that 
 Gerald, with his guilty conscience, couldn't write to him, and of 
 course he felt no inclination to write to Gerald. But how the 
 sorrowful, wounded heart did long to be reconciled if possible to 
 his old friend, and to have a letter from him, or rather a talk and a 
 walk with him, such as they used to have in the days that would 
 never return. Instead thereof, one dismal day, as the early London 
 shadows were falling on his comfortless sitting-room, he had a long 
 conversation with Mr. Watson, who, like most medical men, had a 
 thoroughly benevolent mind, but was, perhaps, not over-burdened 
 with religious principles. He prided himself on always looking at 
 things in "a common-sense point of view." Like many of his 
 brethren he made " an idol of health " — as Arlington once warned 
 Harry he might be doing some day — ignoring the weighty fact, as 
 medical men are naturally prone to do, that there is something 
 more important even than health, after all ; and that if we do our 
 duty in this world, and take up our allotted cross now and again, we 
 can't always keep our health. Hence, Mr. Watson having gradually 
 extracted from Harry a general confession of his state and pro- 
 spects, wherein it was manifest that he must look forward to living 
 " bachelor life " for the next six or seven years, perhaps twice as 
 long, he laid before him his views as to the proper course to be 
 adopted by young men under the circumstances, with what he 
 doubtless considered commendable common-sense sincerity. 
 Happily for the honour of the profession, and for the prospects of 
 the Divine will being done on earth as in heaven, far greater 
 pathologists than Mr. Watson have declared, and do declare, that 
 it is not necessary in such cases to break the moral law in order to 
 keep the laws of health. Fortescue might have fallen into far 
 better hands even among medical men than Mr. Watson. That 
 gentleman, it is evident, believed heartily in the importance, nay, 
 the paramount duty, of preventing and curing disease, and probably 
 in little else beyond conventional morality and the possibility of a
 
 248 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " great first Cause " of things in general. He quite approved, 
 however, of going to church, particularly as there was the chance 
 of being called out of it, which looked well ; he also extremely 
 disliked anything that in his opinion was mean, dishonourable, 
 selfish, or unjust. Of course he hated innovations and every 
 species of quackery with perfect hatred. Homoeopathy had scarcely 
 begun then to be noticed in this country, or he would have doubt- 
 less found relief from many causes of irritation in abusing it, and 
 all concerned with it. But he was superior to jealousy, except with 
 regard to just one brother of his craft, who from the first had been 
 rather in his way, but whom, nevertheless, he could have heartily 
 liked and honoured (so he sincerely believed) had he not been such 
 an intolerable dummy and general bungler. For the rest he never 
 spared himself, but hastened about from one sufferer to another, 
 wherever he was called, night or day, just as zealously to the patient 
 who could only pay a little as to the man who could pay much. 
 This gentleman, then, was Harry's chief adviser and comforter in 
 those melancholy hours of slow convalescence that succeeded his 
 illness ; for though his sister had entreated him to let her nurse 
 him, he obstinately and peremptorily refused, probably on account 
 of her associations with Leila Featherstone. So he and Mr. Watson 
 talked about medical matters day after day as long as the doctor, 
 who felt a strong interest in the broken-down six-foot Cantab, 
 could afford to stay. Besides, did not Mr. Watson delight in the 
 enthusiasm which, kindling in Harry's eye as they talked over 
 specially "beautiful cases," and on the science of healing generally, 
 lifted the young fellow for a time from his despondency and gloom. 
 Harry could have had plenty of the students' company ; but after 
 Cambridge men, it didn't suit him so well as before his illness, 
 and he was now too miserable and weak to care for new acquain- 
 tances. Richard Arlington looked in now and then, but frankly 
 admitted that he had enough of sick beds professionally without 
 being bored with them as an amateur. Pierce and Hackctt 
 "shewed" occasionally, the former, who had a very warm regard 
 for Fortcscue, being prevented from coming often by having to 
 work extra hard for his examinations. 
 
 One thing Harry saw and felt very clearly and forcibly in those 
 days of darkness — viz., that he ought to forgive Gerald and help 
 him to happiness. So at intervals he managed to scrawl the follow- 
 ing letter : — 
 
 "Dear Gerald, — I have been gradually coming to the conclusion, 
 on sufficient evidence, that you are head-over-ears in love with
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 249 
 
 Leila Featherstone, and had tried for some time unsuccessfully to 
 conquer the weakness for my sake. I don't ask, and I don't want 
 to know how far you have dealt quite openly and faithfully by me, 
 though I wish you had spoken out when I was last at Hartland. 
 But we are all of us desperately weak and mean on one point or 
 another, and can't afford to cast stones at our friends. If you have 
 in any way wronged me, believe me, dear Gerry, I do from my heart 
 forgive you. We can still be friends, pretty nearly as warm as ever. 
 I don't want to lose mistress and friend both ; but I do want you 
 to speak out frankly to me, and then to be happy with that noble- 
 hearted girl, if you love her, as I believe you do, and must. Under- 
 stand me, I don't suppose I have the slightest chance with her ; 
 but if I have, I could never come between you and her, Gerald. 
 Only remember, I don't fancy I am making any wonderful sacrifice 
 either of the lady or myself; for my uncle has settled my business 
 for me in the marrying line, and it will be years, as I told you — ten 
 or fifteen, perhaps — before I can think of connubial bliss. I don't 
 know what you are up to now, for you have not vouchsafed me a 
 line for three months ; but whether you get along as a dramatist or 
 fall back upon shop, you are sure, with your father's connections 
 and help, of being able to marry in half that time, or perhaps much 
 sooner. As for me, I must go on in my own way. Don't bore me 
 about things on which, I fear, we agree less and less every year. 
 I've lived long enough to see that a great deal we once thought 
 admirable is mere humbug; but I believe as firmly as ever in real 
 friendship ; and though we may differ on many points, we may be 
 true friends still (in spite of mutual infirmities), as in the old times. 
 We cannot offer each other perfection, and we must not expect it. 
 I have had a sharp attack of typhus, but am getting round again ; 
 and during the last few months I've seen many things much more 
 clearly than ever before. Among others, that if we arc to do any 
 good in the world while we are in the body, we must to some extent 
 accommodate ourselves to its laws, making the best of life, fighting 
 against its evils, reducing all around you to subjection to the highest 
 ideal you can form, losing sight of self, and just giving yourself 
 away in the wisest style you can, for the good of society and your 
 race. That's my creed, Gerry boy; and Caesar's " De Bello Gailico " 
 is my text book and inspiration — you would be shocked, perhaps, 
 if I said it was my Bible. Fare you well, old fellow. I have not a 
 notion where you are, so direct this to Hartland. 
 
 " Ever your old friend, 
 
 " Harry 
 
 "Gerald Arlington, Esq."
 
 250 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 When Fortescuc had sealed and despatched this letter he felt as 
 if the last cable was slipped that still bound him to the higher life 
 of his youthful dreams ; and the question of his subsequent course 
 was finally settled as he dropped it into the letter-box. It was some 
 weeks in reaching its destination, for Gerald had adopted a cir- 
 cuitous mode of getting any letters that might come to him at 
 Hartland, and for more than a month gave no one the chance even 
 of forwarding them to him, that he might carry out his purposes 
 entirely undisturbed. Rather a dangerous way of proceeding when 
 a man has dear friends and relatives. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 In due time Harry went down, not to Neville Court, he could not 
 bear the idea of that, but to Ramsgate for a fortnight, leaving 
 Alfred to the malignant and increasing influence of the "blues."' 
 One-half the world would drown itself, we are often told, if it knew 
 what the other half was doing. Possibly ; but from disgust rather 
 than philanthropy. 
 
 While Harry was lounging listlessly one afternoon on the beach, 
 and Leila Featherstone was planting -out some carnations in the con- 
 servatory at Wimbledon, both with very heavy hearts, Tommy Pierce 
 was entering Featherstone's dingy, smoke-stinking sitting-room in 
 
 Street. That young man was in much the same state and 
 
 attitude as Gerald Arlington had beheld him one memorable even- 
 ing in Elm Street, and Pierce was considerably discomfited at the 
 appearance he presented. 
 
 "You great goose!" he sung out. "What are you gaping at 
 now?" Featherstone recovered himself, poured out heaps of 
 thanks to "Tommy" for presenting himself, and finally confided 
 to him the peculiar sensation and visions which grievously disturbed 
 him whenever he was alone, and especially at night-time. He 
 complained among other troubles of " fixed ideas." 
 
 "Ah !" said Pierce with due medical solemnity, " vou must come 
 out of that." 
 
 " Can't." 
 
 " I tell you you must or you'll come to grief. The long and the 
 short of the matter, you rip, is this. You must give up all this
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 25 I 
 
 drinking and wenching, or by the powers you'll have the devil to 
 pay and not a spoonful of ' bituminous ' hot." 
 
 "Can't— can't, Tommy." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Why don't you marry ? You are spending more 
 in the way you are going on than it would cost you to keep a wife." 
 
 "Mar^P Ye gods!" 
 
 "Well ; and why not ? I've known lots of men forced to marry 
 to get rid of all these infernal botherations." 
 
 "Aye, and then how has it answered?" Pierce shrugged his 
 shoulders and replied — 
 
 " Least of two evils, I suppose. I mean to try as soon as I have 
 got the blunt." 
 
 "It's a rum go," remarked Alfred, meditatively, thinking what 
 pains he had been taking to frustrate Fortescue's tendencies in that 
 direction. 
 
 "Rum? I believe you," responded Pierce vivaciously; "but 
 better than marching into ' Queer Street.' " 
 
 " Humph ! I move that the house do now adjourn and read the 
 bill this day six months." 
 
 So they departed arm-in-arm to the Cigar Divan, and Alfred,had 
 a brief respite from the rack ; and then about midnight he crawled 
 upstairs to his lodgings again and stretched himself leisurely upon 
 the said rack and writhed till morning. 
 
 Next day Featherstone greeted Fortescue on his return from the 
 sea like a starved dog seizing a bone, and Harry began to feel 
 touched by what seemed a genuine attachment, and which helped 
 in some slight degree to fill the void and close the wound made by 
 Gerald's silence and supposed faithlessness. So he gave himself 
 up with less and less reluctance to Featherstone's company and 
 pursuits. The poor wretch's reasoning — backed by recollections 
 of Mr. Watson's medical advice— worked subtly on Harry's mind 
 and conscience, as returning health and strength gave him back 
 his old spirit of self-reliance and daring independence. He had 
 been gradually coming to look upon all religion as delusion and 
 humbug, and therefore to regard the clerical profession of course 
 with contempt. These feelings made him look upon his father 
 rather as the weak-minded victim of imposture, and upon himself 
 as having too long been in a similar unfortunate and ridiculous 
 case. He read with much satisfaction two or three works which 
 Mr. Watson lent him with the idea of soothing his patient's mind, 
 and removing fancies which sometimes still agitated him ; and 
 thus he began to see how absurd it was for men to believe in 
 anything they could not see, or to trouble themselves about what
 
 252 GERALD AXD HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 they could not possibly know or comprehend. He saw that the 
 great thing was to do one's duty to our fellow-creatures and one's 
 self— to observe all the laws of Nature, and make the best of the 
 world as we find it. In this state of mind, of course, he drifted 
 surely, if not rapidly, into precisely the course towards which 
 Featherstone had been long anxiously leading him. 
 
 Hackett chuckled with a villainous satisfaction as he met him 
 more than once in Featherstone's company in questionable localities. 
 Neddy Grant turned round with a sarcastic smile to look after him 
 — holding up his hands in pious horror — as he saw them entering 
 well-known passages about the small hours. Pierce congratulated 
 him in a quiet, matter-of-fact way on his great good sense. Bob 
 Nicholson "grinned horribly" with a mixture of supreme amuse- 
 ment and contempt. Featherstone was in high glee, and declared 
 privately to his friends that Fortescue was under the deepest 
 obligations to him, " and'he knows it." But we need not further 
 lift the veil that hides the unutterably loathsome abominations 
 which are around our homes and daily paths at this very hour. 
 We walk and play over the whited sepulchres, and our mothers, 
 sisters, wives, daughters, know nothing of the foul uncleanness, 
 the terrible sin, with all its ghastly retribution, which those 
 sepulchres hide — which exists the more securely, remember, because of 
 those zuo??ien , s ignorance both in high places and low. 
 
 Well, you may conjure up any images of desolate ruin you please 
 — talk of Baalbec and Palmyra, Nineveh or Thebes — you may shiver 
 as you look upon a battle-field, a hospital, a madhouse, or the 
 torture-chambers of the Inquisition — but we take leave to think 
 that, possibly, no scenes of desolation and anguish ever equal in 
 sadness the ruin caused by such a fall as we are contemplating, 
 and such scenes as we must refer to, but cannot further describe. 
 Let them pass. The grave is now dug for one whom we have 
 honoured and loved. The death-bell rings a merry peal. The 
 Prince of Darkness, and all who rejoice with him, follow the 
 corpse, chaunting the funeral services to very lively measures, and 
 we will pass on with our eyes averted and our heads bowed. 
 
 There is one scene, however, we cannot pass if we would. It 
 stood right in the path of a young girl, who never forgot it till her 
 dying day — whereat few will wonder. 
 
 It so happened that Miss Fortescue had planned an expedition 
 to a London theatre during the Easter Holidays, to witness the 
 first performance of Miss Helen Faucit (then a most promising 
 young actress) in Sheridan Knowles' " Hunchback," while Leila 
 Featherstone and a youthful cousin from Eton were staying with
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 253 
 
 her. Miss Fortescue had longed to ask her brother to meet them, 
 and to try and bring Alfred, but Leila felt so strongly the desire- 
 ableness of waiting to see his reply to certain overtures which 
 will be presently mentioned, that she abandoned the idea. More- 
 over, Leila had a secret feeling that Mr. Fortescue would not be a 
 sympathizing companion for " aesthetic delights." She had got 
 rather reluctant permission from home to go to the theatre, but 
 went with very mingled feelings of deep interest and shrinking 
 aversion — the latter arising from early training. However, the 
 result was that she had three hours of intense enjoyment. Her 
 whole soul seemed lifted up and glorified by the new and thrilling 
 life which Helen Faucit's splendid acting and the marvellous power 
 of the play awoke in her. All that Gerald had ever whispered to 
 her concerning the worth of Art, and especially of the Drama — all 
 his passionate adoration of aesthetic beauty and culture — came 
 swelling up in her memory and affections, and the tears which the 
 heroine's sorrows forced to her eyes had some mysterious affinity 
 with the recollections of those sweet talks in bygone days. The 
 walk of life which she thought Arlington had deliberately chosen at 
 the cost of great sacrifice rose immeasurably in dignity in her 
 estimation under the spell of that night's unwonted happiness and 
 admiration. Could it be possible that he was really going in 
 future years to wield a sceptre of such power and beauty as that 
 of the arch-magician who was now holding this vast assembly 
 entranced by the spells of his genius ? Surely a man was worthy 
 to do so who had given up everything to serve the divinity he 
 worshipped. The step he had taken, in no way seemed weak and 
 self-indulgent, but heroic. 
 
 She had heard Miss Tylney read his last farewell letter to his 
 mother, having been at Neville Court when Mrs. Arlington sent it 
 to her sister, and had not fully understood his renunciation of 
 aesthetic labours, but only his self-consecration to an unselfish and 
 noble purpose, and was sure that in some way he would employ Art 
 to work out that purpose. Hence she had felt then that there was 
 an element of self-relying strength in Gerald's character which she 
 had so reverenced in his friend, but had looked for to himself 
 before in vain. Her first question had been, " What do his parents 
 say about it ? " And when she heard that Mr. Arlington spoke of 
 the affair to her father in a cheerful, hopeful sort of way, she 
 allowed herself to admire him without reserve. " Nothing," she 
 thought, " but a very genuine nobility of nature and character 
 could have sent him from a home of luxury and from a sphere of 
 worldly success such as his father offered him in business, to live in
 
 25f GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 a cottage and work solely to gain the power of elevating his 
 race." 
 
 The eloquent young M.P. had been finally shown the hopeless- 
 ness of his suit some weeks before, but only through her passionate 
 tears and entreaties. She had resisted, not without inward struggle 
 and sore pain, her stern yet loving mother's remonstrances and 
 warnings, and her father's impatient, ill-repressed wrath. And 
 since then she had been turning, in spite of all her efforts, more 
 than once in tender memories to those two dear friends who, 
 because they were such friends, she scarcely ever separated when 
 thinking of either of them. She had heard her father inveighing 
 bitterly, in a spirit of extreme worldliness, against " that fool, young 
 Arlington," for giving up such capital prospects, and the more she 
 heard him abused the deeper grew her romantic and imaginative 
 interest in the young homeless wanderer, and then she thought, with 
 far more of tender and respectful regret than pride, of how he 
 had shunned her for many a past day, and how he had nevertheless 
 once kissed the flowers which her hand had carried. Yet, perhaps, 
 after all, he had only kissed them for their own intrinsic loveliness. 
 But as to shunning her, that might have been because he knew of 
 his friend's attachment to her, or, perhaps, because he felt conse- 
 crated to a noble life, which, at all events for years, would prevent 
 his having a home to offer her. 
 
 The very plot, as well as the exquisite acting of the beautiful 
 play going on before her, helped with its subtle fascination to 
 humble her native pride and call up all that was most womanly 
 and loving in her heart. It might have been love for that wander- 
 ing poet which sent a flush to her cheek but for another recollection 
 which would intrude. 
 
 A girl can never hear for the first time from the lips of a man 
 whom she respects, words of genuine love — words that offer that 
 which above all other earthly things (if it can be called earthly) is 
 dearest to a true woman's heart — wedded love — without retaining 
 a grateful and affectionate recollection of him who offered it — a 
 remembrance which years of unkindness, even of cruelty, perhaps 
 of deep degradation, are often unable to efface. 
 
 Gerald Arlington had never spoken to her of love — never asked 
 for hers. 
 
 Leila Featherstone was not a girl likely to forget that moment when 
 Harry Fortescue startled her by passionate pleadings that told how 
 deeply he cared for her, and though she knew there would always 
 be an aching void in her intellectual life if she married him, yet, 
 like many other women, she also knew that so long as she
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 255 
 
 thoroughly respected him she could be his glad and thankful wife, 
 to love and serve him, and in such loving service could stifle all 
 those poetic cravings that sought for very different companionship. 
 But if he could only once again save her brother, and from a far 
 more fearful fate than that of drowning (as she had been secretly 
 hoping ever since she had heard of his coming to live in London, 
 and of the renewed intimacy between him and Alfred), then she felt 
 that the devction of her whole life to him would be given with 
 measureless gratitude and love for ever — that in spite of all present 
 obstacles God would surely give him the reward which he once at 
 least seemed to prize so dearly, and she could wait God's time. 
 
 Now most of these very natural but curious and complicated 
 thoughts and fancies had been very properly confided, under great 
 stress of sorrow, to Mrs. Featherstone by her daughter, when that 
 lady's true motherly tenderness and compassion had for once 
 broken through her usual reserve, at the time that her weeping 
 daughter had refused the young M.P. Deeply as both parents 
 felt mortified by that refusal, they had suffered too much from 
 Mr. Featherstone's thwarting one child to attempt coercing 
 another, even if they had not known enough of Leila's character 
 to be aware they might as well attempt coercing the beech trees 
 on their lawn. Besides, her health was giving way, and another 
 consideration weighed heavily with both parents. It had struck 
 them that if Harry were now encouraged it might be the means of 
 bringing poor Alfred home again, for at present he was dead to 
 them, refusing all their advances. So Mrs. Featherstone was 
 authorized to send Mr. Fortescue an invitation, in the most 
 diplomatic manner her experienced head could devise, and Mr. 
 Featherstone held a consultation with his head clerk with the view 
 of ascertaining how much more a year he could afford to settle on 
 Leila, in case of her marriage with the disinherited doctor, than 
 would have been necessary had she married the wealthy M.P. 
 He found he could very well afford an ample " subvention," till 
 Fortescue got a good practice at all events. In short, the prospect 
 for poor Harry was brightening fast behind the cloud. 
 
 Had he but known it 
 
 There are a few more of us hard at work in our own little, 
 miserable way, unfitting ourselves for the happiness and success 
 that are being prepared for us " behind the cloud." .... 
 
 For it so happened that this same evening (accidentally, as 
 mortals say) Harry and Alfred, quite unconscious of the presence 
 there of the ladies from Neville Court, had turned into the same 
 theatre at " half-price" time, but did not trouble themselves to go
 
 256 OLRALD AND HIS FRJEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 in to witness the conclusion of " The Hunchback," else they would, 
 in all probability, have also seen their friends. They had other 
 amusement, and waited for the farce. 
 
 The play at length was over. The dark curtain had fallen on 
 that magic scene of enchantment, amid thunders of applause. 
 And Leila had fallen with it from heights of romantic bliss. The 
 young Etonian had seen the farce before ; and they had all gone 
 on the understanding that the ladies did not wish to remain for 
 the after-piece. 
 
 But when they left their box, their youthful escort, possibly like 
 many young Etonians (albeit clever, gentlemanly, and belonging 
 to the " upper fifth "), was presumptuous — vehemently desired to 
 figure in the eyes of his lovely but pensive cousin as a knowing 
 " man about town," up to anything. 
 
 So in passing through the corridors, with Miss Featherstone on 
 his arm, not quite sure of his way, but disdaining, of course, to 
 inquire, bewildered by the crowds and also by the dazzling bril- 
 liancy of the ladies and their costumes, he lost sight of Miss 
 Fortescue, missed the right turn, followed two or three very 
 handsome dresses, and at length blundered into the precincts 
 which, except under the purifying regime of noble-minded 
 managers (to wit, Messrs. Macready and C. Kean), had long 
 been the disgrace of London theatres. 
 
 Just as Leila, getting frightened, was saying she was sure they 
 were wrong, the cousin, with a quick throb of shame and annoy- 
 ance, perceived his mistake and hurriedly wheeled round. But not 
 before Harry Fortescue, flushed with wine, had strode past them, 
 laughing loudly, with his arm round the waist of a very handsome, 
 bold-looking, dark-haired girl, who leered at the Etonian as their 
 eyes met. Just at the same time Harry was calling to Alfred 
 Featherstone, "Come along, my Adonis! here's your Venus!" 
 while that young gentleman, from some cause or other, appeared 
 reluctant to follow. 
 
 Leila had one glance into the saloon at the moment that Fortescue 
 was thus entering it, and she understood something of what that 
 miserable moment revealed. The shock made her almost faint, 
 but her cousin hurried her on, and in a few minutes she stood 
 trembling and deadly pale beside her friends in the crush-room. 
 A chair and a glass of water were quickly procured. 
 
 The young fellow was profuse in his apologies, tried to pass it 
 off by making light of the scene, not knowing how much of it Leila 
 had witnessed, and then, trusting to her ignorance, muttered, ner- 
 vously — with an attempt at a laugh (in bad taste, though well meant)
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 257 
 
 — something about " those young folks coming it rather too strong." 
 He little knew how much cause his poor cousin had to tremble with 
 blanched lips — how the deep yearning love for her brother, the 
 still clinging hopes for his restoration to virtue — to her parents 
 and herself — the fond girlish sort of hero-worship with which she 
 had once looked up to Mr. Fortescue, were all laid low in the 
 dust in that moment, and for ever. In the dust ? Say, rather, 
 in the unspeakable filth and abominations of a young English- 
 man's ordinary matter-of-course refuge from the hindrances that, 
 like a wall of flame kindled at the nether fire, wave him and 
 thousands more back from the hallowed gates of married life. 
 
 It was almost impossible to avoid telling Ellen, when they got 
 home, why she had been so painfully affected. In the midnight 
 silence of her little room at Portland Place, where preparations had 
 been made for them in the absence of the family, she sobbed out 
 her sorrow and anguish on that faithful bosom ; and Ellen, whose 
 grief was scarcely less than her friend's, had the greatest difficulty 
 in restraining the hysterical bursts of grief which shook poor Leila's 
 slender frame. 
 
 " Oh, Ellen, Ellen," she exclaimed, " I had so honoured and 
 cared about your brother — ever since I knew him — as Alfred's 
 preserver and as your brother ; and now to see him drawing Alfred 
 
 on into more dreadful . And you know he did once seem to 
 
 care so much for me, and I felt so grateful to him ; and I had 
 thought more than ever that perhaps some day — for you know 
 
 mother had written to ask him to Wimbledon . But oh, Nelly 
 
 dearest, never, never can we now be to each other what — I never 
 could — you remember our talk that day j dearest, with Miss Tylney? 
 I solemnly vowed to God, then, that I would never marry — rather 
 than marry a man who had lived in habitual sin. And oh, Ellen, 
 it was no mere momentary fall that could have made your brother 
 — could have done what I saw to-night. Oh, Ellen, how sad it is 
 for you — you who love him so much. And I did think that he was 
 trying to save Alfred. Oh, Alfred, Alfred — my brother— my brother ! 
 Why have you not come back to us ? This is misery, indeed — 
 Ellen, dearest — I cannot bear it." 
 
 There was, could be, no help to either for such sorrow but in 
 their deep mutual sympathy, and in prayer to Him who had first 
 taught frhem to "love one another," and given "His Son to seek 
 and to save." So they read a chapter or two from the Bible, and 
 at length, Ellen left her poor friend lulled to sleep and temporary 
 forgetfulness of all that had passed that wretched night. 
 
 With the morrow, however, all poor Leila's misery returned, an 1 
 
 EC
 
 258 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 in addition came torturing thoughts that Harry's fall might be the 
 consequence of her father's refusing to let him follow up his attach- 
 ment to herself. " If I had but shown him when we met at that 
 wedding the real interest I felt in him. Ought I indeed to give up 
 now all thoughts of him for ever ? May not God have meant me 
 to help to save him from ruin ? Is it wholly, absolutely, for ever, 
 too late ? Yet I never, never can love him now as a woman should 
 love her husband." The intellectual gulf between them, as we 
 have said, she felt could have been bridged over. But she knew 
 that the bridge could never be found that would cross that far 
 deeper, more terrible abyss which had opened between them that 
 night. Then came the thought that " If Mr. Fortescue had but 
 kept his hold upon his father's Christian faith, he never would have 
 fallen like this." In that first loss she was sure lay the true secret of 
 the subsequent fall. Perhaps she was not far wrong. " And yet," 
 thought she, " he was once so noble — so good — might he not 
 become so once again ? " And visions of bringing him back to his 
 trust in God, to the higher life " hid " for him there, filled her 
 heart. 
 
 Thus alternating between compassion for the man and loathing 
 for his conduct — now drawn towards him by that profound pity and 
 interest so near akin to love, and urged by a scrupulous, most 
 painfully conscientious, yet vague sense of duty towards him — then 
 repelled by feelings of the deepest aversion — poor Leila was tossed 
 at intervals in restless doubts for many a weary day. During all 
 that sad time Ellen's love and watchful care were, under Providence, 
 the means of saving her from what would probably otherwise have 
 been a fatal illness. " Never before," as she pathetically whispered 
 to Miss Fortescue, " have I felt so deeply His loving-kindness, 
 who has promised that ' When thou passest through the waters, 
 I will be with thee ; and through the rivers, they shall not overilow 
 thee ; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned ; 
 neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.' " 
 
 Her love and trust in God, in fact, which had been little more 
 than a name under the stern influences of her early religious 
 instructors, had been growing powerfully and deepening of late 
 years, under the combined teaching and character of Ellen Fortescue 
 and Miss Tylney and her American prophet, till she had found 
 in all those dreary seasons of the last two years when, as she 
 expressea it, she often "walked in darkness, and had no light," 
 that her Heavenly Father was only " waiting to be gracious." True 
 enough, no doubt. Waiting for the opportuntity when she would 
 turn to Him and truthfully give herself up to Him wholly, unre-
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 259 
 
 servedly, that He might reveal Himself and His infinite love so 
 fully that her only feeling would be gratitude for the darkness and 
 sorrow which had made her understand so much of what an apostle 
 has called His "marvellous light," and "of the love which passeth 
 knowledge." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 In a large, light, airy room on the ground-floor of a roomy cottage, 
 surrounded by a garden, on the outskirts of a country town in the 
 midland counties, sat a young man lost in contemplation. If we 
 were told that the subject of his thoughts was a vision of a vast 
 and applauding crowd listening in tranced silence on a high 
 festival day to the said young man's impassioned appeals for social 
 and political reform, that he beheld, moreover, in vision, that crowd, 
 with sympathetic admiration, catching the generous flame that 
 should burn up at once both their iniquities and their wrongs, it 
 would be sufficiently evident who the visionary must be. Arlington's 
 time was divided pretty fairly between working and dreaming. The 
 latter was kept under, on the whole, with tolerable success, but 
 served for refreshment in the place of companionship and friends. 
 The young reformer was often intensely happy in those days, and 
 worked away with joy at Quinctilian, Demosthenes, Cicero, Adam 
 Smith, a tale for a popular serial, and an article for the Penny Cyclo- 
 paedia (the last two to eke out his slender resources). Full of health 
 and hope, steeped in a generous self-sacrificing enthusiasm which 
 however misguided must always bring some kind of a blessing 
 with it, he threw himself with a chivalrous ardour upon the course 
 he had marked out as the means of lifting his countrymen from 
 the degradation and wretchedness in which he saw large masses 
 were weltering. No wonder that he was happy — for a season — that 
 he did not miss, or did not suffer an hour's uneasiness from missing, 
 all the luxuries to which he had been accustomed, not even the 
 society of friends so dear to him. Pie had brought with him from 
 Hartland, as the one dear friend who could neither disclose his 
 retreat nor interrupt his studies, his favourite dog, a beautiful 
 spaniel; and as long as he could work with all his might in -doors 
 at those things which would, as he thought, enable him to emanci-
 
 260 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 pate his fellow countrymen from their bonds, and raise them to the 
 pure bright life of art, love, and beauty, he could do without 
 society — wanted no other happiness for a time than the exulting 
 bounding walk, with his joyous sympathetic little friend, on the 
 neighbouring hills, or the glad rushing forth to occasional 
 boating in a cranky little skiff on the river that flowed past the 
 town. 
 
 But that letter of Harry Fortescue's, which we saw written in a 
 former chapter, when it at length appeared, was a much more dis- 
 turbing element. For some days he locked it away — would not 
 grapple with the agitating thoughts it gave rise to. Then he got 
 to an important and very exciting period in his popular tale. Ten 
 days went by. At last he wrote in a furore ; — wrote thus : 
 
 [GERALD ARLINGTON TO HARRY FORTESCUE.J 
 
 " Dear Harry, — I needn't say that your letter at first put me in a 
 rage. But gradually I remembered how many things there were to 
 mislead you ; and I felt strongly the rare generosity of my Harry's 
 nature in forgiving me what must indeed have seemed to him a 
 huge baseness and wrong. The best proof / can give that I feel 
 this, is to forgive you, as I do very sincerely, the wrong you have 
 done me in believing that I had played so mean and treacherous a 
 part. It's all very well for you to say, ' let's be friends as before,' 
 but you know we could not be if I had really done such a thing as 
 you fancv. There can be no true, friendship any more than true 
 love without esteem ; and while you write capitally as to our com- 
 mon infirmities and sins, it seems to me there are some sins which 
 won't let us have the same respect and regard for him who commits 
 them. Isn't treachery one of these ? Harry, I never could have 
 met you again if I had done what you thought; and it makes me 
 miserable to think what may be the effect on your mind of believing 
 it. I am very sorry your letter has been so long in reaching me. 
 You seem to me to write in a^horridly vile and absurd tone about 
 yourself and what must become of you. You are not to give up 
 Leila Featherstone. You are to be her beloved and impassioned 
 spouse, some day or other making her and yourself as happy as you 
 both deserve to be. Dear old Harry boy, the time has come when 
 I must tell you, what I confess I see now I ought to have told you 
 some time ago, but I could not bear seeming to parade my feelings. 
 However, the long and the short of it is — as you suspected — I have 
 loved Leila Featherstone very deeply, — before you did. but I had no 
 reason to think she cared much about me. I had no chance of 
 marrying her for a long time : and when you told me how despe-
 
 CERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 26 1 
 
 rately you were in love with her, of course I determined to give up 
 all idea of trying to cut you out. I was going to add, you little 
 know how much this cost me ; and yet if you think how you have 
 loved her, how worthy she is of your love, or of the finest fellow's 
 that ever walked, you can realize the struggle it has more than once 
 been to keep true to my resolution. I just mention this that I may 
 obtain your thanks, sympathy, and general esteem. But I have 
 never, Harry, been unfaithful to you. I have never said a word to 
 draw her my way. She hasn't an idea that I have ever been 
 infatuated with her charms ; and I have turned back more than 
 once when I thought the tide might drift me into dangerous com- 
 panionship with her. I am not vain enough to suppose she ever 
 thought much about me ; certainly not if she felt she might think 
 of you. But of this I am certain, that now she does not care two 
 straws for me, and that I, at least, have not diverted her regards 
 from you. So I'm not going to be out-done in generosity, old boy. 
 Take back that nonsense about giving her up. For God's sake 
 don't be dropping into the mud because you fancy you've no chance 
 with her. But you must look sharp, or she'll be snapped up by 
 somebody else. Go and talk to her mother. The time has come 
 when I think I ought in fact to tell you that I know, through my 
 aunt, she once asked your sister not to talk to her about you, 
 because she felt she cared too much about you, while her parents 
 didn't approve of any engagement. I do honestly believe she did 
 once, and therefore in all probability does still, love you. You may 
 imagine that at one time I watched her pretty closely when you and 
 she were together. 
 
 " Do not talk, Harry, in that sneaking fashion about giving up all 
 that we have so honoured and lived for, all that your father so 
 deeply cared for, and the legacy of nobleness he bequeathed to you. 
 I will bore you with these thoughts now lest the Furies bore you 
 with them when it may be too late to try and get rid of them. Oh ! 
 Harry,— 1 was able to bear all the misery of feeling that Miss 
 Featherstone never could be my wife, and have even long thought 
 of it cheerfully, by believing you would make her happy, and would 
 find in her love your own highest life and joy. But if you were to 
 cut yourself off from ever being worthy of her, from being able 
 to come and ask her (with the purity and nobleness she deserves 
 to find in a husband) to be your wife, and yet were to win her 
 heart, that would be just simply damnable — nothing more or 
 less. 
 
 " But you will not. You arc worthy of her, and will make her as 
 happy as she deserves. The past has long since been expiated.
 
 262 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 She does need and does deserve a noble, pure heart like yours to 
 rest on. Think of all the cold-blooded politicians, or the empty- 
 hearted licentious fops, who flutter about her. Is she to be left, 
 driven perhaps, to marry one of them ? Isn't the thought enough 
 to send one mad ? Hold on awhile, Harry, we shall yet conquer 
 and rejoice together. I'll be your groomsman, old boy, won't I — 
 that's all ! You may get into practice much sooner than you think, 
 for Heaven will help you if you are true to yourself and to her. 
 Your uncle will fall ill, and you'll cure him, and then he'll relent ! 
 or some other rich patients will give you thundering fees. Hold 
 on, Harry, yet awhile, and never say die ! God bless you. Bye- 
 bye. 
 
 " Your old friend, 
 
 " G. A. 
 
 " P.S. — I'll write and tell you all about myself shortly. Direct 
 to George Arkwright, Woodbine Cottage, Upper Kingsgate, Deans- 
 ford. 
 
 " Did I tell you I came here under a feigned name for greater 
 seclusion. I am working harder than ever I did in my life, except 
 once, during the month before college examinations in Gowcr 
 Street, and I think I make some progress. Before your abominable 
 humbug came, I could say I was perfectly jolly in general, if I 
 could only feel sure my father and mother were reconciled to my 
 plans. However, I look forward to paying them a visit by-and-byc, 
 and perhaps living with them again in a year or two, when I have 
 finished a few articles I am writing for a cyclopaedia, and a tale I 
 have begun for a magazine, and for which I am promised a few 
 pounds. For then I shall have proved my right to independent 
 action. Let me hear from you soon. Oh, if we were only going 
 to dine together to-morrow at ' Dolly's ' chop-house, or at dear old 
 Hartland ! The garden and grounds there will soon be looking 
 lovely. But we will be jolly there, or somewhere else, Hal, in less 
 than a year's time, eh ? " 
 
 Talk of " Saxon after-wit!" 
 
 Why, in the name of Heaven, Gerald Arlington, didn't you send 
 that letter sooner ! 
 
 Harry Fortescue was entirely ignorant of who was brushing past 
 
 him that unhappy night in the corridor of Theatre. Not 
 
 so Alfred Fcatherstone. He had been more than usually depressed 
 that evening, and, while plunging into the mad whirl of dissipation, 
 hoping to find a momentary relief, he had not dared to drink freely 
 and was perfectly sober throughout. He had recognized his sister's
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 263 
 
 face in an instant, and hence his hanging back lest she should see 
 him, giving her the impression, of course, that Mr. Fortescue was 
 drawing her reluctant brother into the scenes of vice from which 
 she had just turned sickening away. 
 
 Featherstone said nothing that night about what he had seen to 
 Fortescue, naturally fearing the effect on his companion ; but of 
 course he couldn't help promising himself some fun about the 
 matter the next day. 
 
 On the following morning, Harry Fortescue was sitting moodily 
 over his untasted breakfast with that ineffable sense of mingled 
 languor and loathing which those only can understand who have 
 lived as he had been doing for some weeks past. And the partners 
 of his guilt — were they supremely gay ? Probably they would have 
 averred they were a hundred times more miserable in body and in 
 soul even than the men whom they allured. No doubt they were 
 as much more so as woman's nature is at once more delicate and 
 more pure than man's. " Corruptio optimi pcssima est." 
 
 All that was best and purest in Harry's nature was beginning to 
 reassert its power, especially in that season of wretchedness and 
 remorse. Such a man could not, as we have seen before, for very 
 long revel in the stye without experiencing at times an intense 
 revulsion of feeling, and it was in one of these seasons that 
 Arlington's letter was handed to him that morning. As he read 
 the first portion of it a miserable consciousness came over him that 
 he was occupying the position which he had assigned to Gerald in 
 relation to their friendship ; and a cold shudder went through his 
 heart as he felt that Gerald never would again give him the same 
 esteem and ardent friendship which had up to this year stood in 
 their mutual worship of manly nobleness and purity of heart. He 
 had felt, almost ever since sending his last letter to Gerald, that 
 what he said in it was untrue about their friendship not suffering 
 from Gerald's supposed treachery. 
 
 He had, in fact, not long written that letter before he knew it 
 was penned in the weakness of convalescence, when he was 
 yearning for affection and stretching out the wounded tendrils of 
 his soul, seeking for the old friendship to cling to in his bodily 
 and mental depression. As he recovered strength, he knew also 
 that he could not care one half as much for Arlington, if he had 
 really behaved as he believed. And the more his admiration of his 
 friend's self-sacrifice now increased, and the more he felt drawn 
 towards him by an irrepressible yet most painful consciousness of 
 affection and esteem — at once of having wronged him and of 
 vehement longing to repair the injustice — the greater was the
 
 26-j. GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 sense of shame and misery which told him that he and Gerald 
 could never be the friends they once had been. 
 
 Then as he read on, a wild, passionate hope naturally sprung up 
 that he might yet win Leila's hand ; and from the abyss of a great 
 despair might once more rise to the regions of recovered purity, 
 friendship, and love. If she had indeed ever cared for him, as 
 Gerald's letter, combined with former evidence, made him now 
 believe she did, if Gerald himself had learned and could truly 
 interpret the first great rudiments of Christianity — if God were the 
 author of that message of forgiveness to man — surely he might 
 still hope. 
 
 And then the mighty force of resistance and fighting power that 
 lay in the man's heart rose up and battled fiercely with the fiends 
 of unhallowed passion, and shame, and despair — with sophistical 
 arguments of medical advisers on behalf of uncleanness, with fear 
 of contempt and sneers, with reckless indifference, and defiant 
 atheism — all contending in turns for mastery over his soul. 
 
 At length, he wrote a brief reply to Arlington, thanking him 
 from the depths of his heart for all he had done and said — pouring 
 out his penitence and affection/ but touching very slightly on the 
 extent of his lapse into vice — rising up into the new life of hope 
 and recovered purity of heart — as well as blessed trust which 
 Gerald's letter had breathed into him, and concluding thus : — 
 
 " Oh, God ! if I may only be helped to climb again from the 
 depths of this horrible pit ! I accept your noble sacrifice, Gerald, 
 because I do in my heart believe she cared for me once, and 
 because I feel that my only chance of conquering the devil is to 
 look up to an angel like her. But the intolerable wretchedness of 
 such pranks as I've been playing is that all the power of loving 
 ' with a pure heart fervently,' as the old apostle says somewhere, 
 seems taken away from one by this vile whoremongering. If I 
 can but love her as once I did, if — oh ! if I can but ever bring her 
 to love so mean a reptile as I am become — and yet I am not that 
 — I am still a man, 'made in the image of God ;' and I may still 
 return. He must care for me still, for I know my poor father on 
 earth would have cared for me to the last, even if that last were a 
 felon's death on the gallows. God cannot care for us less, Gerry, 
 though He seems for a time to have deserted me. But that is 
 only because I deserted Him. He can't have really forsaken me. 
 Gerald, years ago I heard a fine sermon, somewhere, on Judas 
 Iscariot, in which the parson declared that his deepest sin lay in 
 despairing of Christ's forgiveness. I thought the notion was
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 265 
 
 rather bosh, then. I'll stand by it now. It is not— cannot be 
 too late — if only life is scared. May God in heaven bless you, 
 Gerry, though I daren't write myself down, 
 
 "Your old friend, 
 
 " H. F." 
 
 The letter, duly directed to "George Arkwright, Esqre.," was at 
 once posted, with very mingled emotions, in which, however, a sense 
 of relief was paramount. Harry resolved to cut the dissecting-room 
 for that day, and take a solitary pull up to Richmond. The wisest 
 thing he could do. It helped him greatly to meet what followed. 
 An eminent physician has said that he believes no man would blow 
 out his brains if he took a dose of medicine first. A row of a 
 dozen or twenty miles would in many cases be still more efficacious. 
 But, after all, what amount of either medicine or exercise can 
 permanently make straight that soul which has become crooked ? 
 We need some other " setting right" and "keeping right," besides 
 even those remedies. When Paul said, " Bodily exercise profiteth 
 little," he doubtless referred to superstitious notions, too prevalent 
 in all ages, where corporeal action of some sort is substituted 
 for spiritual exercise and effort. He certainly did not mean that 
 healthful bodily exercise, whether in labour or sports, was not a 
 great help generally, indeed indispensable, in subduing the lower 
 nature. But if he meant that all such exercise is of no avail — may, 
 on the contrary, only strengthen that nature, unless spiritual 
 influences and intense effort of will help the higher nature to 
 conquer — why then, poor Harry found his words to be terribly 
 true. 
 
 Well, the young man was returning home about dusk, consider- 
 ably the better both for his " bodily exercise " and for the reflections 
 and resolutions to which his morning meditations had given rise, 
 when, on entering his room, he saw, first, two letters lying on the 
 table, and next perceived some man reclining listlessly on the sofa 
 " blowing a cloud." When Fortescue discovered who it was, he 
 started back with feelings of intense aversion. Of all men he most 
 shrunk, at that moment from meeting Alfred Featherstone. But 
 he couldn't retreat. His natural combativcness and courtesy both 
 spurred him on, and he got out a greeting. " Good day, old fellow. 
 Seem rather seedy. Should have had a row, as I have." 
 
 " Confound your rowing ! Here have I been hunting for you all 
 day — through all the hospitals and dining-rooms and cigar divans 
 in London, all to no purpose. Even put my head into that beastly 
 dissecting-room." Seeing that Harry looked unresponsivi and
 
 266 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 rather queer, Alfred suddenly changed his surly, injured tone, and 
 exclaimed vivaciously — 
 
 "Well, doctor, who in the name of all the pigs do you think we 
 met last night ? " 
 
 " Wait a bit," said Fortescue, taking up the letters. " Just let me 
 look at these." The first was a very gracious though guarded 
 communication from Mrs. Fcatherstone, inviting Mr. Fortescue to 
 dinner at Wimbledon, and closing with a friendly message from 
 Mr. Featherstone, which Harry saw with half a glance, was meant 
 to make amends for his cavalier treatment when they last parted in 
 Kensington Gardens. It made the blood bound in his veins with 
 a wild thrill of happiness which he hadn't known since that 
 parting. 
 
 But the other note was from his sister. She and Leila had heard 
 that Mrs. Featherstone was writing to Harry with a hint of her 
 motherly purpose, and this brought the conflict in Leila's heart to 
 a final close. The unhappy girl ended a brief conversation with Ellen, 
 after a sleepless night of agonising doubts, by taking Miss 
 Fortescue's hand, and dropping unconsciously on one knee before 
 her. Then she looked up in her friend's face with wild tearful eyes, 
 and said, quite calmly, but in a hollow unnatural voice, " Ellen, 
 I will never be your brother's wife. Please tell him so, — and why." 
 
 And Ellen, thereupon, very sadly, but very faithfully, wrote to her 
 brother, referring first to Mrs. Featherstone's invitation, and then 
 to the company in which Leila and she had seen Alfred and himself 
 the night before. She added : " I cannot think you have, lately, at 
 all events, been wishing to marry Leila Featherstone, or that you 
 knew of her mother's letter of invitation to you being written. It 
 would be too horrible to think this. But however that may be, 
 Leila means that what I am now writing at her request should put 
 a final and absolute end to any relations that have existed between 
 you, and to any idea of her ever being your wife. And I think she 
 is right — supposing always that she was not mistaken in saying it 
 was you whom she saw. Would that this were possible ! But 
 I fear she has cared for you too much, Harry, in past times, not to 
 know you too well to have been mistaken." Ellen concluded with 
 a few words, praying her brother to retrace his steps, and to save 
 Leila's brother, at all events, if it were possible — adding that Leila 
 had asked her so piteously to say this, and to tell him that to the 
 latest hour of her life she should pray that they might yet meet in 
 a higher world. As regarded this life her resolution was " final and 
 unalterable." 
 
 Fortescue dropped the letter. • • * *
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 267 
 
 Featherstone, seeing he had finished reading it, impatiently 
 repeated his question two or three times — " I say, Fortescue, whom 
 do you think we met last night ? Now you must guess, my dear 
 fellow. It was such a jolly lark ! Ha, ha, ha ! Only fancy that 
 little vixen of a sister of mine losing her way in the corridor of 
 
 Theatre, under the guardianship of some raw schoolboy, 
 
 and blundering into the saloon of all places in the world, and 
 coming out just as we were going in ! Ha, ha, ha ! You know, 
 I saw them, and perhaps could have stopped you, but it was too 
 good a joke to lose, don't you see! " and then he laughed hysterically. 
 " And there were you with your arm round Polly Fielding, shouting 
 to me to come on, and I playing the good boy — hanging back, 
 don't you see, as if ashamed — you leading me on to the ways of 
 naughtiness, and I like the injured innocent ! ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 It was quite true ; he might have kept Harry back and have 
 avoided the encounter ; but not only was the joke, as he regarded 
 it, irresistible, but here was an opportunity, he thought, of finally 
 delivering Harry from his sister's witching spells. Featherstone's 
 laughing prevented him at first from seeing the effect of his com- 
 munication upon his companion. When he did, the laughing 
 stopped abruptly. Fortescue had slowly risen from the arm-chair 
 into which he had flung himself after reading his letters, and was 
 glaring fixedly on the laugher with folded arms and set teeth. 
 
 The whole scene of the previous night came flashing back on 
 him, and his sister's letter, which at first confused him, was now- 
 explained. He distinctly remembered having had a momentary 
 side glimpse of some girl in full dress with dark hair, leaning on a 
 youth's arm, who seemed to have lost her way and to be desperately 
 flurried, but the idea of its being Leila Featherstone never occurred 
 to him till that moment. The effect was alarming enough, coming 
 as it did, not only after Mrs. Featherstone's and his sister's letters, 
 but close upon Gerald's letter and his own reply. In all strong 
 natures the barbarian element lies very near the civilized surface- 
 especially so in Harry Fortescue's, as we have more than once had 
 to admit. It was the old scene at Cambridge all over again ; but 
 in proportion as the misery and wrong were greater now, was the 
 danger of a fatal issue to their interview. The recollection of 
 that scene at Cambridge, of what led to it, and of the futility of 
 his then breaking away from the unprincipled sneak who had been 
 his ruin, came sweeping over Harry Fortescue in that terrible 
 moment, and when added to Featherstone's recent conduct half 
 maddened him now. 
 
 Uttering a tremendous oath, with one stride he seized bis victim,
 
 z68 GERALD AXD HIS FRTEKD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 as Featherstonc, with chattering teeth and knees knocking together, 
 retreated a few paces yelling for help. The landlady heard his cry 
 down in the kitchen, and came hurrying up-stairs, but not till 
 Fortescue had got his gripe on Featherstone's throat in a way that 
 in another minute would have put a stop to the wretched man's 
 ever breathing again ; but before the woman could gain the room 
 the infuriated man's grasp relaxed. His rage was checked by the 
 look on Featherstone's face. That look, probably, saved one man 
 from being murdered and another from hanging. Fortescue, in all 
 his fury, could not strangle Leila Featherstone's brother, and a 
 madman to boot. He only exclaimed, " Oh, my God ! " turned 
 away, bowed his head on the table, and, by a violent reaction, 
 burst into a passionate flood of tears, the first he had shed since 
 childhood. There is something almost fearful, as it has been 
 truly remarked, in a strong man's crying. It shows not merely such 
 terrible mental agony, but that the physical frame is in a condition 
 that cannot bear the strain. In this case it seemed like the utter 
 break-up of the man's whole being, and the landlady thought she 
 must run for a doctor. The sight brought Alfred out of his own 
 momentary state of frenzied terror, and diverted his thoughts into 
 a channel as much resembling compassion and remorse as his 
 profligate career had left him capable of feeling. Telling the 
 astonished landlady Fortescue would soon be better, that they had 
 only been having a lark, and motioning her out of the room, 
 Alfred drew near poor Fortescue, exclaiming at intervals by way of 
 consolation : — 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Harry. You pretty nearly did for me ; but I 
 don't bear malice ; can't afford to quarrel. Gammon, don't bother 
 about it so. All right in the end, you know — all right in the end, 
 as you've often said. Come, shut up. Don't, old fellow. Come 
 now " with similar efficacious and affecting remonstrances. 
 
 But those convulsive sobs presently ceased, as the strong will 
 rose paramount once more, and Featherstone's compassion was not 
 very long lived. As Harry drew himself up from the chair to his 
 full height, Featherstone threw himself again on the sofa with an 
 expression of weary disgust, and would have given a five pound 
 note for the privilege of uttering the sarcastic sneer which was on 
 his lips by way of revenge for his ill-treatment, and not less for the 
 maudlin compassion (as he regarded it) into which he had been 
 betrayed by Harry's weakness. But the strange tone in which 
 Fortescue now began to speak — so unlike his usual voice, giving 
 the idea of a man's speaking from the depths of a grave in which 
 he was being buried alive,— and, above all, the tenour of Harry's
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 269 
 
 address to him turned the current of the young roue's thoughts 
 rather painfully. What he listened to was this : — 
 
 "Alfred Featherstone, you are that girl's brother. That has 
 saved me this evening from an act for which I might have swung. 
 But, I'll thank you never to put me in temptation again. I see I've 
 a good deal of the ruffian in me, still, when I come across a fellow 
 like you ; so here we part — once and for all ! " 
 
 The sarcastic expression on Featherstone's face died away, 
 and only an abject, imploring look remained, which was almost 
 enough to melt a heart of stone. Fortescue continued : — 
 
 " If ever you become as different from what you arc now as I 
 am, through your help, from what I was before I knew you, well, 
 then, by God's help, we may speak to one another again. Never, 
 if you please, till then." 
 
 He took a turn or two, and then, with a great effort, added : — 
 
 " I said this to you once before. Would to Heaven I had kept to 
 it ! You are now only blackening my life as vilely as you have 
 done your own. Vote first sent me over the edge ; and then, when 
 I got out, you drew me in again deeper than ever. I know I 
 believed then that vice was a necessary evil — vile and beastly, but 
 still necessary. Perhaps I believe so still ; but you made me revel 
 and dance in my shame and sin. It was this that brought me face 
 to face, in that disgusting den, with your sister. And that meeting 
 I know has cut me off for ever — from — from, — and just at the 
 
 very moment when Look at these letters, you infernal, 
 
 double-damned ! " He could not finish his broken sentences. 
 
 Featherstone gave him a furious look, got up from the sofa, sat 
 down again, and read the notes mechanically — felt half-stunned, 
 and then his brain seemed in a whirl of fire. All he was distinctly 
 conscious of was that Fortescue and he were to part. Here was 
 the end, then, and for ever, of that intimacy which had begun years 
 before — beneath the Thames tide, and which had been for many a 
 day the best blessing, next to his sister's love, which the poor, 
 broken-down profligate had ever known — a comfort which of late 
 had been the one only thing between him and horrors which he 
 dared not speak or think of. His last refuge from them was now 
 being torn away, and he could have gone down on his knees and 
 implored forgiveness with abject craving, but something in the 
 man's looks warned him that it was at once useless and dangerous ; 
 for the moment that he hesitated to go towards the door to which 
 Fortescue pointed, the breath of the latter came thick, he set his 
 teeth, and griped hard the back of the chair on which he leaned. 
 "Go!" was all he could mutter; and Featherstone cr
 
 270 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 sullenly, every nerve quivering with a more hopeless sense of utter 
 misery and degradation, probably, than was then being felt by any 
 other wretch in London, unless by those whose next act was 
 suicide. 
 
 He crawled home to his lodgings, too miserable and ill even to 
 try to get a companion there for the evening, much more to go to 
 any of his accustomed haunts. He drank off half-a-pint of brandy 
 which he found left in his cupboard, flung himself on his bed, 
 moaning so fearfully that even his landlady, who was used to what 
 she called " the young gentleman's vagarious tantrums," knocked 
 at the door to know if she could be of any service. Three hours 
 later, he was in raging delirium tremens, and it took two strong men 
 to hold him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Harry Fortescue did not realize Featherstone's state when they 
 parted, or he might perhaps have dealt differently with him. 
 But his own misery was so great that he was incapable of reflection. 
 He left his dinner, which had been waiting for him all this time, 
 untasted, put on his hat, took his stick, and mechanically went out 
 into the busy interminable gas-lighted streets. With a sort of 
 instinct of self-preservation from thoughts that seemed as if they 
 would drive him mad, he began walking aimlessly (not knowing or 
 caring where he went) through street after street for hours ; some- 
 times looking at placards on boardings ; sometimes intently 
 watching poor, dirty little children at play, or the process by which 
 a cab-driver lifted up his fallen horse. He remembered once 
 stopping at a baker's shop to buy a roll in the flaring gas-light, for 
 he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and but little then. On — on 
 — he tramped again into the New Road, along Tottenham Court 
 Road, up Oxford Street, alone with his misery, in all those crowded 
 thoroughfares, two thoughts alternately racking his mind with 
 intolerable pain. One was — "She knows of it— she knows it!" 
 The other was — " Shameful necessity — shameful necessity." If for 
 a moment something like this came up — " Couldn't help it — nature 
 must win — couldn't help it;" quickly came back the alternative
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 27 1 
 
 torture-pang — "She knows of it — she knows it;" and then again 
 the other words returned. And thus two fiends, like the tradi- 
 tionary starlings, but one at each ear, chattered as he tramped on 
 and on, he knew not where, till in a lull of rattling wheels he heard 
 St. Clement Dane's strike twelve — the great bell of St. Paul's 
 followed— and he found himself walking on to Waterloo Bridge. 
 When he got to the middle of the bridge he stopped from utter 
 exhaustion, and sank down on the stone bench in one of the 
 recesses. How long he had lain there he couldn't tell. But he 
 was roused by a light, quick, shuffling step close to him. A 
 woman's garment fluttered in his face, and he started up just in 
 time to see the wearer of it springing on the seat, and about to 
 throw herself over the parapet. Fortescue had only time to make 
 one dash at her with his left arm, but that was enough. The poor 
 wretch was like a baby in his grasp ; and when she found herself 
 seized, began to sob hysterically. "Curse you!" she screamed, 
 " let me go ! let me go ! I must do it — I've wanted many a night — 
 never dared before — could have gone then ! — and now, now it's all 
 to come over again." Then, with a terrible oath, she cried again, 
 "Let me go!" fighting fiercely at him. Harry tried to soothe the 
 poor wretch, but at first it was utterly in vain. After he had quieted 
 her a little, she kept wailing, " It's all got to come over again — all 
 over again." 
 
 A belated passenger or two — highly respectable — thought it was 
 a vulgar row, or drunken disgusting sport. A distant policeman, 
 not having seen the girl's attempt at suicide, shared the same 
 opinion, though he kept his eye on them, and Harry had the work 
 to himself. But as the girl's head, at length, fell wearily back 
 against his supporting arm, the tawdry, showy bonnet fell off. The 
 lamp-light fell full upon the drawn pallid features, and he knew the 
 face loo well. To his last hour he could never forget the agonizing 
 shame and remorse of that moment. It was some relief that the 
 girl evidently did not at first remember him. He only knew, sadly 
 enough, when and where he had last seen her. 
 
 " I will save her," was the one thought that now came upper- 
 most. Gradually she gained strength enough to walk, and he 
 led her towards the toll-gate. But she kept stopping, with her 
 hand pressed to her side ; and then, in incoherent rambling talk, 
 told Harry of all her sufferings and wrongs. It seemed to calm 
 her to talk, and he let her run on with a description of her life 
 since she was first ruined when in service at Cambridge, every 
 word of which was like a dagger in his heart. Was this indeed the 
 .life these women, then, generally led? Yes, yes; he knew it was
 
 272 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 only too true. " There were scores," she said, " whom she knew 
 worse off than she was — not one of them but would be glad of 
 pluck enough to face the water." For six months she swore she 
 had been longing to do it, but daredn't. "And now — now," she 
 moaned again, " it would all have to come over again. One 
 minute more, and she'd have settled her hash for good and for all 
 — but now — now." Then a wail, a sob, and a clutching at her 
 poor faded finery." 
 
 "For good and all?" repeated Harry to himself. "Where? 
 Is this, then, what I with fifty others have helped her to ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, go on, my boy. All right. See, see," whispered the 
 starling-fiends, striking in again, " it's all a shameful necessity — 
 only a shameful necessity. Nature must have its way. This is 
 what you know is necessary — of course, of course — can't be helped. 
 Women must rot that men may live. All right, all right, you old 
 fool ! Don't be squeamish. It's only a shameful necessity — can't 
 be helped." 
 
 Hereupon the thought came rushing over Fortescue that if by 
 killing himself he could stop all this miser}- and vice he would do 
 it, though he were to tumble into hell for his own sins the next 
 minute. But the toll-gate was now reached, and the fiends' chatter 
 stopped. They passed through. Harry was looking out for a cab, 
 and resolving to drive straight to a Refuge, which he had noticed 
 formerly in Hoxton, and often wondered if it were of any use in the 
 world to anybody, when the girl refused to go any further, and 
 began hoarsely whispering to him : " I wasn't always like this, you 
 see, though pr'aps never quite particklar enough. I had a good 
 place in Cambridge once. Were you ever there ? Rare place that 
 for young men. It was young Featherstone, of Trinity — Freddy, 
 as he told me to call him — was my best friend ; and he got me away 
 from service. La ! he was a handsome young fellow, and such nice 
 ways with him. How could I help loving him ? and I did with all 
 my heart, or I'd ha' gone back to my friends in Devonshire. Cruel 
 young devil, he was, though. I could tell you of a dozen girls 
 beside myself the worse for knowing of him." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Fortescue. " Come, my good girl, hold your 
 jaw, and let me get you to where you may be made comfortable 
 a bit." 
 
 "I don't want nothin' cumfor'able — and I don't want you — yon 
 tarnation big fool ! Why couldn't you let me alone ? Why, you're 
 the cove that— by C — d I know you, now." 
 
 The poor wretch began whimpering again, and then turned and 
 looked wistfully back towards the river. But Harry had hold of
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 273 
 
 her clammy hand and arm, and gently tried to lead her away. But 
 she obstinately refused to move any further. Presently she con- 
 tinued in a dreary, bitter tone — 
 
 " That 'andsome young devil, Freddy Featherstone, after he'd 
 left Cambridge, got me to come up to London, and now he 
 hasn't been a-nigh me for months, though I begged him to t'other 
 night at the theatre — curse him ! and I think I've found out where 
 he lives — and if I didn't care a d — d deal too much for him still, I 
 could make his name stink in every street in London." 
 
 " Hush, hush, my girl. Don't make a row. Perhaps you haven't 
 treated him quite well sometimes. But never mind, come on now." 
 
 "No, that's true, by ! I did sometimes play him tricks 
 
 after he once sent me to the bad. But I wouldn't if he'd been 
 true to me, I swear. I never did, till I found from some of my pals 
 what a nasty lying young beggar he was. Oh, Freddy — Freddy ! 
 God have mercy on me ! I can't bear it ! I can't ! I'm half dead 
 with aches, and pains, and crying, and rotting, and gin, and my 
 head's like a boiler! " 
 
 Suddenly, with a piercing scream and a convulsive effort, the 
 girl flung off Fortescue's arm — sprang towards the steps by the 
 west side of the bridge, and rushed down them three or four at a 
 time. Harry was^after her in an instant, heard her fling herself 
 with a fearful shriek into the muddy tide, which was sweeping up 
 stream in great swirling eddies, and just saw her go down into the 
 dark waters like lead. He was now perfectly self-possessed — paused 
 for a single moment to tear off his coat and boots — while doing so 
 shouted " Help ! " in a voice that rang clear across the river, up 
 and down, and in the comparative silence of the streets was heard 
 by a policeman even in the Strand. The next moment he was 
 battling with the stream, straining his eyeballs to catch a glimpse 
 of the drowning woman. But the excitement and shock, after the 
 events of the previous four-and-twenty hours, were too much for 
 his exhausted frame. All his past life seemed rushing through his 
 brain in one lightning flash, amid which stood out vividly the 
 thoughts of innocent, beautiful Leila, of Alfred, Gerald, Neville 
 Court, and fair, green fields and sunshine; and then the memory of 
 a similar plunge years before — and then he just saw the miserable 
 creature he was trying to save come floating up to him, with 
 streaming hair and staring eyes, and a pale, paint-streaked face, 
 on which were horridly mingled a smile of gratitude and a hideous 
 leer, and despairing terror, — and he thought she clutched him 
 round the neck, and then he struggled hard for dear life — and 
 failed and went down himself — down, down. 
 
 S
 
 274 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 The girl's shriek and Harry's cry for help brought two police- 
 men to the bottom of the steps within two or three minutes after 
 Fortescue had plunged in. 
 
 "Thames police, ahoy!" was sung out into the midnight dark- 
 ness ; and then, hoarsely, came back the answer, along with the 
 sound of dashing oars, " Aye, aye ! Where away ?" 
 
 " 'Bove bridge — man and woman in!" For the midnight 
 guardians, by the light of their bulls'-eyes, had just caught sight of 
 Fortescue, and inferred there was another victim, from the shriek. 
 
 "It might be murder. Man thrown the woman in. Pretended 
 now to be trying to save her. Look sharp." Bulls'-eyes flashed a 
 bright stream of light far up the tide, but neither the men on the 
 steps nor those in the boat could see the faintest sign of either 
 drowning^body. Muddy water, swirling eddies, boat-hooks search- 
 ing fiercely for what would not be found. Drags, nets, buoys — all 
 in vain. Stay ! what's this ! 
 
 " Here, Jack, pull hard. Hold on, you lubber ! Catch hold. 
 Keep the boat steady, can't you, and be hanged ! Haul up. Coming 
 now — coming. Steady boys, steady. Hand in now. All right. 
 Here they are. Hold tight. Gone, by goles ! " 
 
 The men had pulled up two bodies — the woman's arms griping 
 the man tightly round the neck — both apparently dead. As they 
 were brought to the gunwale of the boat, the arms slipped over the 
 head, and the body to which they belonged sank heavily down, 
 just eluding the grasp of two of the policeman. The Inspector in 
 command of the boat swore at the men, who sulkily dragged in the 
 other body, and searched in vain for the one they had lost. 
 
 " Come, come — steady, boys, steady. Pull for shore now ! " cried 
 the Inspector. "This won't do. We mustn't lose both. Pull for 
 shore. Pull with a will, lads. Pull ! " 
 
 "Where's t'other?" grunted one of the policeman on land. 
 " Gone to Davy's locker, I guess. But we'll be after her." So 
 saying, the heavy dripping body was lifted out, and the men re- 
 seated themselves in the boat. 
 
 "Come along, boys," growled the Inspector; "try again. No 
 go, I fear. Not a chance. But try your best. Put her along, lads." 
 It was the man, not the woman, that was saved. Two of the 
 policemen carried the motionless form to a doctor's close at hand, 
 and indefatigable rubbing restored at length the life that had been 
 so nearly extinct. But Policeman X remained at the doctors on 
 guard. Fortescue was too ill the next day to be moved. When 
 the body of the female was recovered, a magistrate's clerk came 
 for the gentleman's deposition, and afterwards the magistrate him
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 275 
 
 self. Fortescue had the satisfaction of overhearing a muttered 
 conversation when he was supposed to be asleep, from which he 
 perceived that Policeman X strongly suspected him of having 
 thrown the girl into the river, and gave his evidence with a clear 
 bias in that direction. He was too weak and miserable to care 
 much about this turn in the affair, or to take any steps to clear 
 himself. His only anxiety was to avoid being known, and at all 
 events, by judicious tip to police functionary, prevent his name 
 getting into the papers. When the magistrate's clerk blandly 
 informed him that the coroner feared he must commit him on 
 suspicion of murder, Harry answered with placid composure : 
 
 "All right." Adding cheerfully, " If he can commit me to the 
 grave, I've no objection." 
 
 And to Newgate he would probably have gone as soon as he was 
 fit to be moved — for he persisted in refusing to give his name or 
 trying to get bail — had not Pierce and Neddy Grant been hunting 
 indefatigably for him as soon as he was discovered to be missing, 
 and not to be heard of at Neville Court. And now Master Neddy's 
 sociable tendencies among the police came into eminently useful 
 play. 
 
 One day, as they were tramping to Scotland Yard, soon after the 
 events just related, they met Bob Nicholson in the Strand. He 
 planted himself right in front of the philanthropic pair, stuck his 
 arms akimbo, and, after just one supercilious glance at them, gazed 
 over their shoulders into vacancy. 
 
 " What's up now, you son of a gun ? " exclaimed Pierce. " Is 
 the Snarley-yow to be presented at Court, or to be flogged for 
 garrotting ? " 
 
 The filial character thus addressed simply and slightly waved his 
 chin up and down in the air. 
 
 " Come, out with it ! we've a precious piece of work in hand," 
 cried Ned the Knowing, " and can't wait for your theatricals." 
 
 " Exchange, then," grunted Bob ; " I've an interesting fact to 
 impart." 
 
 " Done ! Fortcscue's been missing since Tuesday last. Took 
 nothing with him. Left just as a chop he had ordered was put on 
 the table. He and Featherstonc had been larking or fighting, 
 says his landlady ; but Featherstone's had del. ire., you know, since 
 and can't be seen — so the doctor says — and I know I'd give a dozen 
 of sherry to find my doctor, darn him ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " quoth Bob, " I saw he was going to the bad, weeks ago. 
 That's what comes of prudery; but I don't wonder. That poor 
 varmint, Featherstone, got him in tow at last."
 
 276 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "Curse Featherstone ! " cried honest Pierce, for he was an 
 admirer of Fortescue and jealous of Alfred. 
 
 " Somebody has done so," answered Bob, with due gravity of the 
 scornful kind, "knowing, doubtless, your wishes on the subject. 
 He was taken away from his lodgings to-day by his father, between 
 two keepers, to a private asylum." 
 
 " Poor devil ! " ejaculated Pierce, compassionately. 
 " Poor beast ! " responded Ned, pensively. 
 
 After a second or two the latter remarked, " I knew it must 
 come." 
 
 " Yes," responded Bob, " you were always a knowing one. Now 
 for the moral, my little friends. ' Est modus in rebus.' Farewell." 
 So they parted, Pierce calling over his shoulder — 
 
 " Drop in some night, old grunter. I'll get an author or two for 
 you to flay, by way of a jollification ;" while Bob, replied — 
 
 " Kill your fatted calf when you find the prodigal prude, you 
 ninny, and ask me to the dancing ! " 
 
 Pierce and Ned walked on for some time in silence. 
 " Yes," said the former at length, "if the 'rehus' are of a pretty 
 good sort. But if not — " 
 
 "Why then, I suppose, ' est Jim's in rebus,' " replied Ned. 
 " So I was beginning to think," said Pierce, dejectedly. 
 "Time you did. I've begun serious courtship, I'm glad to 
 inform you. Charming girl — splendid, I may say. Aristocratic 
 connections. Ahem ! You know I'm a partner now. ' Grant and 
 Son,' Australian merchants and ship-owners — that's the ticket, my 
 boy. No more of your plebeian ship-brokering now for me. Let 
 me seriously advise you, Pierce, to insure your life, raise money on 
 the policy, buy a neat little practice in a country town, marry a 
 rich patient's daughter (they're easily caught in country towns'. 
 and go in for respectability, domestic bliss, and a phceton. Mrs. 
 Edward Grant and I will visit you in a handsome carriage and pair, 
 to show that you have grand acquaintances, and that will improve 
 your practice. But, at all events, give up bad ways. You've had 
 warnings enough. I should be sorry to see you spifflicated. But 
 here's the bobbies' den." 
 
 Ned was made welcome at Scotland Yard by one of his chums 
 there, whom he fortunately met in the hall, and in the course of 
 that evening had the satisfaction of handing Fortescue a cup of tea 
 brewed by Pierce, and then of producing a pack of cards. He evi- 
 dently expected this latter manoeuvre would be effectual for raising 
 the patient's spirits, and was greatly disconcerted when an impatient 
 wave of Harry's hand scattered the pack bodily on the floor. Pierce
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 z 77 
 
 suggested Bell's Life as more cheerful, but was also foiled by the 
 sullen apathy of his patient. When they rose to go, however, they 
 were partially rewarded by the poor fellow's stammering thanks and 
 apologies. 
 
 " Well," said Pierce to him as they departed, "we won't let you, 
 anyhow, go to the dogs." 
 
 " Nay," observed Ned. " He can't do that. Was he not long 
 ago christened and sealed ' Our pet Newfoundland ?' "—pointing to 
 Harry's seal memorial ring. A desperately unlucky joke, by-the- 
 bye, like a good many of " Knowing Ned's" witticisms. 
 
 END OF PART I.
 
 278 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Arlington's conscience praised and petted him a little while for 
 writing to his friend Harry that letter which was duly chronicled in 
 a former chapter ; and, for a time, he was happy accordingly. But 
 then came a natural reaction. Thoughts of that face which he must 
 never look on again with warmer feelings than a brother's, would 
 intrude themselves between the eloquent periods of Demosthenes, 
 and would find him out even when wandering with Socrates and 
 Alcibiades in the groves of Academe, or scampering after a rabbit 
 with his frisky four-footed friend on the breezy downs. This 
 correspondence with Harry, as was previously observed, had 
 revived all his former interest in Leila, and when he ought to have 
 been writing diligently, for at least an hour at his Cyclopedia 
 work, or his tale for " Chambers' Journal," he found he had been 
 losing himself in his own "real-life" novel, dreaming of past 
 scenes and vanished hopes. But at length he rose up against this 
 weakness, sternly drove out every thought of love and womankind, 
 and crushed once again, as he fondly hoped for ever, his rebellious 
 passions. Then came — not peace, but only a cessation of strife, 
 accompanied by a weariness and depression which unfitted him for 
 any satisfactory work in spite of all his efforts. And then a great 
 real sorrow came on him. His beloved dog died — the " last link " 
 between him and the old Hartland days of jollity, when all sorts of 
 happy, high-bred dogs formed an essential element of his youthful 
 existence. It was a beautiful animal, full of affection and playful- 
 ness, to which he had always been much attached, but doubly so 
 during his lonely Robinson Crusoe life in his present exile. 
 
 "Please, sir, can I get you anything else?" said a soft little 
 voice one afternoon. Gerald looked up from the sofa where he was 
 reclining, and saw the girl who wailed on Mrs. Summer's lodgers 
 looking at him with shy compassion out of her blue eyes ; for the 
 dinner had been brought up half-an-hour before, and she found it
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 279 
 
 still untasted, as indeed had happened more than once lately. All 
 the household had mourned with him for the loss of the beautiful 
 loving animal, gone to " The Elysian hunting grounds." 
 
 " No, thank you, Jessy. I'll see what I can do with this" — and 
 he turned to the table while the blue-eyed maiden glided meekly 
 out of the room. He wished he could have asked her to stay and 
 talk a bit to him with that soft girlish voice and those dainty little 
 ways of hers. He felt so lonely now, sometimes, and he did so 
 long for woman's tenderness — for somebody to whom he could 
 show kindness, and who could give him just a little sympathy in 
 return. When the maiden first came — about a month ago — she 
 seemed as shy of him as a hare of a harrier, and slipped out of his 
 way as fast as possible. But since he had taken to moping, she 
 had lingered once or twice after bringing his meals or answering 
 the bell, as if she longed to cheer him up a bit. Poor thing ! 
 Perhaps she was lonely enough herself, for she was a maid-of-all- 
 work, and there were no children. 
 
 " Why, Jessy, you don't seem to be so much afraid of me as you 
 used," quoth Gerald, that evening when the girl was taking away 
 the tea-things. 
 
 "No, sir," she answered hesitatingly, and blushing up to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Did you think at first I was a wild beast or a cannibal, eh ?" 
 
 "No, sir, but " and she played confusedly with the tea 
 
 apparatus, like a little coquette, as she was. 
 
 "But what?" urged Gerald, getting interested. "Don't be 
 afraid." 
 
 " Why, sir, where I last lived, the young gentlemen were some- 
 times rude, sir." 
 
 " More shame for them. And where was that, may I ask ?" 
 
 "At Mrs. Manville's, sir, Portman Square. She was a cousin of 
 a Miss Fortescue you may have heard of, sir, the heiress of Neville 
 Court, near Dorking." Gerald started, then remembered he was 
 safe under his alias, and composedly inquired if she had ever been 
 in service before going to Mrs. Manville's. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir. I was with dear Miss Fortescue three years. She 
 was just like an angel to me and to my poor dear mother. She 
 often writes to me now. I can't tell you how good she has been 
 to me." 
 
 " Then why did you leave her ? " 
 
 Jessy blushed again, looked down on the carpet, out at the 
 window, nearly upset the teapot again, and was more bewitching 
 than ever — and she knew it.
 
 2 So GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "There was a young man, sir, brought up with us, and he " 
 
 "Wanted to make love, eh ?" Gerald was astonished at his own 
 indiscretion ; for, generally, he was remarkably reserved in com- 
 municating with servants of the fair sex. But there was something 
 irresistibly attractive to him in his lonely estate, just then, in the 
 sweet maiden modesty and confiding grace of this " neat-handed 
 Phillis," and it was such a relief from the dull aching want of old 
 friends to talk with her. 
 
 " Well, if he was a good sort of young fellow, why shouldn't he ? 
 I suppose we are all meant for that." 
 
 " He was very respectable, sir," said Jessy, quietly; "but, you see, 
 Miss Ellen said I was a great deal too young, and then " (pausing 
 a little), " please, sir, she said he was too rough like, and had no 
 hedication" (with a little toss of her head); "and she thought he 
 might take after his father, who was sometimes a great deal too 
 fond of the drink, sir, and so she wished to get me a place away 
 from the neighbourhood. Can I do anything else for you to- 
 night, Sir ? I've got to go out for missus." 
 
 " No, thank you, my child. Good night." 
 
 " She is a very sweet little thing," thought Gerald to himself, 
 musing one evening shortly after this conversation. " God bless 
 her. I hope she'll find the right man to take care of and love her. 
 
 She'll have need of him" (then a long meditation) 
 
 " Good heavens, life is getting weary. What on earth is the matter 
 with me ? Nothing written to-day, not much more yesterday, and 
 little enough read. Is all my inspiration gone ? Gone ! Now — 
 now that I have my fate in my own hands — now that nothing 
 hinders my climbing, step by step, to the heights I have so longed 
 to scale ! " 
 
 He strove hard, read, walked, rowed .... but his heart 
 
 ached on And Jessy was hovering about with officious* 
 
 attentions, full of her girlish happiness and vanity at being spoken 
 to so kindly and sympathizingly by the lonely studious gentleman ; 
 and, as her confidence in his gentlemanly demeanour grew, pari 
 passu, with her interest in his mysterious sorrows, Gerald felt daily 
 more bewitched by the cunning little maiden's ways and conversa- 
 tions. His imagination invested her with qualities she didn't 
 possess, and he credited her besides, not quite accurately, with 
 perfect artlcssness, simplicity, and innocence. Pure and innocent, 
 indeed, she certainly was, but an arrant little flirt and coquette in 
 her heart, nevertheless, with a great idea of captivating some 
 handsome young gentleman by her pretty face and thereby accom- 
 plishing a fine match for herself — a design which other pretty girls
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 2Sl 
 
 of much higher rank than hers have sometimes also been said to 
 entertain. But what was all this to Gerald Arlington ? He wasn't 
 looking out for a wife — especially among maid-servants with pretty 
 faces, with no education, and silly ambitions. What business had 
 he to converse with her at all ? At length he asked himself that 
 question pretty sternly. Pity he had not done so a little sooner. 
 And then he asked himself another. What is to be the end of all 
 this ? The answer was a request to Mrs. Sumner for her bill, 
 followed by payment for a week in lieu of notice, and a departure 
 with bag and baggage by the M coach the following day. 
 
 Jessy watched him going with the "Boots," who carried his 
 luggage to the inn where the coach changed horses, till he had 
 turned the corner ; but he didn't look back. And then she went 
 up to her little room in the garret, and stuffed her head under the 
 bed-clothes that her sobs mightn't be heard, and cried for a good 
 five minutes. He had spoken to her' on leaving in a very kind, 
 fatherly way, and the thought of that made her cry the more. But, 
 then, he had given her a very pretty riband, and she could not help 
 leaving off crying to get up and gaze at it, and to see how becoming 
 it looked on her bonnet. Bear up, Jessy ; that kind gentleman is 
 not " Mr. Wright." Wait and work, and keep your affiance 
 faithfully to a higher lord — and don't give way to vanity and 
 coquetry. Then, perhaps, the real right man will come along 
 by-and-bye. 
 
 Harry's respectability being satisfactorily proved, and no evidence 
 forthcoming against him beyond the policeman X's suspicions, his 
 own statement was, of course, accepted by the magistrate ; and 
 Ned the Knowing, with Pierce and Nicholson (the latter being 
 cheerful for that special occasion), having met him in court, escorted 
 him to the door of the carriage, in which his sister was waiting to 
 take him down to Neville Court. He wished the men at Jericho ; 
 but they bore him much regard in their way, and had agreed that 
 he needed cheerful society, the want whereof they opined had 
 probably caused his late misfortunes : item — each of them indulged 
 a secret hope and strong desire of getting an invitation to come 
 down and amuse Mr. Fortescue at his charming sister's beautiful 
 home. Instead of this, they only received that lady's very winning 
 and grateful thanks; and each in his way felt for the moment 
 supremely happy as those sweet words and smiles came beaming 
 forth from the interior of the landau. They had done Fortescue 
 one concluding service after he had given them a general sketch of 
 how he had come to be once again engaged in " Salvage service,* 1 
 as Ned Grant professionally described it. They had found out
 
 282 GERALD AND HIS FRIEXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 for him where the body of the poor creature had been buried. She 
 had been interred by the parish in a dingy corner of a frowzy 
 London churchyard, after a coroner's inquest, and the usual verdict 
 of " Temporary Insanity." 
 
 So Harry asked his sister to tell the coachman to go out of his 
 way and stop for ten minutes at the corner of a narrow street while 
 he went to look at a pauper-harlot's grave. 
 
 Let the weary, sinful body rest there till the day of that judg- 
 ment which is alike merciful and just ; and let one of the partners 
 of her guilt returning from it rest his wear)' self also for a little 
 while, as he best can, in the quiet loveliness of that peaceful Neville 
 Court, and in the sisterly kindness which still yearned towards him. 
 
 Rest ! Yes, for a little while. But he heard from his sister how 
 much Leila Featherstone had suffered, not only on her brother's 
 account, but for himself also ; and he saw more clearly than ever 
 what he had lost at the very moment when it was within his grasp. 
 He had little doubt he had lost her for ever. 
 
 Strange to say, nevertheless, in the depth of her grief and most 
 miserable disappointment, Ellen could not bear to believe her 
 brother must never think again of winning Leila's heart, and 
 vibrated backwards and forwards in her opinion as to whether she 
 ought to try and reverse her young friend's decision. Her's was a 
 very sweet, loving nature, but without any remarkable depth or 
 strength of character, except in her affections and benevolence. 
 She had thought Miss Tylney was perhaps too hard upon young 
 men. She shrank sometimes more from giving pain than she 
 desired to uphold the right ; partly because her soul was so child- 
 like in its purity and love that she could not realize the vice and 
 villainy around her. There was more of the angel in her than of 
 the saint ; and living in such a world as this, she might easily 
 betray the solemn interests of rectitude and truth, might be 
 unfaithful to the God of holiness simply through her unwillingness 
 or inability to see and believe in the actual state of the world. Her 
 example infected her brother, but not consciously. 
 
 "No, no," answered Harry at length with desperate energy; " I 
 know I haven't the ghost of a chance. It's all over. Gerald Arling- 
 ton, noble fellow, is worthy of her ; I am not — never, never shall be 
 again. He has loved her for years — gave way to me — never gave 
 me a hint of it. Just like his generous self, and I wronged him so 
 shamefully. God grant he may win her at last. Heigho ! " 
 
 " But dear, dear Harry, don't, pray don't despair. I don't think 
 you ought to give her up entirely. I can't bear to see you so miser- 
 able. You have sinned, but is there no place for repentance ? You
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 283 
 
 have won Leila Featherstone's affections, and you have no right to 
 give her up to anybody else till you know what are her own real 
 feelings. I don't mean now, but by-and-bye. If she really loves 
 you better than Mr. Arlington she may still have you, and it's for 
 her, Harry, to decide which of you she loves best, not for you." 
 Curiously enough this was almost a new idea to her brother. 
 He grasped for a moment at the hope with piteous vehemence. 
 She continued — "I must, I will tell her it was Alfred who led 
 you on, riot you that took him astray. I may plead for you, 
 Harry dear," and she looked up at him with such yearning 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Yes, Nelly, it is right, I see, that she should just know all and 
 then decide for herself. But Nelly"— then with a great effort (God 
 only knows how great) — " she must see this letter" — he produced 
 Gerald's last letter to him — " she must know how good and noble 
 he is, and she must know how deeply he has loved her. She hasn't 
 a fair chance unless she sees that letter. But if she does ! — There, 
 there, take it ; I insist on your showing it, mind, and that settles 
 my fate." Then he turned abruptly away and rushed out of the 
 room. 
 
 Miss Fortescue felt almost as great a reluctance to show the letter 
 to Leila as her brother did to send it. She feared that he had 
 scarcely a chance as it was, and that when Leila knew Gerald's 
 feelings Harry might bid farewell to all hope of an engagement, 
 which she believed was, humanly speaking, the only thing that 
 could save him. Nevertheless, she could not disobey her brother. 
 So she wrote that night to Leila, saying she much wished to see 
 her to say one last word about her brother, and enclosing Gerald's 
 letter to Harry, the result being a brief, plaintive request that she 
 would drive over to Wimbledon at the first convenient opportunity. 
 The afternoon of that day found her on the sofa in Leila's little 
 boudoir-study with the poor girl repressing inclinations both to 
 tears and laughter beside her. 
 
 " Oh, Ellen, Ellen !" she exclaimed in reply to her friend's timid 
 pleadings for Harry, "I could have loved your brother so deeply; 
 I did once look up to him with such romantic admiration, but I've 
 seen since it was just a girlish fancy, not real love, Ellen. Yet even 
 when I found he did not satisfy the deeper wants of my nature I 
 could have soon loved him, truly, wholly, for I thought Mr. 
 Arlington had no love to give me or anyone — but the Muses! Yes ; 
 I could have loved your brother, dearest, I think — yes, so truly — if 
 only — if it had not been for that night." 
 
 A burst of tears prevented further explanation, which indeed was
 
 284 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 only too little needed by poor Ellen, who did her best to comfort 
 her friend, by crying with her. 
 
 " And then this letter, dearest," at length continued Miss 
 Featherstone, holding out Gerald's letter to Harry. " When I had 
 been thinking and trying — oh, how hard ! — to see if I couldn't look 
 forward to marrying Mr. Fortescue years hence, this letter, Ellen, 
 has shown me" — and she hid her head in her friend's bosom — 
 "how very, very deeply — without indeed being aware of it — I have 
 loved the writer. Ellen, if you knew how intensely happy that 
 letter has made me, even amidst all the misery of Alfred's illness, 
 you will see (now I know what he has so long felt for me) that 
 I ought not to — cannot marry any other man. I did not know 
 what I felt for him before. I enjoyed his conversation. I was always 
 so calm and glad in his company — he lifted me out of such 'sloughs 
 of Despond' up to high, bright. places, and I felt so grateful to him 
 under God for the light and freedom — yes, and peace, which he 
 gave me, but I never knew it was love till — till that dear letter 
 came. Years ago I thought him weak and frivolous, though very 
 fascinating even then. But when others were blaming him so for 
 giving up business to go and study, though I doubted whether he 
 ought to leave his father and mother, I thought there was some- 
 thing so intensely unworldly, Ellie, so generous and devoted in it — 
 you understand me, dearest — that — that I couldn't help thinking 
 about him and caring for him. And now, Ellen, now that I see 
 how he tried to keep your brother out of sin, and that he has been 
 loving me so long, and how it explains his not calling, and all that 
 puzzled me, and — oh! he w worthy of all the love I could give him, 
 and of far, far more." 
 
 She lifted her head and thrust back the dark hair from her tear- 
 stained face, and looked upwards with that smile of mingled rapture, 
 humility, pride, and tenderness which lights up most women's faces, 
 probably, when they first realize they are beloved by the man who 
 has won their own heart. Ellen thought she had never beheld a 
 vision at once so beautiful and holy. All the more deeply she 
 grieved for her brother's unspeakable loss ; so that it was soon 
 Leila's part to comfort Ellen. 
 
 " But, my darling," said Ellen, as Leila kissed away her tears, 
 " how can you look forward to an engagement with Gerald Arling- 
 ton ? You know your father's horror of romantic young men with- 
 out settled incomes or professions. I fear there is sorrow before 
 you, if you really give that poor poet your dear and most precious 
 little heart. And how can you ever come to an understanding with 
 him ? He has no right to ask your love. You cannot volunteer an
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 285 
 
 explanation ; you will go pining on for years. He'll never be able 
 to offer such a home as alone would satisfy your father. And how is 
 he to know your feelings ? Oh dear, oh dear ! " 
 
 But the young girl looked up at her tearful friend with a bright, 
 shy, happy glance, and murmured — 
 
 " Ellen, where there is true, real love, don't you think each finds 
 it out at the right time ? and in that mutual knowledge alone is 
 there not joy enough for a life-time ? For the earthly union can 
 they not wait ? Would not you ? Ah, Nelly dearest, are you not 
 waiting ? " 
 
 "Lily, dear, I was wrong. Yes," she continued with a heavy 
 sigh. " If he is worthy of you, you may both wait on, and find 
 ' blessedness, if not happiness,' as the writer of your favourite 
 ' Sartor Resartus ' says. May God help and strengthen and perfect 
 you. Gerald Arlington shall know some day — yes, leave that to 
 me — Gerald ought to, in due time shall — know that his self-sacrifice 
 
 is to be rewarded by my darling's heart But, one 
 
 thing, Leila, do you not know he is a Dissenter, and holds very 
 strange opinions. How can such a union be blessed, how can your 
 parents ever consent ? Dearest, I had forgotten this, but, oh, is it 
 not a dark, sad hindrance ? " 
 
 " No, Ellen, I have thought over all that, many a time. I 
 couldn't help thinking about it sometimes, you know. And I have 
 read, and thought, and prayed, over these differences between 
 Christians, and I do not think there is anything essentially separat- 
 ing me from Gerald Arlington. I have read his favourite works on 
 religion ; they are very dear to me — see, there they are " (pointing 
 to a set of " Channing's Works"). " He lent them to me first 
 through Miss Tylney, and then I bought them all. I have had 
 such glorious insight from them into the meaning of Scripture and 
 of God's love, that life has become wholly transfigured to me. Do 
 you not think I may feel grateful to him for all this ? . . . . 
 Ellen, I never could have borne this great, terrible mystery of 
 
 Alfred's conduct, and of •" her voice faltered — " had it not been 
 
 for these new and precious revelations of our Heavenly Father 
 which He has thus granted to me. Don't look so frightened, 
 dearest Miss Fortescue ; I don't mean that I have given up all my 
 old faith, or our dear old Church, only that his faith seems to sup- 
 plement mine. I was far more miserable, dearest, before this last 
 blow, while my brother was giving way to his horrid temptations, 
 than I am now that he is struck down and removed from them. 
 Our Father seems to have taken him into His own hands now, and 
 I feel I can give him up to that merciful keeping. I did so murmur,
 
 2 86 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 and struggle, and rebel before, Ellen, yet I could do nothing — I 
 was constantly being beaten back. Now, I have given up every- 
 thing to God. He will do what is right — wholly what is best for 
 all of us. Ellen, I can say — " and the quiet tears were wiped away — 
 " I can say from my heart, ' His will be done.' .... There 
 is an end of sin for my poor brother now. Oh, Ellen, I can see 
 there is no help, no peace, no safety from one's own madness and 
 death but in perfect trust. . . . Mother tried to teach me to 
 give myself up to an Irresistible Will — a righteous, holy Being. 
 Her faith is very lofty and noble ; but oh, Ellie, there was no love 
 in it. Gerald, and those books of his, taught me to come to a 
 loving Father ; — a Father in heaven," and her voice sank to a tone 
 of mingled gratitude and confiding reverent love. 
 
 And so Ellen was brought to peace respecting her beloved one, 
 though to hopeless sorrow for her poor brother. She had witnessed 
 something of Leila's first fierce paroxysms of agony and despair 
 when Alfred's state was announced to her ; and with unspeakable 
 relief seeing now this devout tranquillity, she took her leave of the 
 poor girl who, hiding both her smiles and tears, accompanied her 
 friend to the carriage-door. 
 
 What would not Leila have given to be able, with a good con- 
 science, to let herself be driven away just then with her friend to 
 Neville Court, had not Fortescue been staying there, and had not 
 her father and mother, of course, needed all she could do to cheer 
 and amuse them at home. But from that hour she had a new 
 source of strength. A thousand times a-day came back the thought 
 bringing with it each time a thrill of exquisite happiness. " He 
 loves me, he loves me," and perhaps that letter which Ellen had sent 
 but did not take away, received those sacred kisses in secret 
 moments, which, in most maiden's lives, we suppose, herald the 
 far more blessed kiss given at length to the writer himself of some 
 such precious lines — precious, whether on rose-coloured paper or 
 a dirty scrawl. And then there was the secret hope that some day, 
 perhaps soon, Gerald might know all her own deep interest in him 
 and her gratitude to him ; and that by-and-bye, in God's good 
 time, he would win fame and competence, and ask her to share his 
 lot on earth and the home in heaven which she believed awaited 
 the pure in heart and the loving workers of every class. Had she 
 been in the blaze of prosperity, with all her pride and buoyancy of 
 youth and beauty untamed by sorrow, she might not have loved 
 so deeply — nor so greatly prized the knowledge of the love hoarded 
 for her in that romantic student's heart. But now it was everything 
 to her, — next to the heavenly love ; and her parents wondered
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 287 
 
 whence came the light that brightened her soul and their own sad 
 hearth. She had never played to them or practised by herself — 
 passionately fond as she had always been of her piano — with half 
 the tenderness and power she manifested now. 
 
 But there is no perfect peace, apparently, intended for us here. 
 As days passed on a reaction would sometimes cast Leila Feather- 
 stone down into darkness ; and at such times a deep-rooted con- 
 viction, that had first taken possession of her years ago, gained 
 strength, and persuaded her that she was not meant for the 
 happiness of wedded life — that a different work was appointed to 
 her. She fell into sombre reflections, and sometimes thought it 
 more and more probable that it would be her duty to give herself 
 up to a life of active Christian benevolence as a Protestant Sister 
 of Mercy. 
 
 Much of the old ascetic spirit of self-denial — fanatical in the 
 extremes to which it had once led her, but sublime in its original 
 purity — came back upon her in these seasons of gloom. Gerald 
 had lifted her for a time out of the fanaticism ; but now the pos- 
 sibility of having to crush every tender feeling that gathered round 
 the thought of him only made the greater reaction in her mind 
 against his present views of life and work. Long before he could 
 come forward to declare his love, he might meet with some one 
 whom he preferred to her — nay, having so entirely given up all 
 thoughts of her for his friend's sake, he might have already ceased 
 to care for her. When these fears came over her, she felt with 
 intense and morbid energy that an exclusive devotion to the life 
 above indicated could alone make existence bearable. Then, too, 
 there came at times a vision of a quiet country parsonage — a village 
 church — her husband in the pulpit, or praying by the sick-bed — 
 teaching in the Sabbath school — and she worshipping with or 
 helping him so gladly — so unweariedly. 
 
 Ah, if Gerald Arlington could but be a clergyman ! that might 
 be heaven on earth. 
 
 What was the meaning of all this unhappy dissent and eccentric 
 benevolence ? Why was he moving in that comet-like orbit, 
 which seemed to be taking him into far-off realms of icy cold 
 and darkness ?
 
 288 GERALD AND KIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 As Miss Fortescue's carriage approached a four-cross way on her 
 return from Wimbledon, the coachman suddenly pulled up. A 
 gentleman on horseback rode to the carriage window. It was 
 Harry Fortescue, but looking so pale and stern that Ellen at first 
 scarcely recognized him in the gathering twilight. He bent 
 forward, and in a hoarse voice said : 
 
 " There has been an express sent to say that Mrs. Arlington is 
 very ill — dying — and they can't find Gerald. They want me to 
 help to look for him. I've got the man's horse, and am off to 
 
 catch the Northport mail for Deansford " Then, in a whisper, 
 
 between his teeth — " Tell me, for Christ's sake, is there hope for 
 me ? " 
 
 At first Ellen could not answer; but her look was enough. 
 
 " None ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "None," she answered. 
 
 He dropped his head on his horse's neck with a groan, and his 
 frame trembled. Ellen could not bear the sight of his agony. 
 
 " No, no," she said, hurriedly, in a low voice ; " I was very 
 wrong, brother, to say that. It was wicked of me to say there was 
 no hope. I think, perhaps, by-and-bye, Harry, — I cannot tell. 
 Oh, Harry, keep your trust — your trust, at least, in God." 
 
 But he had struck spurs into his horse, and was galloping up the 
 chalky road like the "wild huntsman" of German legend, leaving 
 her overpowered with grief at his misery, and with her own remorse 
 for having tried to give him a momentary hope. She might well 
 feel guilty : it was a grave error. As for Fortescue himself, could 
 he but have remembered his friend's claims in that moment of 
 anguish, and asked whether there was hope, if not for himself, then 
 for the generous fellow who had so long stood aside to give him 
 room ! 
 
 Yet, looking at the average run of men, how could he be expected 
 to have any thought at such a moment but for his own misery ? 
 
 Well, in earlier days, Harry would, perhaps, have been an ex- 
 ception to the general rule. His first thoughts then would still 
 have been, no doubt, for himself; but his second would have been 
 for his friend, and he would have asked if he might take comfort at 
 least to him. But Harry had deteriorated — as, perhaps most of us
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 289 
 
 do — for a season, at all events. Passion was stronger and self more 
 tyrannical than formerly. Yet, some would say that to talk thus is 
 as if we had never been in love ourselves. There was less excuse, 
 perhaps, for Ellen's omitting to ask him to give Gerald hope by 
 telling him of Leila's feelings than for momentarily encouraging 
 his own hopes ; but what time was there for anything ? And how 
 incongruous, too, was the whole subject with the object for which 
 Harry was seeking the poor fellow ? 
 
 Not so very long after, Harry himself would have confessed with 
 remorse that the question did flash through his mind in that brief 
 interview with his sister whether she had shewn Gerald's letter to 
 Miss Featherstone, and whether Leila had then confessed she loved 
 the man of whom he had been so instinctively, though unworthily, 
 jealous. But he could not bear in that critical moment to ask the 
 question. The thought was torture. He had so long, and with 
 such strength of passion, looked on Leila as sooner or later to be 
 his wife — so thoroughly accepted Gerald's sacrifice — felt her so 
 much a part of his very being — that he seemed even now, when she 
 had refused him, to have a sort of right to her which, indeed, only 
 her own lips could have given him. " Women," said he to himself, 
 after a time, " naturally resist us, and love us the better for not 
 taking their denial." 
 
 So he sped away over the hills, full but of one thought and 
 feeling : " I love her — I love her still ! The man or woman who 
 would hinder me from winning her is my deadly enemy ! " 
 
 Yet this was the man who, a few hours before, had been noble 
 enough to insist on Ellen's showing Leila his friend's letter ! 
 Perhaps he felt too sure of his hold on the maiden's heart to fear a 
 rival. But we are all a mass of inconsistencies. 
 
 Fortescue reached the town and lodgings where Gerald Arlington, 
 alias " George Arkwright" had last been heard of, and to which 
 letter after letter had been sent in vain. Mrs. Sumner and Jessy 
 knew no more than that he had gone down (with the " Boots " 
 from the " Crown" Inn carrying his luggage) to some coach that 
 stopped there to dine. "Boots" at first could remember nothing 
 at all. But a silver refresher brightened up his faculties, and he 
 sent Fortescue off by the next coach. It certainly was the same 
 that poor Gerald had mounted a few weeks before, but, unhappily, 
 it was then going in precisely an opposite direction, " Boots' " 
 memory being none of the best under any circumstances, and being 
 a little extra obfuscated just then by potations supplied from the 
 " Crown " tap at the expense of a frisky " commercial gent." So 
 Harry went miles away in the wrong direction— hunted on a wrong 
 
 j'
 
 290 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 scent for two or three days, and at length got hold of the coachman 
 who had driven Gerald on the day in question, but who had been 
 " off on the spree " for a couple of days, alilcr, getting married. 
 This functionary was more gifted than the subordinate official at 
 the "Crown," and put Harry down at the very spot where he 
 deposited the broad-shouldered young gentleman "with the pleasant 
 twinkle like o' the eye, and dark chestnut-coloured whiskers." But 
 this was at the corner of a narrow street in a large town, and Harry 
 was utterly at fault. A special message by the fast coach, "The 
 Wonder," to " Ned the Knowing," brought down a detective next 
 day, and, after one more day's search, Harry and his blood-hound 
 arrived at the door of an old-fashioned house in the suburbs of the 
 town. There blood-hound faced about. 
 
 " Expect he'll show fight, sir ? — handcuffs or barkers, sir?" 
 
 " Lord bless you, no, my man — only a friend." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said the official, rather disappointed. "All right, 
 sir." Then climbed the stairs, knocked at the door, first pair 
 back, and entered. Bloodhound saw at a glance it was as he had 
 observed, " All right." 
 
 " London, sir?" quoth he, aside to Harry. 
 
 " Yes, three places by the next. Goes at four. If no room, 
 posters." 
 
 "All right, sir." He withdrew, and the two friends were left 
 alone. 
 
 Gerald dropped the hand he was cordially shaking, for his heart 
 misgave him. 
 
 " Something's the matter. Speak, that's a good fellow." 
 
 " Gerald, you did wrong to give us all the slip. I've been nearly 
 a week hunting for you." 
 
 " You don't mean it. Good heavens, what's amiss ?" 
 
 " I don't know that it is as bad as I fear, but when I left 
 
 London, your mother was " Gerald started up with a cry of 
 
 pain — 
 
 " No, no, you don't mean ? " 
 
 " She was very, very ill, Gerald." 
 
 Arlington began mechanically stuffing things into a carpet-bag, 
 hiding his face from his friend and muttering, "God forgive me." 
 Then turning abruptly to Harry : " You've ordered a chaise ? " 
 
 " There's a London coach, Gerry, at four p.m." 
 
 " Can't wc go before ? I've money for posting ! " 
 
 " The coach will be here in twenty minutes now, Gerald, and 
 if there's room, that's best. It would beat a chaise and pair. 
 Come along. Let me carry that."
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 29 1 
 
 Gerald's state of mind as they were whirled along to London 
 was not enviable. Yet what was his grief compared with that of 
 his father, the seemingly hard, cold man — great on 'Change — 
 mighty in engineering colossal enterprize, whose life now seemed 
 so splendid and triumphant in its merchant-princely sphere ? He 
 had sat by his wife's sick-bed almost day and night, till business 
 matters of painful moment had forced him up to town. Not a 
 clerk in his office, not a friend in the streets, could have formed 
 the faintest idea of what that man was suffering. There were a 
 few who did know that the once gigantic prosperity of the house 
 he represented was undermined, and that the fatal storm which was 
 gathering in America in the winter and early spring of 1837 was 
 charged with imminent peril to all but the very strongest and safest 
 English houses. 
 
 But even Mr. Featherstone, who, as we said, was largely involved 
 in a Russian-tallow speculation with Arlington and Co., scarcely 
 now dared to look for any confidence from his friend or to offer 
 any consolation. The fact was, Mr. Arlington could not make up 
 his mind to tell William Featherstone the whole state of the case 
 as regarded his own business, and there he was much to blame. 
 Many a firm was waiting through that bleak March month in 
 gloomy silence for the denouement which a brief time would bring ; 
 but things at length looked worse for Mr. Arlington's house than 
 he had imagined possible. 
 
 To attempt " realizing " then would have been fatal. Everything 
 depended on their being able to hold on till the rise should come. 
 That it would come was certain — but the Bank of England was 
 already raising its discounts, and narrowly scrutinizing proffered 
 bills. Day after day it became more evident that the speculators 
 would have to wait for their market until the coming crash was 
 over ; and day after day Mr. Arlington met his fading wife with a 
 loving, cheery smile, while he knew that probably before she was 
 in her grave he might be a beggar. Bills must be provided for 
 v/eek by week, and among them the heavy Petersburgh paper for 
 which renewal was asked, but refused. Every available security 
 belonging to the house was converted, often at great depreciation. 
 The harassed man ought now to have made a full revelation of the 
 state of his affairs to the partner in his speculation, Mr. Feat! 
 stone, but his pride would not let him. He could not bear the 
 thought — he, the honoured head of so old and influential a lion . 
 the haughty city potentate, who had so long tower d I h 
 the great commercial chiefs of the day, and who had been tardily 
 recognized as the far-sighted leader of enterprises that shed glory
 
 2Q2 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 not on London only, but on Great Britain, throughout the world — 
 was he to go, " with bated breath" and cap in hand, to confess to 
 a man who, though arrogant and irritable enough to others, never 
 dared to show anything but deference to Stephen Arlington — was 
 he to go and confess he had been ruining himself and seriously 
 jeopardizing his friend's business also, and then humbly ask for help 
 to avert a crash ? He wouldn't and couldn't do it. So he shut his 
 eves to facts, deceived himself with illusory expectations, and on 
 the whole felt satisfied he was doing all that could be required of 
 him. It was the great error of his life. 
 
 However he mortgaged and sold securities right and left, but all 
 to no purpose. 
 
 At length the break-down in the speculation was decisive, for it 
 was plain the hemp and tallow must be sold. But though all chance 
 of profit was now gone, the house might yet pull through, for surely 
 Arlington and Co.'s credit was still good in the Bank parlour. 
 The sales were ordered and effected, at a serious loss. Mr. Feather- 
 stone was merely told by letter that the speculation had broken 
 down, and the sales made, but that the loss, eventually, would not 
 be serious. A few more days passed. The panic continued. 
 
 It was the day before his wife died, and the very height of 
 the commercial crisis. Mr. Arlington was in his counting-house — 
 ivaiting. His confidential clerk had gone with ^"3000 worth of 
 
 bills for discounting to the Bank of England. Waiting . 
 
 Will they — will some of them — be " condemned ? " The door 
 opened ; in walked Mr. Weatherley, flushed and nervous. 
 
 " Refused any of them ?" inquired Mr. Arlington, with a slight 
 tremor in his calm, deep voice. 
 
 " All of them, sir," was the fatal answer. 
 
 " Then the end of the matter is not far off," rejoined his employer 
 quietly. " You may try Overend's. But it's no use. However, at 
 the worst, there are ample private securities. We must sell them. 
 Featherstone needn't suffer." 
 
 It was of no use. Universally as Stephen Arlington was respected 
 on 'Change, who would be fool enough to risk money on his bills 
 at such a time, now that by forcing sales of the Petersburgh goods 
 he had shewn that he had no capital to stand upon ? 
 
 "Well, at the worst," repeated Mr. Arlington, "we have solid 
 securities to fall back upon." 
 
 The confidential clerk shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 " Nonsense," said his employer angrily. But he felt the clerk 
 knew more than himself, and he began to doubt a little, also.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 293 
 
 So he went down to Hartland that night to watch by his wife's 
 bed through its long, sad hours, knowing the while that all he most 
 dearly loved at home, as well as all that he had lived for in the outer 
 world, was swiftly gliding away from him. It was only a question 
 of hours in the one case and days in the other. But his heart 
 never sank nor quailed. His old Puritan blood and early training 
 had given him not only marvellous fortitude and self-reliance, but 
 the steadfast faith of his forefathers in the " Rock of Ages " — a 
 faith that had been somewhat dimmed in the midst of prosperity, 
 but which he had never let go, even amidst considerable and grow- 
 ing worldliness, and which now no storms could shake. So there 
 he sat and looked across the dark gulf alike of death and worldly 
 ruin with stoical sublimity. But neither fortitude nor faith could 
 prevent the terrible aching pang which gnawed ceaselessly at his 
 heart. 
 
 Perhaps it was in mercy that his commercial trials came at the 
 moment when his wife was parting from him. The greater sorrow 
 dwarfed the less, yet he longed — this seemingly cold, proud father, 
 longed for his boy Gerald to be with him — longed, not merely for 
 his poor wife's sake, who in her fast-failing strength still again and 
 again passionately prayed that she might embrace her boy once more 
 before she died, but also because with a father's love he loved him. 
 Her sister Caroline was a great blessing to the mother, but she was 
 not her first-born son. Richard came nearly every day, but brought 
 small comfort to either parent ; yet his outward behaviour was as 
 correct and considerate as could be desired, only there seemed no 
 heart in it. Gerald, with his warm, loving sympathies, would have 
 been such a blessing to both father and mother in that trial-time, 
 and yet he came not. Letters were sent, and until they came back 
 through the Dead letter office, marked " Gone away — left no 
 address," they counted on him day after day—yet he came not. 
 Each ring of the bell made poor Mrs. Arlington turn beseechingly to 
 her husband or sister, mutely asking them to see if it were Gerald 
 arrived at last. And as the husband sat holding his wife's wasted 
 hand did not sad thoughts and questionings come over him concern- 
 ing the way in which he himself had dealt with his boy's fine, strong 
 nature, and imaginative as well as benevolent disposition ? Cer- 
 tainly there were in that lad, he now began to think remorsefully, 
 the materials for a fine career that might work beneficently on 
 society. Had he, as a father, welcomed the gift God had thus put 
 into his hands quite in the way it required and deserved, might not 
 his son have now been at home quietly working in the direction to 
 which the deepest instincts of his nature impelled him, preparing
 
 29+ 
 
 GERALD AND HIS FR1EXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 for useful public activity instead of wandering lonely, self-exiled 
 from the family circle ? What would have been the use of forcing 
 him into business when all his own life-long labours were about to 
 end in dismal ruin ? Half-repentant, and wholly-compassionate 
 thoughts like these quenched the indignation he felt at first when, 
 finding his wife suddenly grow worse, he learnt that Gerald had left 
 the town where Fortescue had hitherto addressed him without 
 furnishing any clue to his next residence. Mr. Arlington had reason 
 for remorse deeper than he felt. What duty can be binding if it is 
 not a parent's duty to study his boy's character, qualifications, 
 strongest tendencies, and then as far as possible so to place him in 
 life as to give him the best possible chance of a useful, happy, and 
 honourable career? This Gerald's father had not done, but had 
 blindly forced him out of his natural groove into the sphere for 
 which his own character and abilities fitted himself, but which was 
 utterly unsuited to his son. He was right to demand hard work, 
 stern, unflagging perseverance ; right to set his face like a flint 
 against an idle, dilettanti, literary life ; but surely most grievously 
 wrong not to have helped that son to find a sphere of life and work 
 that would have given fair play to Gerald's great natural powers, 
 and have harmonised his passionate aspirations with the duties and 
 drudgery of daily existence. This would have been perfectly 
 possible if Mr. Arlington had attempted it. Gerald, like all youths 
 with something of genius and strongly-marked tendencies, was not 
 afraid of persevering work ; on the contrary, would have rejoiced 
 in it with unflagging ardour and delight had it only been in har- 
 mony with the nature which the Creator had bestowed on him. But 
 his father, with all his nobleness, was blind and headstrong, and 
 must reap what he had sown. 
 
 Miss Tylney, who had been staying with Mr. and Mrs. Arlington 
 at Hastings, and had of course accompanied them on their return 
 to Hartland House, suspected the change in her brother-in-law's 
 feelings towards Gerald, and gently moved him in the same direc- 
 tion. 
 
 Perhaps the absence of all reference on her part to the warnings 
 and entreaties she had ventured to offer so totally in vain, years 
 before, in regard to Gerald's being compelled to enter the counting- 
 house, was more goading to her brother-in-law's conscience than 
 any amount of innuendo or reproach. 
 
 Meantime, on the day when the bank refused to discount Arling- 
 ton's bills, Harry and Gerald sped along, having the back seat 
 frequently to themselves, as fast as the blood-horses of the Shrew--
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 295 
 
 bury "Wonder" could lay legs to the ground, both of them sunk in 
 dull wretchedness. The detective sitting on the roof and the guard 
 standing on the bootstep in front were engaged in profound betting 
 calculations with the coachman, varied with the recital of sundry 
 sensational tales and much autobiography. 
 
 At length Harry tried to cheer his friend, saying—" Don't be too 
 much down, that's a good fellow ; she may rally yet." 
 
 " I never meant that you should none of you know I had left 
 Deansford," replied Arlington, sadly, " but I kept putting off 
 writing, for I hugged the thought of being cut off from all friends 
 and home. It wasn't right, I know, but you see, Harry, I could 
 only go through with my plan by a great enthusiasm like that 
 which has sustained many a fanatic, in the Church and out of it. 
 But did you never have a few lines I sent to your lodgings more 
 than a fortnight ago ? " 
 
 "No, I've been away. Good heavens! how strange, I never 
 thought of going there to see if you had written ! But that 
 miserable landlady should have forwarded the note. Gerry, I've 
 been very ill ; I'm as unhappy as yourself — more so, a thousand- 
 fold. But I won't bore you about it now." 
 
 " Tell me ail, Harry. It's the best thing for me, honour bright, 
 if it is for you." 
 
 Then with great effort, stammering sometimes as if his words 
 would choke him, Harry gave his friend a brief sketch of his 
 downward course, of Mr. Watson's advice, of the scene at the 
 theatre — then of Mrs. and Miss Featherstone's letters, of Alfred's 
 baseness, of the Waterloo Bridge struggle, and of the past few 
 weeks — ending with the account of his sister's visit to Wimbledon. 
 Gerald's first feeling was one of greater unhappiness than, until 
 an hour or two before, he had ever felt in his life. Harry saw that 
 the long dreaded gulf was indeed then beginning to yawn between 
 them. In spite of the desperate yearning efforts Gerald was 
 making to overcome his disgust and cling with his old affection to 
 his friend, Harry kneiu, without many words passing, that it was in 
 vain. So when he came to his sister's mission to Miss Featherstone, 
 and watched how intently Gerald was listening, marked Gerald's 
 involuntary though momentary thrill of happiness, as, after a 
 sudden pause, Harry shot out Ellen's answer to his question, the 
 miserable man, of course, writhed with intolerable pangs of jealous}-, 
 and with deliberate emphasis immediately added his sister's reins- 
 tation. For in that wretched moment there came sweeping over 
 him the irresistible feeling of having a right to Leila. He had never 
 known how passionately he loved that girl until all hope seemed gone
 
 296 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 He could not give her up ; but he did not yield to the ungovernable 
 impulse without a struggle. He looked at his friend's pale, 
 dejected face, on which the brief gleam of selfish joy had been 
 quickly succeeded by a look of quiet suffering, and he almost 
 murmured, " Gerry, boy, you only have the right to win her. She 
 has given me up, and you are worthy of her. Now and for ever, 
 good-bye to my dream ! May God grant her to you, you deserve 
 her ! " 
 
 A solemn voice was bidding him do this, and to let Gerald know 
 that he had sent Leila his friend's last letter to himself. He heard 
 the voice plainly enough, but fiercely drove it from him. The 
 words he should have uttered — at one moment longed to utter — 
 seemed as if they stuck in his parched throat. Strange that he 
 could do the right thing in sending the letter, and yet not tell of it, 
 not act up to that righteous act. No, not strange a bit. " Could 
 
 we but keep the heights which we are competent to gain " 
 
 Wordsworth never wrote a truer word. But we can't. And more 
 than once since Fortescue had sent the letter he bitterly regretted 
 having done so, and if he had had the power of recalling it he knew 
 he would have used it. When he gave it to Ellen he was un- 
 consciously clinging passionately to the hope that Leila woul 
 Gerald was right, and that she ought, after all, to give him 
 (Fortescue) space for repentance, time to recover his right to claim 
 her as his wife. 
 
 Then, again, during his weary hunt for Arlington, Harry had been 
 constantly thinking his sister might have been mistaken in Leila 
 Featherstonc's actual though probably unconscious feelings. 
 
 " Girls never know their own minds, or don't like to show them. 
 She'll change hers half-a-dozen times, depend upon it," he said to 
 himself more than once. Was it likely Mr. and Mrs. Featherstone 
 would have asked him to Wimbledon, after all that had passed, if 
 they hadn't reason to know their daughter was really in love 
 him ? And if a girl were to let a man's little casual sins forbid her 
 marrying him, who would be wed? The voice tried to an- 
 " Those, at least, who are equally pure may love and marry." But 
 he would not listen. Now if Ellen had but courageously told her 
 brother that she knew Leila had given her heart irrevocably to 
 Gerald Arlington, all this would have been prevented; but she didn't. 
 So Harry's wrath and passion conquered him. He said no more, 
 but looked again in Gerald's face. Not another word was spoken 
 for some time by either of them. The coach whirled along. They 
 looked at an old man breaking stones by the road-side, and perhaps 
 wondered how much he got for it ; and then perhaps thought how
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 297 
 
 love affairs had sped with him half a century ago ; and rather 
 envied him his dull insensibility and mechanical existence. Then 
 they both caught sight of a hare scudding across a distant park 
 glade, and memories came over them of bright October early runs 
 with the beagles, when their life was as fresh and beautiful as the 
 sparkling dewy morning. Then the coach stopped at the corner of 
 a lane where a boy and donkey-cart waited in stolid patience, and 
 where they helped their only companion, an old woman with a 
 bundle, to get down from the back of the coach. Then they saw 
 her safely deposited in the donkey-cart, and galloped off again to 
 the merry crack of the long lash and the stirring notes of the 
 guard's horn. Still, not a word. It seemed hours of suffering to 
 Harry. 
 
 " Gerald," said he at length, "you must despise me. I know you 
 do. But you don't know what the temptations have been. And 
 it's partly because I have not quite forgotten my father, and the 
 resolves and dreams of our boyish days, that I do so cling still to 
 the hope of one day calling Leila Featherstone my wife. I can't 
 tell you how I do loathe and hate those vile, nasty ways I got into 
 again ; and it's because I know the hope of at last winning her 
 
 pure, noble heart is now my only chance — that — that But you 
 
 needn't look so glum— I can't tell you what misery I've felt — you've 
 no need to scold — I'm sunk low enough." 
 
 Still there was silence. Gerald was trying to speak. At length — 
 " Harry," he said, " don't talk to me, at all events in that dismal 
 way about your being sunk so low, &c. I think that must be said 
 only to God. It only helps me to play the Pharisee. But you know 
 I am very, very sorry. I can't tell you how wretched you've made 
 me. I thought you had put away all that sort of thing. But /can't 
 give you absolution ; and I'm in only too much danger already of 
 thinking unjustly and conceitedly about our respective moralities. 
 I've quite enough of the devil in me, only circumstances have been 
 more in my favour, and against you, in that one direction ; and accord- 
 ing to your own account, it was just that making an idol of health 
 (as I thought you would, and as I might have done in your place) 
 that did the mischief. But please don't talk, old fellow, as you did 
 just now. If you want our friendship to last on, I'm glad and 
 thankful you know. It would be a poor sort of friendship that 
 
 broke up just " 
 
 "Just when most wanted," murmured Harry. " God bless you." 
 
 " Don't you see, Harry, I \s7ml you as much as you do me. But 
 
 I was going to say, — just because one's friend has been overcome 
 
 in a great battle, where the odds were so much against him, I
 
 298 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 hope we are neither of us so base as to desert each other. I shall 
 care for you more, Harry, in one sense. I mean because I think 
 perhaps you may want me more than you used. You never used to 
 seem in need of anything I had to give, except my company and 
 chatter." 
 
 Harry squeezed his friend's hand and rubbed his own eyes ; but 
 beyond that there was no demonstration — no fussing. They under- 
 stood each other, and that was enough. Yet both felt that a change 
 had come over their friendship. It was a very different feeling in 
 some respects that was uniting them now from what they had 
 known in former days. Miles passed away in silence. At last 
 Harry's third cigar was smoked out, and as he chucked away the 
 end, he said, rather moodily : 
 
 " Gerald, haven't you got a word to throw -to a poor dog? You 
 talk well about not having lost regard for one ; but what were you 
 thinking about — now honestly, old boy?" 
 
 " Not about your sins ; or my own either, for that matter, Harry, 
 Heaven knows," answered Gerald, sadly. 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Probably of one who has loved me, most likely, more than any 
 other woman ever can, or will." 
 
 " Poor Gerry," said Harry. He tried to speak quietly and sym- 
 pathetically, but he was sitting on the safety-valve. After awhile he 
 added — "And sometimes you were thinking about that in me and 
 my life which no love of man or woman for me can ever mend. God 
 help us ! . . . . When I think of what I've lost, I'm ready to knock 
 my brains out ! But is it all lost ? I don't know that I mayn't still 
 
 have a chance. Girls change their minds Well, well ; it 
 
 never can be again," he added, with a groan, " as it once might have 
 been.'" 
 
 "'Aye/' replied Gerald, "but how little most fellows think of 
 that ! Even you, it seems to me, Harry, are not troubling yourself 
 half as much about the cause of all this misery and loss as about 
 the loss itself/' 
 
 " Oh, hang it, Gerry ! how can I help thinking most of that. 
 I've told you how I hate the other thing ; but after all, nature is 
 nature, and I don't know " (Pause.) 
 
 "Well, if you don't, Harry, I do. You asked me to speak out, 
 and it would be cowardly and mean of me, just because we both so 
 much want our friendship to last, to pretend I think you are 
 looking at the whole business altogether as you ought to do, and 
 used to do." 
 
 " We are none of us perfect," muttered Fortescue.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 299 
 
 " God knows I'm not, Harry, and I didn't want to say anything; 
 but I'm not going to say black's white, because I care for you as 
 much or more than ever, or because I know something of my own 
 sins — or because it seems to me you have made for yourself just 
 an irreparable loss. That poor wretch now lying in a pauper's 
 grave, whom you told me about, has still a word or two to say to 
 us, Harry, about this infernal curse which eats the heart out of so 
 many men's higher life. Hasn't she ? And we musn't be deaf to 
 it, or forget it all, I suppose, yet awhile." 
 
 Silence again. 
 
 " Go on," said Harry, half sullenly. 
 
 " I don't want to go on, Harry. It's just the hardest job I have 
 ever had. I know that. But it's no good shirking it. But I won't 
 go on unless you bid me, Hal." 
 
 " Stay," said Harry, with suppressed vehemence, laying his hand 
 on Gerald's arm. " When you spoke of my loss just now, did you — 
 did you mean as to Leila Featherstone ? Take care." 
 
 " No. I'll say what I think about her presently," answered 
 Gerald, removing his arm from his friend's gripe. " I meant a 
 greater loss than even her love as you yourself would have said, and 
 did say, years ago. But you are not in the mood just now, and 
 unless you bid me speak it would be only priggish of me, and 
 useless, too, to go on." 
 
 "But I do bid you," exclaimed Harry. "I do want you to 
 speak out. We are not friends if you don't ! " 
 
 " Well, then," said Gerald, firmly, " I only thought you did not 
 seem to see that the loss of purity of heart and life was a far 
 greater evil than even the loss of Leila Featherstone's love. You 
 seem to me to be thinking and caring ten times more about what 
 she has been, and may be, to you than what " 
 
 Harry filled up the pause by saying, " Than what Polly Fielding, 
 &c, have been to me ?" 
 
 Gerald nodded; then added in a low voice: u And yet may be" 
 After a little while he went on. " And that you shouldn't see all 
 this seems to me, perhaps, the worst part of the whole affair 
 as far as you are concerned." Another long pause, broken at 
 length by Gerald saying in a husky sort of way, " But as to 
 Miss Featherstone, will you tell me what your idea is then — " 
 The speed was slackening, and the coachman pulled up at a 
 large inn. 
 
 •' Stop here, gentlemen," quoth he. " Ten minutes for tea." 
 
 "Let's walk on, Gerry. It will do us both good, unless you are 
 peckish. I don't want to eat yet again. But I must wet my whistle
 
 300 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 and treat my blood hound. I'll just have a glass of brandy and 
 water," added Harry, as he strode up to the inn. 
 
 "Don't," remarked Arlington — of course, in vain — but eventually 
 he got Harry away with only two drams for himself and ditto to the 
 detective ; then officially announcing to the ostler their intention 
 to walk on, with injunctions to look after their overcoats, the young 
 men set off at a round pace. 
 
 " Well, about Leila Featherstone," began Fortescue with some 
 constraint. " I mean to act upon the generous advice you gave 
 me, Gerry, in your last letter, and never despair. Her father has 
 evidently relented — is taking me into favour for his daughter's sake, 
 I honoured you, let me tell you, more than I choose to say, for 
 your disinterested sacrifice (if, indeed, you ever had any chance 
 with her), and I don't believe you met her by appointment at young 
 Featherstone's lodgings. But, you see, you have given her up, and 
 I suppose you don't mean — I won't wrong you by supposing you 
 do mean — to draw back now. / won't lose her, at any rate ; and 
 he's no friend of mine who tries to hinder me from marrying her. 
 She must care for me. Why, if she didn't, would her father have 
 let her mother write me that letter ?" And his voice rose loud and 
 hoarse. Then dropping it, and speaking through his set teeth. 
 " At all events, I have loved that girl too long and too well to 
 believe I am called to give her up now. I spoke to her before 
 anyone else — as far as I know, Gerry, and if she will have me — if 
 by any conceivable means I can yet get her to listen to me — by the 
 heavens above us — mark me, I'll have her — I will ! And may God 
 or the devil keep me from seeing any other fellow try to win her, 
 for his sake as well as mine!" And he swung his stick fiercely 
 round his head. 
 
 " I gave you that advice, Harry, remember, which you speak of," 
 said Gerald, with great effort, but pretty calmly, " and gave up all 
 my own hopes, when I thought you were worthy of her." 
 
 " Oh, I see ! You think I am /^worthy now. Perhaps I never 
 was worthy of her, my boy, nor anybody else that I know of. But 
 it won't do to wait till the skies fall to catch larks. No, I'm not 
 worthy of her, but I mean to marry her, Gerald Arlington, for all 
 
 that. Do you think you are worthy of her? By ! I know I'm 
 
 sunk low enough ; but don't you see she may better me, and make 
 me worthy of her when I have married her" — and he laughed a 
 bitter laugh. 
 
 " Poor Leila!" was all his friend answered, as he looked over a 
 gate at the distant country. 
 
 Fortescue was now fast getting into a terrible rage, and his
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 501 
 
 companion's next words didn't diminish it. For Gerald, looking 
 up sternly into his friend's face as he turned to resume his walk, 
 said — 
 
 " Harry, you have no right to ask that girl to marry you." 
 " No right ! You are a bold man to speak so to me, Arlington." 
 " Bold ! Yes, by heaven ! " answered Gerald, stopping and 
 facing round. " I am bold enough to trust you still — bold enough 
 to appeal to your better self — to all in you that I have loved and 
 honoured for many a day — to all there is of your father in you, 
 Harry Fortescue ; and I ask you by your love for Leila Featherstone, 
 if she is not deserving of something better than to receive only the 
 love and kisses that have been shared by prostitutes ? " Fortescue 
 uttered a terrible oath, and struck his stick madly on the gate. 
 Then Gerald burst out with — 
 
 " Harry, I tell you, as sure as God's in heaven, you must not try 
 to win her now ! " If Gerald had been a little more prudent he 
 would not have said all this just then. But he knew he had got to 
 say it, and he had an overpowering feeling that if he didn't say it 
 then he should never be able to say it at all. The consequences 
 were serious. 
 
 When a fine-natured, conscientious, but passionate man (or 
 especially a woman of that cast) once goes thoroughly wrong, the 
 very consciousness of his or her wrong-doing and false position 
 often seems to drive them more obstinately and even furiously 
 forward from bad to worse — partly because they are so intensely 
 miserable, and seek to drown the voice of conscience in the 
 vehemence of passion ; partly because they want to persuade or 
 prove to others and themselves that they are in the right, and 
 ard injured individuals. So there were these young men in the 
 gathering gloomy twilight on a lonely road, both tremendously 
 excited — one of them, as once before said, with a ruffian latent in 
 his nature, now lashed up almost to madness by his rival's last 
 speech, and grasping a heavy knotted stick. Why doesn't the coach 
 overtake them ? Surely it is time. Can they have taken the wrong 
 road ? It was just the place and occasion for a deadly crime — just 
 the circumstances under which many a life has been taken in a 
 moment of sudden frenzy, to be repented of for ages with tears of 
 blood. And if that heavy stick which Fortescue is even now 
 fiercely throwing up dashes out Gerald Arlington's brains as it 
 comes down, and which it seemed as if none but Fortescue himself, 
 or a Higher than man, could then have prevented, it would only be 
 such a murder as might have been expected from the nature of the 
 man, and the life he had been leading for a long time past— such a
 
 302 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 murder as the first woman's first-born had done ages before — aye, 
 and such as poor Fortescue in his desperate combativeness and 
 passionate indignant strength had been not long before on the 
 very point of committing. 
 
 That second glass of brandy and water was a considerable 
 mistake. * * * * * 
 
 As Fortescue's stick was flung fiercely up, and his eyes flashed 
 with ungovernable rage, Gerald began to realize his danger ; but, 
 though his blood ran cold, the thought of defending himself against 
 his old friend — of fighting him, in fact — seemed too horrible to be 
 entertained, even if the light umbrella in his hand would have been 
 of any use for that purpose. But, as in all such cases, there was 
 no time for thought. Everything seemed confused and terrible. 
 Arlington only knew that he had said what he felt he must say, 
 even if he died for it the next minute. He couldn't believe 
 Fortescue really meant to hit him ; but if he did — well, let him ! 
 Hence, though every nerve quivered with excitement, he looked 
 his assailant coolly in the face, and merely said, " Don't be an ass, 
 Harry." 
 
 " Curse you ! " yelled the infuriated demon in Fortescue's heart, 
 and down came the huge stick. 
 
 It struck — not his intended victim, but the ground, with 
 tremendous force, for, like a flash of lightning, Gerald saw the 
 man who wielded it thrown heavily on his back, tripped up by a 
 dexterous back-heeler from some dark figure who had rushed at 
 Fortescue as the stick was dashing down on Arlington's head. In 
 another second the new-comer had slipped his handcuffs over the 
 prostrate madman's wrists with the ease and swiftness of a juggler, 
 and was coolly helping his prisoner to rise. Then Gerald recog- 
 nized his preserver as the London detective. Fortescue looked so 
 utterly bewildered, as he stood for a moment, helplessly, with his 
 folded hands before him like a guilty schoolboy, and the whole 
 affair was so extraordinary that, by a violent reaction, Gerald for 
 the life of him couldn't help laughing. But one glance at the 
 dead, despairing look, on Harry's face, which was as white as a 
 sheet from his fall, and the growl and shake of the head of the 
 policeman as he griped Harry's arm to lead him back towards the 
 inn, made them both realize the seriousness of the situation. The 
 detective had been rather bored by the flatness of the whole 
 expedition, and felt braced up by having a little professional 
 business. 
 
 "Lucky for you, young gentleman, I took it into my head to
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 303 
 
 stretch my legs a bit, and follow you," remarked the guardian of 
 the law to Arlington. " I suppose you give him in charge, sir ?" 
 he added, seeing Gerald plant himself in front of him and his 
 prisoner. 
 
 " No, by Jove ; I don't do anything of the kind ! " cried Gerald, 
 wrathfully ; " and you'll have the goodness to take off those metals 
 instantly. If he goes anywhere, it should be to the doctor." Then, 
 seeing the mystified and considerably disgusted look on the face 
 of the detective, who, instead of showing any signs of compliance, 
 was gently impelling Fortescue forward, Gerald continued, " But, 
 'pon my word, I'm very much obliged to you, my friend, all the 
 same — only, you're taking things a little too seriously." 
 
 "We shall see about that, sir, when we come before the magis- 
 trate," replied the man, surlily. 
 
 "Come, nonsense," returned Arlington; "it was only a row 
 between two old friends. No harm done — except to him, I'm 
 afraid. I don't give him in charge. Come, off with the rings ! " 
 
 "He shall leave them alone," growled Fortescue ; " I mean to 
 wear them a bit longer." 
 
 "That's lucky," responded the detective. Suddenly the sound 
 of wheels was heard. 
 
 " Hark ! " cried Gerald. " By George, there's the coach taking 
 that lower road ! We've come the wrong way. Hillo, ho-o-o-a ! " 
 he shouted, at the top of his voice, sprang over the gate, called to 
 the other men to follow, and ran across the field at full speed. 
 A few words from Harry explained to the policeman why he and 
 his friend were in haste to return to town, and, finding Harry quite 
 willing to wear the hand-cuffs, and not really much the worse for 
 his fall, the constable helped him over the gate. The)- soon 
 reached the spot where Gerald, having stopped the coach, was 
 mildly endeavouring to appease the dissatisfaction of the crusty 
 coachman and the stylish guard at this detention. 
 
 " But the sign-post," quoth Arlington. 
 
 "Ah, yes, sir," interrupted the guard; "but old sign-posts, 
 don't yer see, are like old parsons — shew the former roads, but arc 
 shy of the new ones." 
 
 With Gerald's help, Fortescue hid his imprisoned hands under 
 his overcoat to avoid observation, and they were all soon again 
 mounted and off. 
 
 As they whirled away, the guard, who had resumed his place 
 behind, informed them that they were already behind time, for the 
 near-wheeler wouldn't start, and they had had to get a kicking- 
 strap.
 
 304 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 "We should many of us be the better for that," remarked the 
 detective. 
 
 Gerald's first inquiry was as to Fortescue's health. Harry ad- 
 mitted he had got a bit of a head-ache, but it was passing off and 
 didn't matter ; which, however, it would have done, considerably, to 
 any other man. When the guard and policeman got into quiet 
 confidential talk, Fortescue began muttering to Gerald, who had 
 lapsed into a very dreary state, " God help me, Gerry, I'm going 
 off like Featherstone." 
 
 "Stuff!" answered his companion. "It was only the brandy 
 and water." 
 
 " No, no — I'm a desperate brute at bottom, and that's the 
 fact." 
 
 " Well, you looked rather like it just now, I must admit, Hal ; but 
 I gave you great provocation." 
 
 " Yes, but I knew all you said was true, and that made me all 
 the more savage." 
 
 " God knows you've had enough to try you, Harry." 
 
 " So have you — and you are not wearing these things. Look 
 here, Gerald, I ought to have known better, for I nearly murdered 
 young Featherstone three or four weeks ago — that horrible night, 
 when — But look here. D'ye see ? I am going to buy these bits 
 of steel of him when he takes them off, and I mean to keep 'em 
 for life in my coat pocket. D'ye see ? Oh, Lord, when's the end 
 of all this coming ? I know, Gerry. The end has come in one 
 sense. Just listen ; from this time forth, I'm a changed fellow. 
 I've done with women of all sorts for evermore, and with fighting 
 and brandy-and-water ; and when I begin thinking of either, I shall 
 finger my bracelets, and just think I'm looking at you lying in 
 the road out there, in a pool of blood, with your brains on my 
 
 .stick " The man broke off with a horrid shudder. 
 
 Gerald saw he must stop that sort of thing at once, but not by 
 indifferent chatter. 
 
 " Well, well, I'm not there, you see, nor my brains either, but 
 here, safe and sound ; and we still believe in a Providence, Harry 
 (don't we ?), who looks after us a bit. But my dear old Berserkir, if 
 you want to improve the occasion, let me observe, first, that I highly 
 commend your notion about the bracelets. A fellow can't have all 
 your immense energy and combative power without being a bit of 
 a ruffian below the skin. And, secondly, if you ask me, I quite 
 believe in giving up the brandy ad infinitum, and the fighting for 
 the most part, and in a total change of some sort. You know best 
 what to change to, and you'll soon throw an amount of vis and
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 305 
 
 fag into your draft and pill business, which will some day make 
 the College of Physicians open its eyes. But then, thirdly, — now, 
 are you listening, Harry boy ?" 
 
 " As I've never done before." 
 
 " Then, thirdly, don't make rash vows about womankind. Can't 
 you go through your day of purification, though it last for years, 
 like the brave old ruffian which, no doubt, you are — and knock out 
 your own brains, if you like, by all means, rather than slide down 
 again into the filth ? But don't let your manliness and self-respect 
 hang on the favour of a woman's smile, however lovable she may 
 be. Try and deserve her, Harry, and she may yet be your wife " 
 (Harry impatiently shook his head), " but that's not the question. 
 You can live a grand life, I fancy, without ever seeing her again. 
 But what I mean is, don't determine you are not to marry her, nor 
 any other woman. The right one will come at last — when God 
 sees you are prepared — unless, by-the-bye, you go to heaven first." 
 
 " Thanks, Gerry — from the bottom of my heart — thanks. But 
 it's all over with me, as far as that poor little witch is concerned, 
 whom an hour ago I could have murdered you to marry. It's as plain 
 as a pike-staff to me now that you are worthy to have her, if she'll 
 have you, and that I'm not, and never shall be, through all eternity " 
 — (A heavy groan) — " and I'm pretty sure she does love you." 
 
 " I say, Harry," interrupted Arlington, " thank you kindly all the 
 same, but please don't .... Even if that girl cared a straw 
 about me, which I don't believe she does, I've no heart to think of 
 love-making now." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Fortescue, penitently and sadly. 
 " What an immeasurable brute I've been." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, never mind ; only remember this, Harry. You 
 may be a precious deal worthier of her in the sight of God than I, in 
 spite of the worst you may have done. So never say die, old fellow. 
 But anyhow, I'm not going to try and draw Leila Featherstone(may 
 the Lord bless her ! ) away from you. You know, or ought to know, 
 there's nothing on earth I wouldn't give up for you, as far as I alone 
 am concerned — yes, of course I mean it, even her love, supposing I 
 could win it if I tried. Therefore I am not going to try. But 
 mind, I don't say I would give it up even for you, if I had won it ; 
 for I know that would be to sacrifice her happiness as well as my 
 own— that girl won't love by halves — and I should have no right, 
 mind, to do a thing like that for you, or anyone." (Harry nodded 
 gloomily.) "But if she* has really loved you, be sure she'll not 
 marry anybody else in a hurry; and then years hence you'll be able 
 to come to her and ask her to forgive you, and perhaps she'll be 
 
 u
 
 30& GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 your wife after all. But oh, Harry, by all you — we — have ever held 
 sacred, don't try, I implore you, don't try to win her now." 
 
 Fortescue seemed utterly unable to answer. When he found 
 words, he stammered out, "God bless you, Gerry; but — but — can't 
 you believe me when I said from this night I give up all thoughts 
 of " 
 
 " No, no," interrupted his friend vehemently. " Don't talk so — I 
 do believe you — it's all right — we understand each other — all right" 
 — and he took one of Harry's manacled hands, and their grip was 
 fervent and true as ever. 
 
 So on they went through the gathering darkness of the April 
 evening, silently, sadly, until Fortescue suddenly roused himself, 
 and whispered, "What about this confounded detective? I shall 
 settle a pension on him some day ; but just now it would be a great 
 bore, having to go to Newgate, or even before a magistrate." 
 Arlington could just see something of the old smile on his friend's 
 face, and felt considerably relieved in consequence. 
 
 " I'll settle all that," he answered ; and forthwith applied a few 
 cogent arguments to the worthy functionary in question, which had 
 the desired effect. There was clearly no necessity now for his keep- 
 ing Fortescue in custody. The hand-cuffs were accordingly removed, 
 and changed owners ; Harry's first use of his freedom being to give 
 the policeman a hearty shake of the hand, while his second was to 
 transfer nearly all the money in his purse to the said official, partly, 
 as he remarked, in payment for the hand-cuffs, but chiefly, as he 
 privately observed to Gerald, as "a thanksgiving offering." "Get 
 your wife, if you have one, Mr. Atkins, a fancy silk gown ; and 
 remember, I shall thank you, old gentleman, for what you've done 
 to-night, as long as I live." Mr. Atkins was pleased, and expressed 
 himself grateful, in a manner the reverse of gushing. 
 
 Still the coach whirled on, rapidly nearing the great metropolis, 
 while the two friends silently sat and mused the rest of the way, 
 exchanging only a word now' and then of friendly cheer. Through- 
 out the journey, when not absorbed in his friend's matters, poor 
 Arlington had been involuntarily thinking over the wonderful 
 mother-love which the recollections of bygone days brought up 
 before him. Memories especially of those quiet Sunday evenings 
 in his holidays, when she used to have him in her little boudoir and 
 talk and read to him in a way he now felt had been of deep 
 infinite worth ; and the more he realized what his mother had been 
 to him, the more he marvelled at the comparative indifference he 
 thought he had shewn to her society and wishes — at the little time 
 he had given to her, even when it was in his power ; and how very
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 307 
 
 little he had done to return that affection which he now saw had 
 been so unceasingly poured out on himself. And then to think of 
 all the cruel desertion of his home during these last few months, 
 when her health was failing, and when he might have comforted 
 and amused her ; when, perhaps, she had been longing to see him 
 and talk to him. Recoiling from the misery of these thoughts in 
 his remorseful indignation, he flew for refuge to the thought that 
 perhaps that dear mother's life might still be spared — a little while 
 — and he might yet be permitted to show her some of that warm 
 affection which now welled up in his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Too late — too late." One glance at the face of the old butler, 
 as the cab pulled up in the light of the opened front door, one 
 sorrowful shake of the head was enough. God comfort him then. 
 We can have but one mother. He had come in time, indeed, to look 
 on the pale face, so calmly beautiful — but it would never look on 
 him again. **,***#* 
 
 Certainly, few persons know what they owe their parents till they 
 have children of their own ; and then how often it is too late to use 
 their knowledge. 
 
 The melancholy days went on. Not a word of reproach passed 
 Mr. Arlington's lips. Gerald felt his own anguish dwarfed before 
 his father's silent but far deeper grief; and he would have sacrificed 
 every hope he had on earth to have been able to relieve that grief 
 in even a slight degree. Under the pressure of all this sorrow he 
 began to think he must have been wrong in thwarting his father's 
 wishes. Nothing in life now seemed much worth doing, except 
 some very plain, humble duties, among the first of which was to 
 help and comfort him. 
 
 ** Father," he said, after they had come back from the funeral, as 
 Mr. Arlington was rising to leave the dining-room (Richard having 
 gone into the drawing-room, and Miss Tylney to her own room), 
 " if you will let me, I will come and live at home with you 
 now ; and work as hard in the counting-house as ever you did your- 
 self. I think I did wrong in going away ; but indeed I thought it
 
 308 GERALD AND HIS FRIEXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 was a duty to go. I know I had a good purpose, but perhaps it 
 was all a mistake. I have no wish now but just to earn my own 
 livelihood in your office — at all events, for the present ; and to try 
 and make up to you for the past. May I come back here and go 
 into your business ?" 
 
 It was some minutes before his father could answer. " No, 
 Gerald," he said with effort, and some sternness. Then in a more 
 affectionate but still constrained tone, "Thank you for wishing it 
 — but we have no home now, and I have no business. My creditors 
 will sell Hartland." (Gerald started.) " She who made it a home 
 to me — lies — in the churchyard. I couldn't live here without her, 
 even if I might — but in a day or two I shall know more. I do not 
 expect to have any business at all, Gerald, before long. Say nothing 
 about it at present to Richard or Miss Tylney, but I am feeling the 
 pressure of the times very severely. I can't talk about it now. But 
 I'll tell you more as soon as I can. Stay here, my dear boy, at 
 present," added Mr. Arlington, kindly, as he noticed traces of 
 suffering on his son's face. "And study as hard as you like. You 
 can have the chesnut to ride when you like — till she's sold." 
 
 Richard came and went as heretofore — but was more reserved 
 than ever. His brother saw, not without additional remorse, that 
 any little increase of brotherly regard and intimacy which had 
 manifested itself at first after Richard's return from Canada had 
 quite vanished. And he asked himself, How could it be otherwise ? 
 He had not been devoting himself to his brother's improvement, 
 but to that of the world at large. Yet social reformers are wanted 
 badly enough, Heaven knows ! And they can't attend to everything. 
 
 Miss Tylney was truly " the Angel in the house," as she ever had 
 been, but more than ever during the next few weeks. A holy 
 presence seemed brooding over the once bright and happy though 
 (in a better than the ordinary sense) too worldly home.. Never had 
 it seemed so beautiful to Gerald, with all its luxuriance of flowers 
 and foliage — the pretty fanciful little flower-beds cut out at the 
 sides of the lawn, which had been his mother's special care, its 
 winding walks and verdant turfy slopes, its magnificent elm trees 
 and honeysuckle bowers, its quiet shady lakelet, and long sweep of 
 park-like meadows beyond 
 
 Alternating with the melancholy remembrance of her whose 
 irreparable loss he had just sustained — holding whose hand he 
 had first pattered with tiny feet along those walks — and with whom 
 his beautiful home had so many dear associations, tender and 
 mirthful, there still came a soothing sense "of home-like blessed- 
 ness after his lonely exile, as he looked on those dear scenes of
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 309 
 
 his bright boyhood, but which he now found he should probably 
 soon have to leave once more, and for ever. 
 
 A few days after, Mr. Arlington asked Gerald to ride up to town 
 with him, observing that he wished him to call on Mr. Featherstone 
 with a note and wait for an answer. " I would rather not send 
 either Weatherley or a clerk," he added. So Gerald went. Mr. 
 Featherstone received him kindly, inquired with some feeling after 
 his father, spoke of his bereavement, and then referred nervously 
 to Alfred's deplorable condition. " But I shall always feel grateful 
 to you, Mr. Arlington, for the part you invariably acted towards 
 him. My poor girl, Leila, has been to see him this morning — 
 much against my will, but she would go. And she says he kept 
 harping on you, and what you used to say to him to keep him out 
 of mischief, and how it would have been well if he had cared for 
 you and your advice a little better. Well, well — Heaven help us. 
 I hope you are going to give up your vagaries now, Mr. Arlington, 
 and harness in. Your father needs all you can do for him. I'll see 
 this gentleman whom your father speaks about. I suppose you 
 have heard of our anxieties. The times are very bad. I wish to 
 goodness your good father had never persuaded me to run such 
 risks — but, so, so — he'll pull through. Things look better just 
 now. We may do very well yet. Just sit down in that room till I 
 return. There's only my daughter there, waiting till Mrs. Feather- 
 stone calls for her in the carriage. I wish my wife would come. 
 I don't like Leila to sit moping there alone so long." 
 
 And he motioned Gerald towards a parlour adjoining the 
 counting-house where Leila was sitting. 
 
 " Only my daughter" repeated Gerald to himself. The very last 
 person on earth he would have wished to meet. His heart ached 
 miserably. 
 
 " Only one of the most bewitching, loveliest, purest-hearted 
 beings God ever sent on earth in the form of woman. And I have 
 loved her as deeply as ever man loved woman. And what would 
 not her love be to me now ! But I must never tell her — must not 
 even love her as I have done — only think of her as years hence, 
 perhaps, to be Harry's wife " 
 
 He had almost persuaded himself that he longed sincerely for 
 the day when she should be so — that he had ceased to be very 
 deeply interested in her, until he found he was to meet her thus 
 
 unexpectedly ; and then He would have made some excuse for 
 
 retreating, but it was too late. Mr. Featherstone was too much 
 pre-occupied with his own anxieties to notice Gerald's agitation, 
 and threw open the door, saying, " Leila, my dear, here's young
 
 310 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Mr. Arlington. He'll be glad to hear anything you can tell him 
 about our poor boy. I shall soon be back. Wait here, sir, till 
 I come." 
 
 Now Leila had heard through the half-closed door " Mr. Gerald 
 Arlington " announced by the clerk in the other room, and though 
 but few words of the subsequent conversation reached her, she was 
 aware that her father was giving him a kindly greeting, and then 
 was mentioning her own name. 
 
 What followed was the natural result of Harry Fortescue's 
 conduct, combined with the dreary wretchedness caused by her 
 brother's vices and subsequent sufferings, during which the 
 remembrance of Gerald Arlington's talks with her, and latterly, 
 above all, that letter of Gerald's to Harry had been the one bright 
 spot in her life. Now on the morning of the day on which they 
 thus strangely met, at her vehement request she had been allowed 
 to go with her mother to see the poor sufferer, and then she had 
 heard him speak of Gerald as her father described. It was, of 
 course, a very trying interview, although a perfectly lucid interval 
 fo-r Alfred, and yet there was something unspeakably comforting to 
 his sister in finding how he answered, out of his settled gloom, 
 her brief references to religious truth in a way that he had never 
 done when in health. Since leaving him, she had been longing so 
 deeply to tell Gerald all this, and wondering whether he would go 
 and see her brother and help to restore him. And then there 
 would keep mingling with those thoughts a shy, forbidden, yet 
 passionate longing which had haunted her lately to let Gerald 
 know she could never be the wife of his friend. Yes, even to 
 confess to him all she herself had long felt for him — to tell him he 
 had not cared for her or kissed her flowers in vain — in short, to 
 reward him for his generous self-sacrifice, and to rest amid all the 
 sorrows that oppressed her on his unstained and loving heart. 
 All that had passed since he left his home had only tended to 
 make his character nobler and dearer in her eyes, and since 
 reading his letter to Harry, she felt, with her usual enthusiasm, that 
 her true life henceforth was bound up with his for ever. 
 
 And then the thought of the possibility that, before hearing of 
 Mrs. Arlington's death, Ellen Fortescue might have written to 
 Gerald, as she had said she should, telling him Leila had seen his 
 letter to Harry, had finally and irrevocably refused her brother, and 
 had confessed her attachment to Gerald, — in spite of all her efforts 
 after becoming maidenly indifference, made her heart beat quickly, 
 and sent the blushes to her cheek, as the young gentleman opened 
 the door.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 3II 
 
 So with matters in this state Gerald was introduced by Mr. 
 Featherstone to his daughter, where she sat in that large dingy city 
 parlour " making a sunshine in a shady place," and as the door 
 opened she rose to meet him. Her slender yet exquisitely moulded 
 figure stood framed, as it were, before him in the surrounding 
 gloom — a vision of light bright muslin drapery, some of it floating 
 round her, some closely engirdling her — a dainty little bonnet or 
 hat on her head, pink ribands also floating about somewhere, one 
 little foot advanced, one hand shyly held out, her hair just shading 
 the delicate face on which a faint blush was visible, with her dark 
 eyes just flashing at him beneath their lids — the thoughts that 
 had been passing through her mind giving an indescribable 
 fascination to her manner, usually so cold and sometimes repellent. 
 There she stood, a very lovely, and to Gerald a dazzling vision. 
 For an instant he felt confused, passed his hand across his eyes, 
 then recovered himself by a great effort and came forward. 
 They shook hands, and in one brief second Leila felt that his love 
 was not for her ; his manner was cool and unexcited. His voice, 
 inquiries, all manifested simply a gentlemanly, respectful interest, 
 and the poor little fluttering heart sank down in her bosom once 
 more, crushed down rather into quiet, patient disappointment ; for 
 Gerald had had just time enough to throw on his armour of 
 knightly faith and heroism, and came into her presence cased in 
 triple steel. Fortunately for her (as she then thought), having 
 heard his name, she also had had time to make some preparation, 
 by vehemently repeating to herself at intervals that since he wrote 
 that letter to Harry he must have given up all idea of cherishing 
 his own affection for her — that he was too true a friend, too noble, 
 to seek his own happiness at that friend's expense. Besides, she knew 
 that Miss Fortescue had probably never written to him. Harry would 
 not have spoken to him on account of his mother's illness and death, 
 and she knew enough of Gerald to feel sure that, having once 
 given up all thought of her for his friend's sake, he would make 
 the sacrifice complete while he thought a chance remained for that 
 friend. Then, again, she thought that Gerald might have since met 
 with someone to whom he had given that love which would other- 
 wise have been her own. Hence she also soon contrived to check 
 the agitation she felt. And so they sat and talked quietly a little 
 about the weather, and then Leila gently and tenderly expressed 
 a few words of sympathy with Gerald on the melancholy loss he 
 had sustained. And then they talked a little about her brother, 
 but in a constrained way, and a little about Mrs. Featherstone ; 
 then a little about Adelaide and Richard Arlington, and the state
 
 312 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 of the times generally, and a few other slow topics, but it was all a 
 great effort. Her manner became increasingly cold and disdainful 
 — his correspondingly indifferent. They were in a strange position ; 
 but it was one that has been occupied by hundreds before them, 
 and has then been followed by life-long estrangement and sorrow ; 
 sometimes, however, by blissful explanations and a delightful 
 wedding, with possibly four horses and white cockades. 
 
 At length Gerald could bear it no longer, and rose, making some 
 excuse about going to see if Mr. Featherstone had returned. If 
 Harry had but asked his sister whether there was hope for his 
 friend, though not for himself, and had told Gerald what Ellen 
 would then have told him — but he had not. So Gerald rose to go. 
 He did not venture to look at Leila's pale face as he quietly shook 
 hands, but she could not help seeing the strange and rigid 
 expression of his countenance (as he tried to maintain an indifferent 
 air), and the deadly paleness that overspread it. She had seen 
 great anguish before then. She felt almost sure she saw greater 
 at that moment. "Does he then indeed love me?" asked her 
 heart. She knew then she loved him. She would have given 
 worlds at that moment — she would have given the happiness 
 of her whole life to secure his. Why then should she be silent ? 
 Might not a single word break down this horrible partition wall 
 between them ? And what if he did not really love her ? Could 
 she not bear the burden even of being repulsed — of having spoken 
 that word in vain — for the chance of making him happy ? Swift as 
 lightning these thoughts flashed through her mind. He had opened 
 the door to go. With a great effort — Heaven only knows the struggle 
 it cost her — she whispered half aloud, " Gerald," and the word came 
 forth softly and so plaintively — with such a wealth of yearning 
 maidenly love in it, yet so piteously ; . . . and her eyes 
 filling with tears were following him with a strange pleading tender- 
 ness. If he could but have seen them. And, if he would but only 
 turn he could not help seeing them, even though he might not hear 
 her voice .... And Mr. Featherstone, would he not, for 
 his wife's and daughter's sake, have done as much for Gerald 
 Arlington as he had promised Mrs. Featherstone he would do for 
 Harry Fortescue ? All this would have made them both very happy 
 no doubt. But supposing Providence had something better to offer 
 these two loving children of His than mere enjoyment ? Perhaps 
 their own faults or the sins of others made such great happiness 
 impossible for them then. At all events, that precious opportunity 
 (as it may seem to mortal vision) passed away unused. Gerald 
 heard her not. Yet Leila spoke loud enough for him to hear under
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 313 
 
 ordinary circumstances. But there is a curious fact worth 
 noticing. Words spoken as you are leaving a room often fail to 
 reach your ear, because evidently the draft of air rushing in, as 
 you draw the door after you, wafts them away from your ear back to 
 the speaker ; besides, the open door let in the noise of the cease- 
 less mighty traffic in the distant thoroughfares. So he never heard 
 her, and passed on, unconscious. And she, not considering the 
 above fact, almost thought he must have heard, and did not care to 
 stay. Most miserable thought of all for that true maiden heart ; 
 and yet she had felt so sure he still loved her. But after awhile 
 she was willing to bear even this for him. 
 
 Mr. Featherstone returned as Gerald was inquiring for him in the 
 counting-house. The latter then received his instructions, bowed, 
 and passed out. 
 
 Leila could not conceal from her mother, as they rode home in 
 the carriage to Wimbledon, that something had greatly agitated her 
 in London. Their common grief in consequence of Alfred's disease 
 had broken down barriers of stately reserve, and had drawn mother 
 and daughter together in a tender mutual confidence they had 
 never known before. Mrs. Featherstone had been told of the 
 encounter with Mr. Fortescue at the theatre, and had quite approved 
 her daughter's decision. She had also seen Gerald's letter to 
 Harry; and therefore, when Leila tried in a few broken words to 
 explain matters and couldn't do it, the motherly heart understood 
 it all, and determined to comfort her daughter' by begging her 
 husband to take young Mr. Arlington to his paternal heart, instead 
 of Harry Fortescue, as a son-in-law, if he really desired that honour, 
 for he " was a very remarkable high-principled young man," she 
 observed, " and the family connection was as good in the one case 
 as the other, and he had been very good to our poor boy. And 
 then you know, my dear," she continued, addressing her husband, 
 "as he has been brought up to business you can take him at once 
 into your house and make him a partner by-and-bye. He will take 
 the place of our poor dear Alfred." Mr. Featherstone was touched 
 by the tears gathering in the eyes of his usually self-contained and 
 rather frigid spouse, and cordially expressed approval of her idea 
 on the whole, only observing, rather sarcastically, that the young 
 gentleman had not hitherto shown any great fondness for business, 
 and that he feared a partnership in his own firm was still a con- 
 siderable way off. " But then," he added, kindly, "but then, no 
 doubt, he's a very agreeable, gentlemanly young fellow, and listens 
 with great respect to an old man's views on government and trade, 
 which is not so usual as formerly; and, as you say, he did hi
 
 314 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 for our unhappy son ; and if you really think, my love, he'd make 
 our little darling happy, I'm sure I'll do what I can for him. There 
 now, cheer up. I will indeed, my dear — that is, you know, if 
 Arlington doesn't want him in his own business. But between our- 
 selves that's not likely. I'm afraid my poor friend's concern there 
 in Fenchurch Street is rather shaky, and the times are dreadful, 
 and when I'm well out of this tallow speculation which he drew me 
 into, unfortunately, I hope he'll wind up and attend only to his 
 great companies. He has good brains, but they are not enough 
 for all things under the sun." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Not long after the events recorded in the last chapter, Miss Tylney 
 and her nephew were sitting in the dining-room at Hartland Hou?c, 
 luncheon being just concluded, when the post arrived. Gerald was 
 lost in dreary contemplation, gazing rather dismally into space, till 
 the letter which the footman handed to him roused him into con- 
 siderable though temporary excitement. It was a kind note from 
 Mrs. Featherstone, asking him if he would mind going to see her 
 son the following day, and would afterwards come down with Mr. 
 Featherstone in his carriage to Wimbledon, where they should be 
 glad if he would spend a day or two. When his aunt had finished 
 reading her own letters, Gerald handed her this one, saying, in a 
 weary, sorrowful way, " I was intending to go soon to see poor 
 Featherstone, and I'll write to the old lady all about it. But go to 
 Wimbledon ? No, certainly not." Miss Tylney glanced at him 
 quietly, and with a slight exclamation handed him one of the letters 
 she had just read. It ran thus : — 
 
 [LEILA FEATHERSTONE TO MISS FORTESCUE.] 
 
 " Wimbledon, jtf. 
 "Dearest Ellen, — You ask me to put in writing what I said to 
 you the other day, because you cannot bear to tell your brother 
 merely your own recollections of our talk. You say he may think 
 you have mistaken me. Yet you trust me wholly. I thank you very 
 sincerely for your confidence in me, dearest. I thank your brother 
 also, more than I need describe, for the affection he has felt forme, 
 and the hand he offered me. I will endeavour to merit your trust 
 and his regard by speaking frankly and decisively. Mr. Fortescue's
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 315 
 
 wife I can never be, even if in consequence we both go unmarried 
 to our graves. I said so before, and meant it. But I regard him 
 still too much not to add what it may at first seem strange that I 
 should write, but which I know him at least well enough to believe 
 he will on reflection think I am right to tell him. Your brother has 
 said that he thinks me different from most of my sex. That may 
 be a doubtful compliment ; but at all events he will pardon me, 
 whether he agrees with me or not, for speaking to him, both 
 formerly and now, as women seldom do, or dare to do ; but as it 
 would be well perhaps for his sex if they oftener did, and as the 
 noblest and holiest of ours have often longed for the opportunity 
 of speaking. Tell Mr. Fortescue, then, I believe that God meant 
 men to be as chaste and pure as they think women ought to be. 
 And let me pray you to ask him whether he would have married me 
 had I been degrading myself as he has done. Tell him I believe 
 that unchastity must be as dark a sin in men as it is in us ; and that 
 it does make a subsequent marriage so far — so far — unblessed of 
 God — brings, according to circumstances, more or less of His dis- 
 pleasure on that marriage. I quite admit that there are many other 
 grievous sins which bring a blight on wedded love — that women 
 may sin in their way, and according to their temptations, as darkly 
 as men, whether in point of temper or vanity, worldliness or selfish- 
 ness, or any other form of idolatry ; and that God does not command 
 marriage to cease until all men and women are perfect. But I 
 cannot myself look on marriage with a man who has sinned fre- 
 quently — for a time habitually — as your brother has done, and as 
 I fear many men do, without a feeling of loathing and shame. If 
 our divine Lord meant anything by what He said on this subject, 
 He meant something very awful ; and while absolutely disclaiming 
 all judgment of the conduct of others, I dare not myself accept the 
 offer Mr. Fortescue has made me, nor vows of one who has sinned 
 so deeply, however deeply he may have repented. Many would 
 condemn me for even speaking and writing on such subjects, much 
 more for refusing him ; and call my behaviour by very hard names. 
 Mr. Fortescue I do not think will. But I can bear it all, and much 
 more, if it be God's will, and He gives the strength. I can live 
 without the love of man or the blessedness of married life ; but I 
 cannot live without God's love, nor my own self-respect. Let me 
 add, I could have no happiness, no peace in marriage, without the 
 fullest, truest respect for my husband. I would rather he were above 
 myself in intellect and power, but he must be at least my equal in 
 moral principle and purity of heart and life. If I have spoken 
 presumptuously, forgive me ; and believe that I shall never cease to
 
 3 1 6 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 desire your brother's regard and esteem, nor to pray for his highest 
 welfare, both here and in that higher world, where I humbly hope we 
 may one day find all our sins forgiven, and that then we may meet in 
 joy. I do in my heart believe he has yet a noble future before him 
 on earth, and that God will help him to make his life useful to 
 others, and a fitting preparation for the higher life in Heaven. May 
 He grant this for His dear Son's sake. 
 
 " Ever your grateful, loving little friend, 
 
 "L. F." 
 
 As Gerald laid down this letter he said, with a great sigh, "A 
 true woman — worthy of the noblest man. . . . Poor, poor 
 Harry." 
 
 " Yes," answered Miss Tylney, with an attempt at a smile, "worthy 
 of the noblest— Heaven reward her ! — but may not even one so un- 
 worthy as yourself now try to make her happy ? " 
 
 " No," replied Gerald, speaking slowly and with great effort, as 
 he rose from his seat, " I have given Fortescue, more than once, 
 a solemn promise I never would try to win her from him — and I 
 don't think he'll ever release me from that promise, nor ought I 
 to wish or expect it. You don't know how he has loved her — no 
 wonder— and perhaps some day she may repent of having utterly 
 and for ever refused him. We can't tell. He and I have been 
 true friends to each other, aunt. I have no right to take advan- 
 tage of his fall. God help us both," and he sat down again, shading 
 his face with his hands. 
 
 „ Miss Tylney looked greatly distressed, and restlessly fingered 
 another letter in her hands. Suddenly she exclaimed, " Stay ! 
 what is this ? " as she stooped to pick up something under the 
 table. " Harry's handwriting, I'm sure. It must have fallen out 
 of Nelly's letter." It was addressed to Gerald. 
 
 [HARRY FORTESCUE TO GERALD ARLINGTON.] 
 
 " Your long and generous sacrifice is over, Gerald. Distinctly 
 understand I release you from all your vows. Understand, in fact, 
 two things : First, I know now that the girl we have both loved will 
 never marry me. I haven't a chance — and no right to think of her 
 again if I had. Second, that you have a chance, and deserve it. 
 Nelly should have spoken more plainly to me before — but it was 
 my fault she didn't. Oh, Gerry, boy ! T 've treated you shamefully. 
 But I was beside myself— that's the long and the short of it. But 
 it's all over now ; and I should never have known your value if I 
 hadn't behaved so badly myself. Yet, believe me, if I had known 
 earlier that she really cared for you I wouldn't have — well, I don't 
 know. She drove me frantic. Thank God, I believe I am in my
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 317 
 
 right senses now ; though that's not saying much. However, to 
 come to the point. You are to have no doubts now about what 
 you're to do. Remember you told me once that if ever you found 
 (what you thought absurdly improbable) that you had won Leila 
 Featherstone's heart it would alter all your relations in that matter 
 to me, and that though you were right to give up your own hap- 
 piness, you would have no right to sacrifice hers, even for my 
 sake. Certainly not. The lady has a right to choose between us, 
 and sad though her mistake may be, behold, she has chosen, and 
 you must submit. If you doubt, go over to Wimbledon and get 
 leave to ask her. Nelly knows the truth. Good-bye, old fellow. 
 If I remembered how to pray properly I should pray, and pretty 
 fervently, that you and she might be happy together for ever and 
 a day. I do hope it. So go a-head, my Gerry, and may God bless 
 you both, as you surely deserve. You've been a true friend, and 
 He will reward you. She deserves the best mate He can give her 
 — and she'll have it. In no other mortal man's favour, for no one 
 less worthy than you, could I give up all hope. Fare you weel, my 
 canty callant — I'm off to Edinburgh in a day or two and must air 
 my Scotch a bit. Don't write. 
 
 "Ever yours, 
 
 " H. F." 
 
 When Gerald had glanced through this note he merely said, "Ah, 
 he's a grand fellow ! Heaven bless him ! " and then came back 
 the old weary look, as he gave it to his aunt. 
 
 "Well," said she, rather sadly, when she had read it, and with as 
 much tartness as her sweet nature allowed, "what are you thinking 
 about ? Nothing seems to please you. I don't believe you care 
 much about our darling after all." 
 
 " Aunt Caroline ! " exclaimed the young man, as he sprang 
 impetuously to his feet, "you don't know what you are saying! 
 Take care. I love that girl as I could almost think no man or woman 
 ever loved before. But what evidence is there that Harry's most 
 improbable notion isn't all moonshine ? I reverence her almost as 
 deeply as I love her, and I would rather go through life worshipping 
 her afar off than utter a word more that could lead her to marry 
 me, unless I knew she loved me as I love her. And what sign is 
 there that she cares a brass button for me, or ever will ! Why the 
 very last time I saw her, when our great sorrow was fresh upon me, 
 and when if ever a woman might show sympathy, she was as cool 
 as a cucumber, and as haughty as old Queen Bess ! " 
 
 " Eh ! indeed," replied Miss Tylney, whose face had been 
 brightening out of its sadness during this impassioned harangue.
 
 3 1 8 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Then if that were so, like the great queen, I should say, Gerry, 
 she deserves to die unwed ; but I don't think she will. Really, you 
 are extremely foolish, Gerald. Pray let me ask how did your 
 haughtiness condescend to treat her ladyship on that occasion ? 
 Did you show, then, such very ardent affection " 
 
 Gerald started, and catching his aunt's hand looked into her face 
 with intense searching inquiry. " No," he said, drawing a deep 
 breath. 
 
 " Then, oh ! thou troublesome specimen of male incredulity and 
 delicate, most chivalrous gallantry, and extremely provoking pride 
 and absurdity, how could she, especially such a she, behave other- 
 wise ? " responded the aunt, withdrawing her hand and giving him 
 the letter which she had all this time been clutching nervously. 
 " If all you want is satisfaction about her views in general, you may 
 read that." Then she leaned back in her chair with an air of 
 supreme contentment at last, while a sort of beatific, half playful 
 smile stole over her features. Gerald seized the letter, for he knew 
 well the symmetrical handwriting, and read with beating heart 
 Leila's letter to Miss Tylney, in which, among other inflammatory 
 matter, were these words — 
 
 " When I read that letter, dear Miss Tylney, of 
 
 Mr. Gerald Arlington's to his friend, in which you know he ad- 
 mitted he had so long cared for me, the strange, wild joy that came 
 over me told me a secret I had but partly known — told me how 
 deeply, though unconsciously, I had cared for him, even when I 
 knew comparatively little of his feelings about me. 1 do believe he 
 has felt some interest, some attachment for me ; or did once, when 
 I could not return it ; when, indeed, my heart seemed divided, and 
 
 I could not have given him or anyone such entire affection as 
 
 But that is over now — very sadly ended — but still ended. And was 
 it not a noble thing of Mr. Fortescue to send me his friend's letter? 
 I was not wrong in my admiration for what that man was once, and 
 might have been, may be — yes, hereafter will be. But, oh ! dear 
 Miss Tylney, my heart's rest was not, never could have been with 
 him. * * * * * * Well, dearest lady— if— 
 if you should ever know that Gerald Arlington loves me as I feel I 
 could, as I do, love him (I may confess this for the first, last time, 
 to you, for to you I know it will be sacred), then some distant day, 
 
 perhaps, you may let him guess what I But, oh, 
 
 remember, he may have long since ceased to think about me . . 
 . . . . and have looked elsewhere for the love he could not, 
 would not, ask of me — another may have won the rich treasure of 
 his own. If so, I charge you, Miss Tylney, by all your respect for
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 319 
 
 woman's honour, that you burn this letter instantly, and never 
 breathe the faintest syllable of what it contains. 
 
 " Thine ever, trustfully, lovingly, 
 
 " L. F." 
 
 Gerald thrust this letter into his bosom, gave his aunt one pro- 
 digious kiss, adjured her to write to Leila on the spot, and then 
 rushed out of the room. He did not, however, have his horse im- 
 mediately saddled and gallop furiously off to Wimbledon. This 
 was his first impulse, no doubt, and almost an ungovernable one ; 
 but after a few minutes spent in his own room in an irrepressible 
 thanksgiving prayer, and writing a few ardent words to Leila, and 
 a hurried, grateful acceptance to Mrs. Featherstone of the invita- 
 tion to Wimbledon, he did send off the stable-boy at a rattling 
 pace on another steed with these two precious documents, and one 
 equally valuable from Miss Tylney to her young friend, the last 
 containing a remarkably graphic, though brief description of what 
 had just taken place. Then he mounted his own little nag, and 
 galloped up to the old breezy common and woodland glades, where 
 he had so often revelled in boyish happiness or fought out his 
 mortal conflicts in later days. 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon in Epping Forest and at High Beech 
 that day. Never had their sunny glades and grassy slopes and 
 magnificent beech trees looked more lovely; and the young leaves 
 were just budding ; the birds were warbling, as if they were all in 
 love ; and such a sense of blessedness as he had never thought it 
 possible he could feel and live, lifted up Gerald's heart to Heaven. 
 Hour after hour sped on. Still he was riding, or sitting, reading 
 over and over Leila's letter; gazing, dreaming, or walking about 
 in ecstacy, with the bridle over his arm ; or running and leaping like 
 a madman, leaving his astonished steed tied to a tree. Could 
 but his mother have shared his happiness — and if Harry could but 
 be as happy too. These were the only thoughts that dashed his joy. 
 But he called to that dear mother in Heaven, and felt she must 
 hear him, and know of his happiness. And he saw a far-off vision 
 of happiness for Harry also in the distant future's golden haze. 
 
 It may doubtless be an unquestionable fact that "the course of 
 true love never did run smooth " (otherwise, say some, it would 
 never be true love). But there certainly are seasons in all such 
 wooings when joy comes, greater than the heart before had dreamed 
 of, sometimes greater than it seems able to bear. Such a season 
 had come at last to Gerald Arlington, wandering among the beech 
 trees and the ferns in the forest ; and at last to Leila Featherstone 
 also, later in the day, when Gerald's breathless messenger arrived
 
 320 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 with his and Miss Tylney's notes, and when she wandered out 
 among the furze bushes, miles away from Gerald, in the south 
 there, on Wimbledon Common. For then Leila knew her feminine 
 insight had not misled her, and that she was loved as deeply as 
 her woman's heart might desire. And then at last came that 
 inevitable sunset, which probably does always come in this world 
 alike to our joys and sorrows, especially in tales ; and it came so 
 bright and peaceful that evening, with a rich, crimson glow, and 
 the dark masses of foliage on the edge of the forest standing out 
 clear and marked against the tinted sky. Long the young man 
 stood gazing there, and thinking of the morrow — thinking how that 
 glorious sunset was the pledge of a brighter day to come — thinking 
 where he should be, what he might be saying, whom he might be 
 with that time the following day. 
 
 When Leila Featherstone heard her father tell her mother to 
 write to young Mr. Arlington and ask him to come to Wimbledon, 
 she thought far more was meant, poor child, than really was or 
 could be. Vague, tumultous thoughts and dreams, indignant pride, 
 and tenderest fancies, had come surging up, chasing each other 
 like waves of the sea. At first, after that meeting in Broad Street, 
 she had brooded over it, sometimes in proud bitterness of soul, but 
 ere long often in deepest, humblest tenderness and grief. But she 
 had striven and prayed with indomitable faith to be able to 
 "possess her soul in patience," and to "wait on the Lord," con- 
 quering the wild impulses of anger, passion, and pride, that agitated 
 her. Hence for her, too, at last had come that brief, bright hour 
 of unutterable joy as she read her lover's note and Miss Tylney's 
 letter, and heard that he was coming to her home. Yes, there was 
 joy enough in that little heart on Wimbledon Common that after- 
 noon, not much greater joy, perhaps, in any heart elsewhere on 
 God's earth, except in her lover's. 
 
 ****** 
 
 As Gerald rode slowly home that evening he little thought it was 
 the last ride on horseback he should ever have out of Hartland 
 House gates, but he came home in a mood that rose above all out- 
 ward chances. Since she loved him, why he would soon wring 
 from the tough world a right to claim his beloved. He would 
 grapple with the work by which in one form or other men do build 
 up homes for wife and child — grapple with it here or there with the 
 energy and the faith that overcome the world, and be able thereby 
 also to work all the better for humanity. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Harry remained three or four days" longer at Neville Court after
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 32 1 
 
 ■writing to Gerald, chiefly occupied in what he called gardening 
 (but which chiefly consisted in cutting and slashing away at the too 
 luxuriant growth of the shrubberies) and long walks, and then went 
 off" to Edinburgh, where a medical chum had invited him to witness 
 a remarkable operation about to be performed at the infirmary. 
 He spoke very little to his sister while with her, and " consumed 
 his own smoke;" but his manner was more than usually consi- 
 derate and gentle, and in spite of the acute suffering she knew he 
 was enduring she was more hopeful concerning him than she had 
 been for many a day. Some change had come over him, though 
 she knew not exactly what, and yet she thought it was not alto- 
 gether the change she wanted in him and prayed for. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 At Hartland House during breakfast the next day Mr. Arlington 
 seemed oppressed with thoughts which were overwhelming him all 
 the more through a reaction from the intense strain he had been for 
 weeks placing upon himself. The securities he had relied on up to the 
 last moment seemed likely to prove utterly inadequate, being depre- 
 ciated considerably in value. He had come home very late the 
 night before and soon retired to his room. His compressed lips 
 and forehead contracted with a painful frown, as they met round the 
 breakfast table, told a melancholy tale. His sister-in-law glanced 
 at him with timid apprehension, and felt it would be better to say 
 nothing to him about Gerald's happiness or the invitation to 
 Wimbledon, and contrived to find out that her nephew agreed with 
 her. Gerald, while longing to share his father's load, knew he had 
 cut himself off from that privilege by leaving business, and could 
 only show his filial sympathy by slight attentions and one or two 
 useless attempts to promote conversation. But though grieving 
 over his father's troubles, and half fearing that things might have 
 been getting worse in the City, there was one bright, intoxicating 
 thought which whenever it recurred to him made his heart bound 
 with exulting joy, though dashed with sympathetic sorrow fur his 
 poor friend as well as for his anxious father. 
 
 Father and son left Hartland House in the phaeton, the father 
 going straight to his counting-house to find his last hop 
 
 \
 
 322 GERALD AND HIS FRIEXD THE DOCTOR. 
 
 averting the crash destroyed ; the son getting down at the road 
 leading to the private asylum, where Alfred was confined. The 
 interview he had there was depressing ; but he believed, as he turned 
 towards the City, that he had been of some little use, for Alfred had 
 been unfeignedly glad to see him, and manifestly cheered by the 
 visit. He found Fortescue had been once, but the effect had been 
 bad, and he was not to go again. And then the hope before him, 
 and another bright hope, that he might perhaps in time help to 
 restore the brother of his beloved to sanity — with the natural buoy- 
 ancy of youth sent him in comparatively high spirits towards Mr. 
 Featherstone's counting-house about four o'clock, whence he was 
 to accompany that gentleman to Wimbledon. 
 
 But suddenly it flashed on him that there was one trying scene to 
 be gone through — perhaps a terrible ordeal — after all he might find 
 total shipwreck there. He had begun to considerwhether he ought not 
 to speak out frankly to Mr. Featherstone before he went down to 
 Wimbledon, feeling he had no right to take advantage of his hospi- 
 tality to ask the daughter to accept him until he had got the father's 
 consent ; and naturally he felt no little apprehension at the idea of 
 speaking to the irritable old gentleman. Might he not, without a 
 breach of honour, privately tell Leila his love for her, and make her 
 feel they understood one another, though he could not think, of 
 course, of proposing a regular engagement till he had some prospect 
 of earning his livelihood, and being able one day to marry ? But 
 no, his conscience wasn't satisfied, and he resolved to speak. He 
 would take care to say that he did not ask for an engagement, only 
 that he loved, and had no reason to believe he was not indifferent 
 to, Miss Featherstone. 
 
 So thinking, he arrived at the Broad Street counting-house, and 
 hoped he should be shown into a certain beatific back-parlour ; 
 but instead he was ushered at once into the old gentleman's sanctum 
 by one of the clerks ; not without marks of evident surprise both on 
 his own and his fellow-clerk's faces. Mr. Featherstone was sitting 
 in a brown study when Gerald entered. He started up as soon as 
 he heard the name. The clerk hastily closed the door, and there 
 they stood, the old man and the young one, staring at each other. 
 "You named four o'clock, Mr. Featherstone," said Gerald, rather 
 aghast, and by way of explanation, " for me to be here and accom- 
 pany you to Wimbledon." But Gerald saw that Mr. Featherstone 
 glanced at him for a moment with a look of furious indignation ; 
 then his eye sank before the frank, fearless look of innocent sur- 
 prise on Gerald's face. He took a step or two, looked again at 
 Gerald, and said
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 323 
 
 "I little expected to see you, sir, under the circumstances. 
 Haven't you seen your father to-day ?" 
 
 " Not since we parted on our way to town." 
 
 " Look there, sir," and Mr. Featherstone handed Gerald a note 
 written by his father that morning in the usual official form. 
 M Messrs. Featherstone and Co. " Street > A P ril » /37- 
 
 " Gentlemen, — We regret having to inform you that we are this 
 day compelled to stop payment. As early a meeting of creditors as 
 possible will be arranged. 
 
 Your obedient servants, 
 
 Arlington & Co." 
 
 Mr. Featherstone showed Gerald this note, but he did not tell 
 him of a private letter sent at the same time, explaining how up to 
 the last moment the proud old merchant had expected to retrieve 
 the fortunes of the day. 
 
 " There, sir, that's what your father has come to. And he hid it 
 
 from me with the cunning of a . He has beggared himself, 
 
 sir, and nearly ruined me. And you, sir, I understand from my 
 wife — you have been tampering with the affections of my daughter, 
 when you haven't a penny, sir — when you've never earned one and 
 never will — and now your father's — a bankrupt beggar ! " cried the 
 old man, getting more and more excited. " Whatever we may have 
 owed you for the past is utterly cancelled, sir. You have behaved 
 disgracefully, young mn, and I'll thank you to leave this place, 
 and never come near me or mine again." 
 
 " Mr. Featherstone, suffer me to say you are mistaken." 
 
 " Mistaken, sir ! " exclaimed the choleric old man 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Featherstone; my father is not cunning, and I have 
 not been tampering with your daughter's affections. Hear me one 
 moment. I have a right to speak. You are a gentleman, so am L 
 Then bear with me a few seconds. Before coming here I had 
 resolved to tell you, Mr. Featherstone " (was he not thankful that he 
 had so resolved ?) " that I had long loved your daughter and would 
 therefore not go down with you to Wimbledon unless, knowing 
 this, you permitted me to go. But I have never spoken to her on 
 the subject of my attachment — never even hinted to her what I 
 felt. I had no intention of asking Miss Featherstone's or your 
 consent to an engagement until I had a fair prospect of being able 
 to support her." 
 
 " If this were your intention, sir, jvu meant to act honourably at 
 all events, and it's more than I might have expected of you," 
 returned Mr. Featherstone, slightly mollified. " But then how 
 came my daughter — how came she, sir," his suspicions and wrath
 
 324 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 coming back with gradually increasing vehemence, "to know of 
 your feelings towards her ? It looks very strange ; and what proof 
 have I of all this ? How do I know you are not deceiving me as 
 your father did ? " 
 
 " Mr. Featherstone ! " 
 
 " Well, well, well, it may be all very true, or it may have been 
 thought of after — at all events, I have no wish to see you or any of 
 your name, sir, again. Mind me ; I've cause enough to wish I had 
 never seen one of you. You'll please to understand me. Never 
 come near me or mine again. Yesterday I was a wealthy man, and 
 could hold up my head with the proudest in the city, sir. To-day ! 
 — And that man, sir, whom you in total ignorance of his dis- 
 graceful conduct are defending, has done it. He has swindled me 
 out of /^6o,ooo ! besides 
 
 " It's false ! " broke in Gerald with towering wrath. 
 
 "False!" echoed Mr. Featherstone, and he rang the bell 
 furiously, " do you dare call me a liar to my face ? " 
 
 "Yes I" exclaimed Gerald, for his blood, too, was up, and as a 
 clerk hurried in and he stalked out, he turned and added, "Yes, 
 that is my last word to you, sir, till you retract that lie ! " But the 
 old gentleman was livid with rage and the door banged upon him. 
 He found himself in Broad Street, in a thick London fog, scarcely 
 knowing whether he was on the solid earth or in some abode of the 
 damned. 
 
 The shock of that interview was lasting. How he got through 
 the rest of the day he couldn't tell. He remembered going 
 mechanically to his father's counting-house and being roused tem- 
 porarily by the sight of the old man's wretchedness, which he was 
 trying to conceal under a sort of Spartan cheerfulness ; and then 
 there was the dreary drive home in the dark, and the silent dinner. 
 How different an evening from what he had looked forward to ! 
 
 But at length came a ray of comfort to him in Miss Tvlney's 
 loving, compassionate sympathy. Indescribably precious both to 
 father and son was her presence, and the soothing, elevating con- 
 solation she knew so well how to give. By degrees Mr. Arlington 
 explained the nature and extent of his misfortunes ; but it was not 
 till some days afterwards that, deeply touched by the account he 
 gradually heard from Miss Tylney of poor Gerald's disappointment, 
 and Mr. Featherstone's behaviour, he explained the relation of his 
 own failure to the losses sustained by his unfortunate friend, and 
 showed him various letters and documents which, when the proper 
 time came, would fully exculpate him from the charge of dis- 
 honourable conduct.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 325 
 
 Of course it was a great relief to his son to find how thoroughly 
 his confidence in his father was justified. 
 
 " But then, father," said Gerald, " can you not clear your character 
 at once— at least, to Mr. Featherstone ? " 
 
 " He will not see me, my boy, nor read any letters from me. 
 God forgive him ! for he's dealing very hardly — most unjustifiably, 
 both with me and my character. But it can't be helped. It will 
 all come out before the Commissioner. Nothing I can say or do 
 will have much effect till then, because the evidence must all be 
 fully gone into. I must wait, Gerald, and you too. Don't fret 
 about it, my boy. It will all be right before long. We must wait. 
 I have a few friends left, and they'll do their best for me. The 
 rest we must leave. I'm glad she didn't live to see this." 
 
 The consciousness that his conduct was being represented in a 
 dishonourable light, however, was just simply and literally heart- 
 breaking to the proud, "just man" who had so long "walked in 
 his integrity." He showed little of what he felt, except in the 
 pallor of his countenance and the laboured effort with which he 
 attended to his duties. There was nothing for him to fall back 
 upon, for the wreck was so complete that he had to give up all his 
 appointments — even the chairmanship of his beloved Railway and 
 Atlantic Steam Navigation Companies. Not a share in one of his 
 companies but must go into the market. Gerald would have given 
 much to be able to help his father now, but he found it was out of 
 the question. And so he worked away as well as he could at his 
 serial "tale" and his "cyclopaedia" articles, and his studies in 
 political economy, rhetoric, &c. But the zest and glory of the 
 work was gone. A heavy cloud settled down upon him. His 
 favourite little chesnut, of course, had gone with the rest of the 
 stud to Tattersall's. 
 
 Meantime, the bankruptcy affairs dragged heavily on. One day 
 Gerald, accidentally meeting Ned Grant, who was full of kind and 
 awkward sympathy, heard from that omniscient young gentleman 
 that Mr. Featherstone was winding up his business in Broad Street 
 — had already sold his house at Wimbledon, let the mansion in 
 Portland Place, and was shortly going with his wife and daughter 
 to reside abroad. " It's something like a smash with him, I hear, 
 as well as with your governor." 
 
 " When do they leave Wimbledon ?" asked Gerald. 
 " To-morrow, I believe, or next day," was the answer. " There's 
 going to be a shooting-match, I hear, on the Common in con- 
 sequence. Plalf-a-score of Miss Fealherstonc's admirers meet l>v 
 appointment, to exploiter themselves. But now, tell me, Gerry,"
 
 326 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 continued Ned, confidentially, " can I help in getting you a berth 
 anywhere ? That is, if you're thinking of our line. I won't say 
 anything of our own shop, you know, for we're chock full ; besides, 
 my dad squeaks by your dad's downfall, to the tune of ^3000 or 
 /"4000. But, you know we're old friends, and I'll exert all my 
 influence elsewhere." 
 
 " Thank' ee, Ned. You're a trump, I know, in your way — which 
 was always first-rate. If I should want your help, trust me, I'll 
 look you up, and thank you heartily. Good-bye." 
 
 That morning his aunt had given Gerald a letter which she had 
 just received from Miss Featherstone. It was in answer to one 
 Aunt Carry had written about a week before at Gerald's passionate 
 entreaty, and ran thus, with the mark of tears upon its wavering 
 lines : — 
 
 •* Wimbledon, March /37. 
 11 Dear Miss Tylney, — Many, many thanks for yours. You do 
 not know, you never can know, how welcome it was to me. I 
 should have written long before but was forbidden to write either 
 to you or Miss Fortescue, and when I got leave it was only on 
 condition of showing my letter. But I could not write so. And I 
 waited. But now it is settled we are to start for Brussels the day 
 after to-morrow, and I may write these few last words unread at 
 home. Dearest Miss Tylney, many blessings on you, and on those 
 you love, for all you tell me. But it is not to be. I never would 
 marry without my father's consent, still less against his solemn 
 command, and even if I survived him, which is not likely — he has 
 said that if I married his greatest enemy's son, even after his death 
 — oh, it is too dreadful to repeat ! Then he says that Gerald 
 Arlington grossly insulted him. I think there may — must have 
 been some great provocation, or some terrible mistake, but I can- 
 not bear to think of all my poor father has suffered from these and 
 other things, and I do fear that he has been greatly sinned against, 
 however unintentionally, both by Mr. Arlington and his son. Under 
 all these circumstances, how can there be room in my heart now 
 for such feelings as you refer to — even with regard to a distant 
 future ? No, no, no ! That is past. I never, never could make 
 your nephew happy after what has happened. But tell him, dear 
 Miss Tylney, tell him how much I have enjoyed his acquaintance, 
 how very thankful I feel to him for all the benefit and happiness he 
 has given me — for all he has done for my poor brother — and, most 
 of all, for having cared for me so much as to wish to make me, one 
 day, his wife. But that is all past. It would be sinful even to 
 think of, much more to cherish such feelings now. He will find
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 327 
 
 some one by-arid -bye, I trust, to give him a home of peace and 
 joy even on earth, and if we both work on in faith and holiness 
 there is no sin in looking forward to meeting in one home in 
 heaven. You know how often I have thought, both before and 
 especially since my poor brother's illness, that my vocation was 
 not to marriage, but to the life of those noble and blessed ' Sisters 
 of Mercy,' of whom we have often talked and read ; and I hope 
 while abroad to learn to live that life, so that if ever we come back 
 to dear, dear England, I may be able to heal some wounds and 
 comfort some sorrowful souls there with Divine help. I cannot 
 help still clinging to hope for my brother's restoration — but I am 
 told not to hope ; that it is now certain he cannot recover, and 
 that mamma and I must never see him. But God is still Love. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Tylney, I could write on and on — I cannot bear 
 
 finishing this scrawl. It seems like the last word I may ever . 
 
 Farewell, dear, dear friend. You must not write to me again — nor 
 I to you — nor may I to darling Ellen even, at present ; which seems 
 so hard — but you will explain all to her. And our heavenly Father's 
 love will support, guide, and comfort us all. 
 
 " Yours in grateful love, 
 
 "L. F." 
 
 That this letter was read and re-read, and kept till it was worn to 
 tatters, and many a burning kiss pressed upon it, can be easily 
 believed. When Gerald first read it, and then found that the 
 family were off to the Continent the next day, vague and frantic 
 fancies seized him of immediately proceeding to Wimbledon, of 
 lying-in-wait near the house, of watching an opportunity of speaking 
 to the writer for the last time, of clasping her to his heart once — 
 once for all — and then tearing himself away for ever. He did go 
 to Wimbledon that evening, and remained within sight of the 
 house, though hidden by the trees, till nearly midnight; but he did 
 not yield to the passionate madness which impelled him to gain an 
 interview with his beloved at all risks, and in defiance of all his 
 principles. So the night wore on. When he had become thoroughly 
 exhausted with his vigils, Gerald walked dolefully back to the inn at 
 Putney, where, six years before, he had first seen Leila Featherstone 
 — went up to his room and tried to sleep, with only partial success. 
 Yet the night passed and the dawn came at last, as we may 
 generally reckon upon their doing, morally as well as physically, 
 and both according to previous arrangement.
 
 328 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The winding-up of Mr. Arlington's affairs was a wear)-, dreary 
 process, dragging itself along week after week. The expressions of 
 sympathy, respect, and regret, which reached him at first from all 
 quarters — from the public press as well as from commercial 
 acquaintances, from Lords of the Admiralty, members of the Board 
 of Trade, brother directors, and many private friends — were a con- 
 siderable solace in the early days of his misfortunes to the aspiring, 
 public-spirited old man. But all these, of course, came to an end ; 
 and then, instead of the exciting enterprises which had formerly 
 occupied his interest, to the too great neglect, perhaps, of his own 
 business, but which he had been carrying forward to success with 
 such magnificent energy, disinterestedness, and tact ; all the 
 wretched and complicated details of disasters, mistakes, blunders, 
 and defeat in his own affairs had to be dwelt upon and unravelled 
 day after day till even his strong tough mind seemed breaking down 
 under the accumulated load of suffering. 
 
 He would, however, doubtless have struggled through and come 
 out of the fiery baptism, purified and ennobled, more fit for the 
 final change, which is often nearer than we dream of, had it not 
 been for the fatal reports alluded to above, which were soon in 
 circulation as to his supposed dishonourable treatment of Mr. 
 Featherstone. That gentleman was not one to exercise a mag- 
 nanimous reticence, nor even an equitable patience, under his 
 great provocations. Without seeking — nay, without receiving 
 explanations — or even waiting till a full and fair investigation of all 
 the circumstances could be made, he gave full swing to his resent- 
 ment, and many City shoulders consequently began to be shrugged 
 in compassionate pity or indignant contempt when Arlington and 
 Co.'s affairs were mentioned. 
 
 A useful and successful public man always makes many enemies, 
 and generally in proportion to his usefulness and success. Some 
 dislike him from envy and jealousy ; some hate him for his removal 
 of abuses or redress of wrongs in which they had a vested interest ; 
 some detest him for what seems to them his dangerous ambition or 
 unjust behaviour. Many who are never actuated themselves by 
 public spirit or disinterested benevolence believe he must be 
 seeking selfish, perhaps even mischievous ends, by all his activity
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 329 
 
 and labours ; most see his mistakes and failings (of which, of course, 
 there are plenty) especially when these are carefully pointed out and 
 duly exaggerated. Hence, a wise man has said, "As the good love 
 thee, the bad will hate thee ;" and again, " Who has no friend and 
 no enemy is one of the vulgar, and without talents, powers, or 
 energy." By nothing, probably, is the progress of the world more 
 hindered than by the obstructions which jealousies and misunder- 
 standings lay in the path of its wisest and noblest benefactors. 
 
 In Mr. Arlington's case, some of his least amiable characteristics 
 aggravated the natural tendency to dislike and depreciate a man of 
 so much energy and benevolent ambition. Hence, there were 
 plenty of City men ready to take advantage of his downfall, and to 
 enjoy casting doubts on his integrity, or broadly hinting dishonest 
 proceedings. 
 
 This the proud, just man could not brook. Miss Tylney and 
 Gerald watched him anxiously from day to day— tried in vain to get 
 him to have medical advice. 
 
 His eldest son, as beforesaid, when he found he could be of no use 
 in the counting-house toiled away at his literary work, but he longed 
 vehemently to be able to help to bear his father's heavy burdens, 
 and at last found he could. Nevertheless, day by day the bankrupt 
 merchant's face grew paler and thinner, his brows more contracted, 
 his lips more silent. Sometimes he appeared to be suffering acute 
 bodily pain. Richard came down as usual once a week, and some- 
 times his father would seem for a time carried out of his gloomy 
 thoughts by the young surgeon's stories of his hospital experience. 
 The young fellow, though generally so reserved, exerted himself 
 with genuine professional and filial interest to please his father, and 
 naturally still seemed to him much improved. And so he certainly 
 was in some respects ; but, just as it used to be, he did not like 
 being bored about his behaviour, either by Fortescue, his brother, 
 or anyone else, so nobody knew much about his real character, but 
 he had always held his father in more respect and regard than could 
 have been supposed possible considering his real heart and life. 
 Poor lad ! he had somehow been unfortunate in his " bringing up," 
 and under happier training might perhaps have made a fine cha- 
 racter. The energy and fearless self-sacrifice with which he obeyed 
 every professional call on him showed what might once have been 
 made of him. " The parting of the. ways," however, had long since 
 been passed, and darkness had been chosen for light. Neverthe- 
 less, disliking the bother, as it had been said, of defending himself 
 or of vexing his father, his conduct was outwardly decorous, and 
 with his good abilities and tolerable industry he would have passed
 
 330 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 muster among the most hopeful and respectable of medicals at 
 
 St. Hospital. He was much more gentlemanly than some 
 
 of them, always willing to serve anybody if the cost was not too 
 great. No blackguardism now was known, or at all events reported 
 of Richard Arlington. True, he seldom denied himself any self- 
 indulgence he could safely obtain ; but not many persons knew 
 that though abstaining from coarse, open vice, he sometimes went 
 to work to gratify his tastes in a much quieter and more villainous 
 way. So his father and Gerald were hopeful concerning him. His 
 father considered things were working out well for his "medical 
 boy " at last ; and, on the whole, Gerald thought so too. Hence he 
 was able to persuade himself he was free from the condemnation 
 he had once feared might rest upon him for neglecting his younger 
 brother ; but he little knew the precious opportunity he had lost 
 when he left his father's house. That Canadian voyage had made 
 a complete break in the young rascal's life, and when he returned 
 from it there was no doubt a chance of some permanent improve- 
 ment in him. Whether Gerald could have really used it, Heaven 
 only knows ! Perhaps not. But it is more likely that he could. 
 Opportunities of great usefulness to others, more precious than 
 many dramas and all the nuggets in California, seem given to every 
 one of us some time in our lives. This is certain, at all events, that 
 whatever his opportunity may have been for saving his brother from 
 the downward path, Gerald flung it away by leaving home, and in 
 due time grievously repented thereof "with an exceeding great and 
 bitter cry." 
 
 Mr. Arlington had migrated, with his books and papers, from the 
 large, well-furnished apartments of his former tenancy in Fen- 
 church Street, to a small room, second floor, in Billiter Square. 
 There Harry Fortescue, adventurously exploring one sultry 
 morning some weeks after the expedition to Wimbledon Common, 
 discovered his unhappy friend. There also, with his long legs 
 balancing on the back of a chair, he sat for a full hour, listening 
 to Gerald's explanations respecting the final break-up of the great 
 houses of Messrs. Arlington and Featherstone, and to the still 
 more interesting details of the way in which the catastrophe 
 affected the friend of his youth, whom he found up to his elbows 
 in ledgers and accounts. Fortescue had prolonged his stay in 
 Edinburgh, taken a run up to the Highlands, and had only 
 returned the night before, so that he had heard mere outlines of 
 recent events, and now he came down upon Gerald with vehement, 
 long pent-up sympathy and curiosity. At the end of Gerald's 
 narration he drew a long deep breath, relieved himself by ejaculating
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 33 I 
 
 in a husky voice, with immense but repressed emotion, " By 
 George ! " took Gerald's hand with the tender, reverential com- 
 passion of a person about to comfort an orphan child by the side 
 of his mother's grave, and then stormed up and down the room, 
 finally subsiding into an arm-chair, with the well-worn, threadbare 
 exhortation, " Never say die," pronounced in a tone so hopelessly 
 dismal that Gerald almost forgot his own sorrow in an impulse to 
 laugh at his dreary friend's consolation. Just then a heavy step 
 was heard on the stairs. 
 
 " We can't have any more talk now, Harry. I think that's my 
 father, and his solicitor will be here directly. What are you going 
 to do ? When and where can we meet ? " 
 
 " I'm off at the end of the week, Gerry, like your favourite 
 'clothes professor,' again, with my ' pilger stab'' to the Tyrol, and 
 then through Transylvania, I believe, and among the Vienna 
 hospitals for the winter. It's bad for me, losing you — that's the 
 last feather that breaks my back." 
 
 " Talk of back-breaking, Hal ! why, your plan sounds like 
 heaven," sighed Gerry, as he glanced round the room, " decidedly 
 heaven — all but the hospitals." 
 
 " That's the only jolly part, my Gerry. As for heaven, you or 
 Milton once informed me that the mind was its own place, and 
 could make, &c. But, I say, come with me. Do-o-o-o. Do 
 now. Will you come ? I know you'll want all your money for 
 your dad, but it won't cost you a farthing with me. We're old 
 friends, and I've had something, after all, from my uncle's will." 
 
 Arlington smiled gratefully and gloomily, thanked him warmly 
 by a look and a squeeze of his hand, and pointed to the door, at 
 which Mr. Arlington was just entering. After a kindly greeting, 
 given in the old hearty style (Harry was always a favourite with 
 Mr. Arlington), but which could not prevent Fortescue being shocked 
 by the old gentleman's altered appearance and expression, he took 
 leave, saying to Gerald : 
 
 " Let us have the inevitable row, then, some day this week, to 
 Richmond. I'll see when the tide serves and let you know. It 
 will be our last for many a day." As indeed it was. The evening 
 before Harry Fortescue started for the Continent he and Gerry, 
 accordingly, once more rendezvoused at Searle's, and were soon 
 gliding, as in days of old, with swift, strong stroke up the grand 
 old stream. Abreast of the "Dog and Duck" they simultaneously 
 rested on their oars, wiped their brows, and sank into pensive 
 reflections. 
 
 " Well, it's a rum go," quoth Harry at last. (Pause.) "And I
 
 332 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 thought you were all this time in the seventh heaven of recipro- 
 cated attachment and frantic affection, spite of financial bothers ! 
 Poor sinner ! " He looked round ; his great face beaming comical 
 sympathetic regard and a sort of penitent humility. Then lower- 
 ing himself backwards till his head almost rested on his friend's 
 knee, he growled out, " I believe you've more need of the ' Pilger 
 stab' 'than I, my Gerry, after all. What are you doing in that 
 dismal hole there up in Billiter Square ? " 
 
 " Let's get to Richmond first," said Gerry, drawing a long breath, 
 " and lick those coxsy fellows in that cutter, who seem to think 
 they can teach us how to row." 
 
 Richmond Bridge was passed a boat's length ahead of the 
 cutter, which bumptious craft looked amazed and disgusted that 
 two should beat four — as well it might, for the crew were not young 
 hands. Then, after awhile, the friends shipped their oars, and 
 drifted in the slant rays of the declining sun, between the new- 
 mown Twickenham meadows — drifted silently looking on into the 
 west, just as of old, and thinking, doubtless, of the bygone time. 
 
 " Only six years, reflect upon it, Ulysses," quoth Gerald — " only 
 six have passed since that memorable night when we sat and talked 
 under those willow trees of all we were to do and to be, finishing 
 by supping at the ' Dog and Duck,' Putney, in damp, though 
 cheerful company." 
 
 Only six years, yet how much had passed — how much had 
 blossomed and perished since then ! Yet they had had a great 
 deal to learn. Six years is not long to be at school, nor sixty. 
 
 "Well, Gerry, you seem to have something on your mind. Come 
 * drive dull care away.' You'll meet her again in a year or two — I 
 don't mean dull Care — and it will be all right then, of course." 
 
 " You're a trump, King Hal ! always were ; but I wasn't think- 
 ing about that just then, but about what a confounded mess Fve 
 
 made of it ever since I left college. I tried the manager of 
 
 Theatre the other day with that drama of mine, thinking it just 
 possible I might get an honest penny by it, but he wouldn't look 
 at it." 
 
 " Try the Theatre," said his friend. 
 
 " No go, Harry — no more good in a money point of view than 
 all my studies in Quinctilian & Co. are likely to be for regenerating 
 the world ! Fact is, all my work, everything I ever did, is all bosh, 
 like my abortive little bit of existence." 
 
 " I won't believe it, Gerry. You and your work are to cut a 
 figure yet, my boy." 
 
 "Don't talk in that way, you misguided impostor!" cried Gerald,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 333 
 
 in as near an approach to wrath as he ever permitted himself to 
 manifest. " I've done with such folly for ever ! Don't you be 
 tempting me back again. Thank God, my eyes are opened : 
 • I was a fool and all things show it — 
 Thought so once, and now I know it.' " 
 (It was a brave effort, but the mirth was rather sickly.) "Even the 
 editor of the Penny Cyclopaedia hasn't much more for me to do. 
 In short, composition is not my line, Harry. It's all gammon 
 trying. I'm going in for business and accounts. Aunt Tylney 
 knew me better than I did myself." 
 
 " Stuff ! — business ! — accounts ! — you're joking." 
 
 " True as fate. At least I'm trying for all sorts of India and 
 Government appointments, but shan't get anything. A year ago 
 my poor dad could have got me more than one of the best, and 
 then I wouldn't look at them ; but now — well, he has no more 
 influence than a crossing-sweep, I can see that plainly. So, as he 
 finds, and as I am thankful to say, that I can help him, I'm trying 
 to make up for past sins, and I work like a horse accordingly ; God 
 bless him ! Then as soon as I can, I shall work for myself at any- 
 thing that will soonest give me a house to live in, and a neat little 
 income to keep the pot boiling. It shan't be my fault, you see, 
 Harry, if somebody we know hasn't a home offered her, in spite of 
 the old dragon." 
 
 "All right, Gerry, that's your first duty now." 
 
 "And business of some sort is the only chance. So I've pitched 
 poetry and philanthropy overboard, for the present, and stick to 
 the figures for amusement half the night, and do mental arithmetic 
 all the way home. Up and at them ! Ah, that's the tune ; but, 
 oh, Hal, by the powers, it's weary work, though I'm glad enough 
 to help my dad!" 
 
 "He deserves all you can do, Gerry. What a game old prince 
 he is ; but the time is coming when you'll want all his pluck and 
 your own too." 
 
 " I only wish I had half of it. I do so soon get beaten, and my 
 digestion's out of order. It's dreary work up there in that office." 
 
 " I should think so. I must prescribe for you. But what is the 
 work ? Does it bring any of the ready ?" 
 
 " Yes, the assignees allow me about as much as boots, gloves, and 
 riding-whips used to cost. Two pounds a week at present, for a 
 beginning." 
 
 A long, low whistle expressed Harry's opinion of this state of 
 things. At length he remarked : 
 
 " It's a deuced shame! I — a big sinner — I've got marly /'500
 
 334 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 a-year, or shall soon, and you a saint and a poet have to fag at 
 accounts for £i a week. Money's the root of all evil." 
 
 " The love of it, you heathen ! But what do you mean ?" con- 
 tinued Gerry, with wondering eyes. " Five hundred a-year ! " 
 
 " Yes," replied his friend, deliberately. " I kept that to astonish 
 you when the time came. My excellent old uncle has departed this 
 life, repenting his cruelty to me, and leaving me ^300 a-year on 
 condition I attend divine worship in the Church of England four 
 times a-year. Then you know I had ^150 before from my father." 
 
 Gerald shook his friend's big hand lustily, exclaiming — 
 
 " That's jolly, by Jove ! " 
 
 " No, it isn't, at all," replied Harry, dismally. Then, seeing 
 Gerald's astonishment, he continued, hurriedly—" Well, well ; I 
 mean it will make us hate one another. I shall ask you to help 
 yourself to my purse, and you'll look unutterable things, and then I 
 shall hate you for your unchristian pride — and then you'll hate me 
 for calling you proud — and yet it is an abominable shame if you 
 won't let me (hold your tongue a minute). Now " (with intense 
 vehemence) "can we be real friends if you won't let me help in such 
 a trumpery way as this, when you have given me help infinitely more 
 valuable ! Are we to take up with the world's mean, miserable way 
 of looking at tin ? Oh, Gerry, Gerry, don'/, I pray you, old Gerry 
 boy, don't refuse this bit of rubbish ; I brought it out on purpose " 
 (trying to thrust a ^50 cheque into Arlington's waistcoat pocket), 
 and if it's hard work to see your plain duty and take it, just 
 remember it's the sublimest act of self-sacrifice and affection to 
 do so. Do as you'd be done by." 
 
 Gerald (with a slight pretence of taking a bit of dust out of his 
 eye) replied : " I'll remember you're a regular old brick, and the 
 other thing you mention, too, at the proper time, if you'll remember 
 also, that in such matters there is only one step from the sublime 
 to the mean. Now gently," continued Gerald, seeing the dejected 
 look on Harry's face, " I'll do this, then, if you like; I'll take your 
 cash as a loan, and lock it away in my desk, or put it in the savings' 
 bank, and give you an I.O.U. — all on one condition — that you 
 promise to keep the I.O.U. till I ask for it." 
 
 "And you swear you'll use it if you really want it?" asked his 
 friend. 
 
 " Honour bright, I will. I promise to do as I would have you 
 do to me, mutatis mutandis. And so, God bless you!" 
 
 " I'm satisfied. Shake hands on it ! " 
 
 " And are you getting along yourself pretty well, Hal ?" 
 
 "First-rate, Gerry. Here are the darbies!" (taking the hand-
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 335 
 
 cuffs from his pocket). "Ha, ha! I laugh and cry over them, Gerry, 
 I believe you. But I really am in jolly good tune." 
 
 The words and tone were cheery enough ; but Gerald could see 
 it was more than half sham, and his heart ached for his friend, 
 though even then he was beginning to understand something about 
 the beneficial effects of Carlyle's "Fire-Baptism" to a brave, 
 earnest, sinning, but upward-struggling soul. 
 
 The cutter shot past them, all five young fellows singing a lively 
 part-song in a style that made the river as bright and sparkling, for 
 a few seconds, to our friends as in olden time. They watched the 
 singers for a moment. Then Harry exclaimed — 
 
 "Why don't you sing, Gerry?" 
 
 " Oh, I've given up all that long ago. But look, tide's turned — 
 sun's set. Now for Westminster Bridge." 
 
 " Cut away," responded his friend. 
 
 "Our last row, Harry," said Gerald, "so pull with a will and 
 make them wide awake in the cutter there." 
 
 " Here's an end to our youth," he added demurely, as they bent 
 to their oars. 
 
 "The end of our youth !" Yet they were young enough still. Aye, 
 but youth is not altogether an affair of years. So it was true enough. 
 And those words contain deep meaning — if they and we knew it. 
 " Rejoice, oh young man in thy youth, and walk in the ways of thy 
 heart, &c. ; but — " Glorious youth ! Never, never can that wonderful 
 mystery come over again. Why don't we value it more when we 
 have it ? Earth has nothing to equal it. Once gone, once and 
 for ever. ***** 
 
 Eh ! is it so ? Did we never hear that Heaven might be perpetual 
 youth ? " Gone for ever ! " That is a long word. Is there not a 
 promise somewhere about — "a door of hope," and "a pleasant 
 land," "a new heaven and a new earth," and how one "shall 
 sing there as in the days of her youth," and how " mourning shall 
 be turned into joy ? " Can it be that so glorious a boon as youth 
 is given us but once throughout eternity — to be marred, and 
 blundered through, so mournfully amid all our wretched ignorance 
 and tyrannous passions — and then to come back to us no more for 
 ever ? Begone ! oh infidel ! Vanish I * * * 
 
 When they had shot through Putney Bridge, Harry pulled gently 
 for a few minutes, and said, — 
 
 " Your brother seems considerably improved." 
 
 " D'ye think so ? Glad you do. So do I." 
 
 "Oh, he certainly is, and no mistake. By-tlic-1 >\ , how's that 
 poor devil, young Featherstone ? "
 
 33 6 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Just the same." 
 
 "Ah, well, I glorified myself at the time, I'm afraid, on fishing 
 him up ; but what good did it do ? " 
 
 " Nay, he wasn't particularly fit to shuffle off the coil then, Harry. 
 Life's worth something. You may yet be thankful. He's better in 
 one sense." 
 
 The talk was fragmentary, for soon both men were pulling again 
 as if for their lives ; yet with the old steady swing. Then another 
 little interval — 
 
 " As how ? Seems penitent ? " 
 
 "Yes, and deuced gloomy. But his desperately low spirits seem 
 eating the beast out of him. He spends a good deal of time in 
 painting, which, luckily, he can enjoy sometimes for days together. 
 And wonderfully beautiful things he perpetrates, mixed, of course, 
 with a deal of grotesque and horrible rubbish." 
 
 "Does he know where he's got to ?" 
 
 " Yes, when he's not raving. Tells me in quite a pitiful child-like 
 way — poor beggar — that he says his prayers now." 
 
 "Egad ! What about that little coxswain, and the surly chap ? " 
 
 " Oh, Neddy's as brisk and knowing as ever. He is increasing 
 that business wonderfully, and will be a great merchant and ship- 
 owner before you're an eminent physician. He'll marry a very tall 
 girl some day, buy an estate when he's fifty, and get himself made a 
 county magistrate, just to have the police under him. As for old 
 Nicholson, he is still on the ' Weekly Snarler,' they say ; but I 
 hope it's not true. Neddy christened Nicholson ' Snarley-Yow,' 
 you know, one night at the ' Shades,' and it has stuck to him. But 
 what do you think, Hal ? I've learnt a secret. Neddy whispered 
 to me the other day, with mysterious horror, ' Don't you ever get 
 into print again — at least, don't let Snarley know if you do. He 
 does all the reviews for the 'Weekly Snarler,' and nibs himself 
 over with capsicum before he begins, unless he's first had a tailor's 
 or his washerwoman's bill sent in, which does as well.' " 
 
 Harry's old hearty laugh rang out for a moment. 
 
 " Not so bad that, for Neddy." 
 
 But Gerald was looking pensive. 
 
 " Oh, begad ! " said Harry, " I had forgotten. Why, it must 
 have been he, then, that wrote that infernal review o( your drama 
 long ago." 
 
 Gerry assented. 
 
 "By George!" exclaimed his friend, "that fellow missed his 
 vocation — always thought he was meant for a ratcatcher." 
 
 "Ratcatcher's dog, Harry. Yet no, that poor dog of Manyatt's,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 337 
 
 Snarley-Yow, was a saint to Bobby, and has been irretrievably 
 disgraced by having his name fixed on our sweet-tempered friend." 
 
 "Well," quoth Harry, drawing a long breath, "I'd like to pitch 
 into the blackguard, and I will some day, depend upon it — that is, 
 in a metaphysical way, you know. Confound him ! " 
 
 " Can't be helped Hal. It's only his instincts." 
 
 Harry coloured slightly, seeing which, Gerry turned the conversa- 
 tion, and asked after Pierce. 
 
 " He's doing well, is'nt he ? " 
 
 " Yes, in his fashion, much better. The other fellow, Hackett, 
 is a thorough scamp. But the medicals are a bad set, Gerry — i.e., 
 some of them — I'm sorry to say, until they get into regular practice, 
 and then this magnificent work of healing seems to purify the 
 sinners' dirty souls. But the whole tone among them is improving. 
 Twenty years hence medical students will all be gentlemen. Oh, 
 it's a grand work, Gerry, and I bless God — when I think of Him at 
 all (worse luck, perhaps, it's not oftener)— that I took to it. And 
 there's nothing like work after all. It is the only comfort in this 
 world. Look where you're going. Pull for that light. Give way, 
 and let's have done with it. I'm getting confoundedly sentimental." 
 
 They glided into Searle's, and the cutter's crew (already arrived) 
 eyed them admiringly, yet triumphantly. 
 
 "Ah, we got to talking," said Fortescue, good humouredly. 
 " Lay on our oars above Putney Bridge." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " exclaimed two or three of the crew. 
 
 " Pull against us to-morrow ? " asked the stroke. " You're worth 
 licking." 
 
 " Thanks. Should like it dearly, but leaving town. Good 
 night." 
 
 The young men walked away, arm-in-arm, heavy hearted. " To- 
 morrow ! " The thoughts of both were in their dreary future : 
 visions of lonely battling in the Tyrolese and Carpathian moun- 
 tains filled the mind of one ; of similar wrestlings and vain pining 
 among ledgers and invoices and bankruptcy-courts, the mind of the 
 other. 
 
 "The end of our youth." Farewell. 
 . # # * # # # * 
 
 The last "good-bye" had been uttered in the rainy twilight on 
 the Ostend steamer's gangway at the Tower Wharf. Harry was ..!) 
 and away up the Rhine, and Gerald went plodding on with his 
 work day after day in Billitcr Square. One evening his father 
 looked up from his desk, and said, affectionately : " My boy, you 
 ought to have a run in the country somewhere. I can do the rest
 
 338 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 of this work with Tomkins, and there will be no more examinations 
 or meetings of the assignees for two' months at least. Are there 
 none of your friends who would be glad to see you for a few 
 weeks ? " 
 
 " Thank you, father ; I'll think about it. But I shan't go unless 
 you can come too." 
 
 " Never mind me. I'm going home now by the half-past five 
 omnibus. Will you put by the books and meet me at the ' Flower- 
 pot ? ' " 
 
 " All right, sir. But hadn't you better go by the Hartland coach ; 
 you have had walking enough to-day, father," added Gerald, seeing 
 how tired his father looked. 
 
 " No, my boy, I can't afford eighteenpence now when sixpence 
 will do." 
 
 Gerald tried to follow him at once, but he didn't get in time, 
 and came on by the next omnibus, nearly half an hour later. His 
 father had been tortured for some days by examinations in the 
 Bankruptcy Court. It had to come to that at last ; and opposing 
 counsel, with their cross-examinations, and ingenious surmises and 
 plausible insinuations, brought the proud old man very low. If 
 theologians are right in saying that a sense of sin is a needful pre- 
 requisite for true conversion, Mr. Arlington was receiving what 
 many other respectable folk would be the better for — viz., some 
 valuable experiences during those hot July days, though, perhaps, 
 needing them less than many who stood very high in their own 
 and general esteem; and, after all, his character would have come 
 out virtually untarnished from the fire at last. 
 
 Young Arlington got off the omnibus at the usual place, whence 
 there was a pleasant walk of about two miles to Hartland House, 
 where the creditors wished Mr. Arlington to remain till it was sold. 
 He stepped along briskly, hoping to overtake his father, which 
 he did not do for a much longer time than he expected, for his 
 father had said truly he was " going home." 
 
 There was a little crowd round the door of a turnpike house 
 which he had to pass. As he came up, two or three persons lifted 
 up their hands, and shook their heads in a dismal sort of way, when 
 they saw him. 
 
 " Make way, make way ; young Mr. Arlington." 
 
 The first objects that his eyes fell upon as he entered the little 
 place were a man's boots pointing upwards to the ceiling. There, 
 on the Moor, lay his dead father — pale, motionless, a pillow under 
 his head. Soon a horse galloped up to the door. The doctor 
 entered. Yes, he was dead — no need of a doctor now, — no pulse
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 339 
 
 — heart disease. Gerald sat down on a chair and thought, " I can 
 
 never help him again." 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 The Bankruptcy Commissioner and the lawyers— both opposing 
 and defending counsel — rested from their labours that evening in 
 their pleasant suburban villas or West-end mansions. Trains went 
 roaring and rattling down the London and Birmingham and Grand 
 Junction lines as usual. Ships floated in and out of the London 
 Docks all that week. Gallant steamers ploughed their way across 
 the Atlantic. The new and stately Royal Exchange, in the heart 
 of the city, like other great companies, was flourishing under other 
 masters. The dead man was no more to them than they were now, 
 at length, to him. His gentle wife was gone to her rest. What 
 better thing could have happened to him than that he should be 
 resting too ? Their boys had still to work and still to be assailed 
 by fierce temptations and trials. But the brave old merchant's 
 chances, his joys and sorrows, battles, triumphs, and errors in life, 
 were all gone. For better, for worse, this world at length was at 
 an end for him, with all his nobleness and sins whatever they were. 
 Farewell, proud and public-spirited British merchant-prince. Per- 
 haps the last year's struggle and tribulation were worth more to 
 thee than all thy proudest and happiest days before — as may long 
 since have been made plain to thee — to thee, perchance, thankful, 
 humble, adoring. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Two young men sat in a counting-house looking on a wharf on the 
 banks of a canal on the outskirts of the busy town of Longbeach. 
 One left off writing to mend his pen, and the other left off to talk 
 to him. 
 
 " Well, what say you to our Mr. Arkwright ? " 
 
 " Oh, he'll do, I dare say. Bit of a spooney though, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Keeps himself to himself, I admit. Slow at figures too, I see." 
 
 " Where did you pick him up ? " 
 
 " Used to meet him when I lived at Deansford, a year ago. 
 He lived independent like there; spent his time chiefly in reading 
 and rowing ; always made me welcome to his boat, and I used to
 
 340 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 drop into tea sometimes. Sings divinely — for a man. Splendid 
 voice. Reads poetry like a brick. Gentlemanly fellow ; and has 
 read a great deal, I should say," continued the clerk with dignity. 
 " Well, when I left to take this situation he said, joking, perhaps 
 he should like to get a berth of that kind some day ; and sure enough, 
 my young spark writes down to me about a month ago from London 
 inquiring if I had one to offer him. So I went to the governor, and 
 here he is." 
 
 " He's not amiss, but might be more sociable. You had better 
 tell him so." 
 
 Geofge Arkwright's entrance suspended further comment. 
 
 When the funeral was over, and their father's affairs wound up as 
 far as Gerald and Richard could arrange them, the old home had 
 to be finally abandoned. Miss Tylney, nearly all whose little 
 savings had been lost in the wreck of the house, had received and 
 accepted a very urgent and loving entreaty from Miss Fortescue 
 (whose health had not been good lately), to come and live entirely 
 at Neville Court. So she and Gerald sorrowfully went over the 
 grounds of Hartland House together one day, for the last time, 
 their hearts divided between thankfulness for having enjoyed it so 
 long, and sorrow to think they should never come back to it as a 
 home again. Gerald, as he lingered on the terrace walk, thought 
 of the last and very different parting when he left it to go to Deans- 
 ford ; and of all its thousand memories, with a passionate flood of 
 sorrow that would have made the fortune of some modern rhyme- 
 sters. His aunt was little less affected, though her grief was more 
 for her nephew, and for all she feared was before him. She had 
 quite agreed with Gerald that he was right in bending all his 
 energies, however painful it might be, to business of some sort ; at 
 all events until his friends could procure him either a Government 
 appointment or a secretaryship of some kind or other, for which he 
 was much more competent, as may be easily imagined, than for the 
 ordinary routine of a clerk's duties. He remembered his quondam 
 acquaintance at Deansford, and preferred applying to him to avail- 
 ing himself of kind-hearted but meddlesome Ned Grant's good 
 offices, and wrote to him with the result above recorded. 
 
 Thereupon, having obtained a good report of the concern, he had 
 offered to put into it all he had saved from his own little funds, 
 with a trifle that had considerately been sent to him from the 
 assignees of his late father's estate, with Harry's £$o, on condition 
 of having a share in the business in two or three years' time if 
 matters went on successfully. This offer had been duly accepted, 
 being backed by a highly influential recommendation from a staunch
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 341 
 
 old friend of his father's, who thought his reasons for taking an 
 alias, for a time, sufficiently good, and connived at it accordingly. 
 For having only been known to the young man at Deansford under 
 his then assumed name of George Arkwright, and wishing to hide 
 himself and his troubles, for a time at least, as effectually as he 
 could, he determined to retain the said alias ; a false step, even 
 for a ticket-of-leave man, in general. 
 
 Richard Arlington shewed more feeling on the occasion of his 
 father's sudden death than his brother had ever known him mani- 
 fest jbefore. Coming back alone with Gerald in the mourning- 
 coach, after the door of the family vault had closed on all that 
 remained of that father on earth, he turned to Gerald once, and 
 said in a thick, constrained voice, " I'd give something, you know, 
 Gerald " — then he couldn't get any further, and looked out of the 
 window, but began again before long — " I'd give something, don't 
 you see, if I could make sure of meeting him by-and-by as I used 
 to do — coming home for the holidays. He was something of a 
 man — a better one, you know, than I shall ever be — or p'raps you 
 either, Gerry." 
 
 " We can but do our best, Dick," replied his brother. " If you 
 would only do that you might be a finer fellow than I, or perhaps 
 than he either, and meet him without blushing or fearing." 
 
 " Now look here, brother Gerry, I do mean to try ; but it's no 
 good trying too much ; you're safe to be beaten then. All folks can't 
 live like some folks. It's no use having too high a standard, mind 
 you, or you'll only fall the lower. I have done with all those old 
 tricks you used to blow me up about, and this is a good time to tell 
 you so. I never mean to go back to them. But if I said I was 
 going, or actually tried to set up for a saint as you do, I should be 
 — well, with all due respect — a greater fool than you." 
 
 The brothers parted next morning ; and Gerald was right in 
 believing Richard would become quite as respectable a man (and 
 be much more of a gentleman) as many who pass current in society 
 for worthy people. A good impression, he saw, had been produced, 
 but he did not see that a week or two of his ordinary life soon 
 effaced it. There's nothing like thorough ingrained selfishness for 
 sticking in a man's soul. 
 
 " God bless you, dear, dear Gerald ! If ever I have a home of my 
 own, or the means of making one, remember, I beg of you, there 
 will be one for you when you want it, or will accept it." These 
 were Miss Tylney's tearful last words to Gerald ;is he left Neville 
 Court, after a week's stay there. They lingered very sweetly in his
 
 34* GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 ear, and dwelt in his desolate heart many a day, making him feel 
 not utterly wretched and forlorn. 
 
 It had been, of course, a very peaceful and refreshing week at 
 Neville Court ; a very beautiful memory to Gerald Arlington for 
 years afterwards, borne (as a desert pilgrim bears a supply from the 
 last fountain) through the arid wastes he had now to travel, and 
 " wherein were fiery dragons and scorpions." But a week is 
 quickly gone. And the great "Captain of the host" soon bade 
 him rise and march once more. So he arose and shouldered his 
 burdens bravely, and went down to Longbeach, pondering over the 
 changes that had taken place since he last left London, under a 
 feigned name, to read and write his way, as he thought, up to wide- 
 spread beneficent power, and an indefinite amount of admiration 
 and love. It is somewhat to his credit, and a proof of the value, 
 as he expressed it in his last letter to Harry, " of a man's face being 
 brought to the grindstone," that he felt moderately thankful at 
 having got a situation of £\^o a-year, with duties before him 
 which he supposed would be intensely distasteful. 
 
 Virtue, however, sometimes has other rewards besides itself. 
 
 His employer, a general coal, slate, and timber dealer, wisely 
 availing himself of Mr. Arkwright's gentlemanly appearance and 
 address, and relying on the high testimonials he had got from his 
 father's old friend, a London merchant of high standing, sent 
 him on various expeditions, occasionally in gigs or on horseback, to 
 neighbouring towns and farm-houses to get and take orders, as well 
 as to collect in moneys. All this was amusing and healthful enough 
 for a time. Gerald threw himself into the occupation heartily, gave 
 satisfaction, and, except when alone in his lodgings, was in a sensible 
 frame of mind — i.e., of healthy cheerfulness. But in the lonely 
 hours, in the long, dark winter evenings, as he sat by his solitary 
 fireside, far into the night, thoughts of those that were gone, 
 visions of the beautiful home they had made for him, memories of 
 the old college life, and the drama-writing days, with all their glorious 
 illusive " Jdealen" — above all, haunting, pining, passionate longings 
 to behold one fair young face to touch again the white slender 
 hand that had more than once tremblingly returned his pressure — 
 these fancies would come thronging up in fire-light and star-light 
 till his heart ached sorely. 
 
 But that last vision was becoming strangely streaked and clouded, 
 like the pale orb he so often looked on during his romantic midnight 
 watchings, shining for awhile so brightly and then at intervals 
 becoming obscured till it gave but a sickly uncertain light. After 
 months of exclusive devotion to biibincs^. and constant mingling
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 343 
 
 with business men, he began unconsciously to feel that pressure of 
 the world upon his higher nature which he had so dreaded and 
 loathed in former days, and which, of course, is the besetting danger 
 of all men actively engaged in its needful and honourable callings. 
 Ignoble temptations and a lower standard of right and wrong, just 
 as in former and in similar circumstances, began asserting their 
 dominion over him. He had heard nothing of Leila Featherstone 
 since she left England. His recollections of her began to be not 
 wholly beautiful. He had always looked at her with a sort of 
 distant reverence that somewhat chastened and toned down more 
 ardent emotions — worshipping her "as a star apart." 
 
 And the conquest he had gained over himself that moonlight 
 night at Wimbledon, with the impression produced by her last 
 letter to Miss Tylney, while deepening his reverence for her, had 
 indeed exalted and spiritualized his love for her more than ever, 
 but had not increased it. And now he sometimes felt, but with 
 continually greater force, a craving for earthly comfort and earthly 
 love. He could not help sometimes feeling that with all her sweet- 
 ness and nobleness there was beneath it a certain hardness and 
 sarcastic pride, perhaps self-will, that, in recollection, at all events, 
 grated harshly on him. He believed it was partly the result of her 
 early training and home influences, but partly also of inherited 
 temperament. Even when she had yielded to his influence and 
 accepted his views there seemed to have been a hard struggle to do 
 so, instead of that soft womanly acquiescence which he longed to 
 find in the woman he loved. 
 
 Poor Leila! she had been forced, indeed, to harden herself 
 against all the assaults from within and without that she constantly 
 felt were endangering the equilibrium of her little kingdom — and 
 the struggles of her spirit against that early Calvinistic training, 
 and afterwards against the various disturbing influences heretofore 
 narrated, were constantly conflicting with the softer and more 
 feminine elements of her essentially womanly nature. However 
 the hardness, whencesoever it came, was sometimes evident enough ; 
 and the pride no less so, though she strove vehemently, sometimes 
 with secret, bitter tears of penitence, against a vice that she felt 
 was as unchristian as it was unfeminine. 
 
 While Gerald was engaged in literary pursuits, a semi-spiritual, 
 wholly romantic state of mind made every thought of her harmonize 
 with his ideal visions, and thrill along the pulses of his life with 
 " beatific ecstacies." But now that all his energies, his whole 
 soul, were in matter-of-fact business, she appeared in a somewhat 
 different and more prosaic light. He was gaining, though very
 
 344 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 gradually, the means of marrying, which he had never in the 
 faintest degree approximated to before ; and was losing something 
 of the lofty love that would have prepared for and glorified it. 
 Then the atmosphere of the commercial room, which he could not 
 altogether avoid, was producing some effect on a nature so intensely 
 sympathetic with those around him, and so susceptible as his to 
 outward and especially social influences, in the loose-end sort of 
 life he often had to lead. What now had become of all his glorious 
 dreams of reforming the world ? " Whither had fled " those visions 
 and passionate desires that aimed at elevating humanity to a level 
 with the gods ? Not dead — but in a death-like numbness, from 
 which, if too prolonged, there would be no recovery. Temptations 
 nobly vanquished heretofore began to beset him with a power he 
 had never previously known. The common talk of many of his 
 associates fitted too well with vice in some of its most specious 
 and less repulsive forms* — the flitting, irresponsible visits to hotels 
 — coquettish waitresses and chambermaids — who while unhappily 
 only too much accustomed to so-called "gallant little attentions," 
 were demoralized by them and yet perpetually seeking them. Ah, 
 well-a-day ! those who have not been tempted will wonder that he 
 was ; some of those who have been will wonder if he resisted. 
 
 As noticed before, there was a good deal of religious sentiment, 
 but no depth of real religious conviction and principle in him. Yet 
 for a long time he did resist. One holy image — one fair, pure face 
 still rose ever before him. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Gerald had discovered, after being some months at Longbeach, in 
 the course of one of his journeys, that Alfred Featherstone had been 
 removed from the neighbourhood of London to a private asylum 
 about ten miles from the town he was living in, and he had taken 
 an opportunity once or twice of calling to see the poor fellow. 
 Though this was evidently of very little use, he felt a melancholy 
 pleasure in doing something for Miss Featherstonc — some little 
 service of which she might one day hear, and for which he knew 
 she would be grateful. On one of these occasions he was returning 
 from the asylum to the town, where he had left the gig in which bfl
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 345 
 
 had been collecting bills among the farmers. His way lay by a 
 footpath across a park, when he saw a group of ladies and gentle- 
 men a little ahead of him engaged apparently in taking a laughing 
 leave of one of their party. It was a lovely evening in May— ^one 
 of those rare seasons which combine the luxurious warmth of early 
 summer with the freshness of spring. Ere he reached the group 
 they had divided, all except one lady turning off towards the stately 
 mansion, and saying playfully to the companion whom they were 
 leaving — "We don't expect you to sit up for us ; we shan't be home 
 till near midnight, that's certain; so take care what becomes of you. 
 Au revoir!" The young lady whom they left, and who was attired 
 in light semi-mourning, waved her adieux and turned along a path 
 that led into the woods, stepping slowly along with elastic step like 
 a meditative young fawn. 
 
 As Gerald came past the opening of the path he thought he knew 
 that step and figure. Something about the lady at once rivetted 
 his attention, though he was yet some distance off. She was 
 evidently young and very graceful. He gazed and guessed. Her 
 face was half averted, but on coming nearer he could not mistake 
 either face or figure. Yes — it was the beautiful Lilybell herself, 
 looking rather sad and very lovely — more lovely, more graceful 
 than ever. As she heard his hesitating, advancing step, she looked 
 towards him, and he thought he had never before realized the 
 ethereal beauty which dwelt on her face. The sight of Gerald had 
 a startling effect on the shy young girl. For an instant she seemed 
 intending a rapid retreat. The blood tinged her transparent cheek, 
 and she clasped her hands tightly together. 
 
 In reply to his hurried greeting (for his heart beat so quickly he 
 could hardly speak), she answered with assumed calmness, and even 
 with a touch of the old haughtiness and nonchalance — " This is a 
 wonderful surprise, Mr. Arlington." 
 
 " And a great disappointment, I dare say," replied Gerald, re- 
 covering himself. " But do you wish to walk alone, Miss Feather- 
 stone ?" he added, with a comical pathos, as he took her hand and 
 looked straight into her eyes. How could she resist the tone and 
 the look ? All the haughtiness vanished in an instant, and they 
 found themselves laughing together just as they used to do, and he 
 thought he heard her answer softly — " Well, no ; not now ! " And 
 then she gazed for an instant full in his face with a look on which 
 the smile still lingered, but mingled with a sweet, trustful expres- 
 sion, and as he again took and pressed her hand she seemed to let 
 herself sink into a resigned and happy acquiescence, as if the inter- 
 view were a gift of Providence not to be rejected. The look of
 
 346 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 anxious, weary pining, which had been resting on her face when 
 Gerald first caught a glimpse of it, had wholly vanished, and was 
 replaced by one so serenely glad and peaceful that it made Gerald's 
 heart leap with joy as he replied — 
 
 " Have you," said he — " have you ever thought of our old 
 acquaintance at all since " and there he stopped. 
 
 " I have been wearying a little to see you once or twice, I must 
 confess," she answered, with a faint blush and smile ; " but it was 
 better not." 
 
 To hear her confess this — to see those large, dark eyes glancing 
 at him once more with such ill-concealed happiness, and with all 
 their old fascinating power, and not to bow himself very low before 
 her, and then to rise and draw her to his heart and pour out all his 
 love — could he resist ? 
 
 But yet, even in that moment of rapture, as he looked at her, 
 icy barriers appeared to be rising up between them. The maiden 
 seemed soon to retreat into her shell again. Both intuitively knew 
 that there was one thought — one voice bidding them stand apart. 
 It was not, now, Gerald's friend that came between them, No ! 
 It was the remembrance of an old grey-headed man — it was the 
 words of an old ballad, one of the most touching ever written, 
 " Lord Ullin's Daughter," which he had once heard Leila sing with 
 a dramatic power he never forgot — words that, though she had 
 not much power of voice, had haunted him ever after like the 
 " water-wraith " of which they tell — 
 
 " . . I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 Stone walls and armies could not have restrained him more 
 effectually from speaking of his love than the thought of that 
 father, the darkness of whose wrath Gerald saw reflected in the 
 sacred and most touching sadness which gradually came over the 
 face of his beloved. She seemed for a time, indeed, to become so 
 cold and passionless, that he drew back a step. Was she devoid of 
 feeling, then ? Truly there was a giant force in her soul controlling 
 as loving and wild a woman's heart as ever beat. She could be 
 loyal to duty, though that heart were to break in the struggle. But 
 she did not turn away from him. She did not ask him to leave 
 her. She remembered when she had once asked him not to leave 
 her, and could not feel it was wrong for them to be together now. 
 She had long been schooling herself to place her love for Gerald 
 on so pure and lofty a footing that it no longer, except for a 
 moment of surprise, seemed like an earthly passion ; and, with all 
 her old noble ascetic tenderness and self-denying strength, for
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 347 
 
 months she had been winging her upward solitary flight. So that 
 when that first surprise had passed, she felt it was no sin to love 
 him in the way which she believed in her heart she did. Even her 
 father could not, dare not, forbid such love as hers. She felt that 
 this sweet little interview was sent as a very precious blessing and 
 rest to her soul, and that any further brief intercourse they could 
 have now was only binding their souls together in lofty friendship — 
 not in earthly love — strengthening and ennobling them for future 
 trial and work, while preparing them for an eternal union if! a 
 higher world. 
 
 Therefore, she suffered him to walk beside her, and they went 
 wandering on in the fast-darkening twilight among the trees, over 
 the soft turf and along beautiful glades in the park. A few words 
 explained their respective positions. Leila's father had been 
 summoned to England as joint-executor to a distant relative lately 
 deceased. She and her mother had accompanied him. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Featherstone were in London for a few days of business 
 arrangements, but were coming down to Bushney Hall the next 
 day, where an old friend resided, and which was near the estate of 
 the deceased cousin. It was the propinquity of both relative and 
 friend that led to Alfred's removal thither, and Leila had been sent 
 down to the Hall as soon as they arrived in England, at the urgent 
 invitation of the family there, with whom she was a great favourite. 
 They were going that evening to a distant dinner-party, and were 
 leaving her with profuse apologies, little dreaming of the singular 
 rencontre she was to have instead of their company. At the expira- 
 tion of a week the Featherstones were to return to the Continent, 
 and proceed to Dresden, where they expected to meet Adelaide 
 and her husband, if the latter did not suddenly change his mind, 
 and whisk her off to Florence. " He was not so considerate as 
 he might be," Leila confessed with a sigh, but her sister had a 
 beautiful little headstrong boy who was the joy of her otherwise 
 rather trying life. 
 
 The sorrowful tale of Gerald's loss was told (mention of the 
 bare fact was all that had reached the Featherstones), and then he 
 explained his present position and duties, referring, with a lame 
 attempt at humour, to the utter rout and dispersion of all his old 
 literary, philanthropic, and ambitious dreams. Leila smiled 
 responsive, but thought, and frankly said, how much higher and 
 more truly noble might be his course now, perhaps, by carrying 
 the light of a higher life into the atmosphere and paths of business; 
 and when she saw the profoundly despairing look gathering over 
 his face, as (with prophetic insight) he felt his own inability.
 
 348 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 morally or intellectually, to realize the ideal in her mind, she 
 could not help saying once more how exactly she thought him 
 fitted for the work of the Christian ministry, and when she noticed the 
 impatient shake of his head, a great sigh would force its way as 
 she thought of all the blessed life and opportunities of a clergy- 
 man in an English parish. But Gerald felt far otherwise con- 
 cerning both that life and the Dissenting ministry. Her words 
 only made him conscious, to some slight extent, though by no 
 mlans fully, of the overpowering secularity, so to speak, of his 
 whole mind and tendencies, in spite of his real devotional feelings ; 
 and this might seem the more strange because it is certain that a 
 very noble ideal of purity and self-sacrifice had been wrought as it 
 were into the very fibre of his mind by the early influence of his 
 mother and aunt, and of the books and sermons they had led him 
 to love. That ideal, perhaps half unconsciously to himself, had 
 come from the image of a self-sacrificing and crucified divine 
 " Galilean;" yet the holy and suffering Christ had always appeared 
 to him as at an infinite distance from the world, moral and 
 material, in which he lived — to have nothing to do with art or 
 poetry, philanthropic reforms, or political regeneration. Hence an 
 utterly impassable gulf seemed to yawn between him and the 
 ministerial life in any form. Yet he could not clearly explain all 
 this to Miss Featherstone. She understood, indeed, his objections 
 to the Thirty-nine Articles, and he intimated his old dislike of much 
 of the Dissenting economy, and of what he fastidiously and even 
 falsely called the social deficiencies of Dissenters. But he did 
 not speak because, alas ! he did not understand, and therefore could 
 not speak, of their faithfulness and deep religious convictions — of 
 the noble disinterestedness and unworldliness as well as fervent 
 piety and living faith of many of their ministers who, by uttering a 
 few false words, might have been lapped in intellectual luxury, and 
 nursed in aristocratic gentility at Oxford or Cambridge — welcomed 
 in due course to most respectable curacies and comfortable livings. 
 As Gerald neither appreciated nor understood anything of this, he 
 could not speak of it any more than he could appreciate that 
 higher spiritual tone of mind and character which makes the 
 Christian ministry, whether in the Church of England or out of it, 
 so profoundly honoured and loved by genuine Christians. Instead 
 thereof h'e dilated in glowing terms and in his old bewitching style 
 on all that art and poetry offer of beauty and joy — on all that 
 might and should be unfolded from it — on the miserably cramping, 
 gloomy tendencies of clerical bondage and austerity. Leila listened, 
 and, for a time, felt the fascination of former days coming over
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 349 
 
 her. It was very sweet to listen to his soft musical tones, and proudly, 
 though furtively, glance at his glowing cheek and bright flashing 
 eye — to be handed by him over the fallen trunk of a tree, and over 
 the narrow bridge across a little streamlet that went singing on its 
 way, as if rejoicing that two true hearts had met, while offering 
 them some of those 
 
 " . . . Sweet forget-me-nots 
 That grow for happy lovers. " 
 
 Yes, she believed in him, for to her he was a bright revelation of 
 her Creator's love, and he had brought her a portion of her 
 Creator's peace. 
 
 And as the full moon began to throw its silvery light far and 
 wide they wandered on towards a bosky wilderness that stretched 
 away with miles of bridle paths traversing it. Then Leila told 
 Gerald, with a little blushing smile, that the servants would not be 
 surprised at not seeing her home soon, for she had said she would 
 go and take tea with her old nurse, now nearly blind, and living at 
 the cottage of a son, who was a gamekeeper on the Bushney estate. 
 
 As they wandered on into the leafy wilderness under the deep 
 shadows of great trees, and out again into the sheeny light of the 
 moon, looking down bright turfy glades, where in distant groups 
 the graceful deer were quietly reposing or feeding, then through 
 chequered shadows, and again out into the full radiance which 
 bathed them in its light — Gerald, with his usual dreamy intensity, 
 felt as if an archangel had come down from heaven and entered 
 into him, lending him all his own radiant life and power. And 
 Leila was not afraid of walking there beside him, for she could not 
 resist the feeling that her Heavenly Father's smile was on them. 
 At first she thought of him whose affliction had thus brought Gerald 
 and her together — of her' poor brother in his lonely cell — kept 
 intruding and saddening her joy, but before long that thought, too, 
 was harmonized in the felt presence of a heavenly love brightening 
 the universe, " making all things work together for good," and 
 showing by the very loveliness of the scene around them how the 
 bright lights and dark shadows of life all combine to produce the 
 highest harmony. Something of this sort she whispered to her 
 companion, who caught her inspiration. And as with thoughts 
 chastened and lifted for a time into a lofty region of faith and hope 
 they wandered on — their hearts wrapt in each other's love, ami 
 their* souls steeped in the exceeding beauty of the scene — there 
 came over them both a sense of something far more glorious 
 awaiting them, of which that season was only the bright forerunner. 
 So on and on, sometimes whispering a few words, sometimes in
 
 350 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR 
 
 hushed silence, with thoughts and feelings growing in them too 
 deep for words, they continued strolling side by side through the 
 soft May-blossom scents and early summer air, amid sleeping 
 flowers and delicate sprays of honeysuckle that in the occasional 
 breath of the night-wind seemed to heave just one fragrant sigh of 
 welcome as they passed — on and on, again beside the rivulet 
 sparkling in the moonbeams, past the old doddered oaks, through 
 a grove of dark meditative pines, between whose boughs the moon 
 looked more lovely than ever, over the bright grassy mounds where 
 the fairies had been dancing a moment before — through the open 
 lawny space where the hares were feeding, and where the turf was 
 carpeted with harebells and rose-campions — on and on to an old 
 moss-covered seat in the shadow of some huge forest trees near " a 
 bank where the wild thyme" grew. There on that bank, and in 
 the little open space before them, the moonbeams were resting so 
 brightly and yet so tranquilly ; and there, shut out from all the 
 world, Gerald took Leila's hand, and overcoming her slight 
 resistance, made her sit down beside him. Then yielding in- 
 sensibly to the intoxication of the scene, she found herself irre- 
 sistibly impelled to whisper — 
 
 " And may I love you, Gerald, still ? Have you kept your faith — 
 your early vows ? " The words came trembling from her quivering 
 lips, while her eyes met his with a rush of pleading, innocent love. 
 
 " Leila," said Gerald, with deep earnestness, as he took both her 
 hands in his own, and gazed straight into her beseeching eyes, 
 " Could I look at you thus had I not ? Yes, thank God, I have kept 
 true to that higher law which " but as he saw the look of inde- 
 scribable happiness which came into those eyes, and felt a wild 
 overpowering joy in his own heart, he clasped her in his arms, and 
 gave her the first kiss of pure heavenly love. Could she blame him ? 
 Why, with that embrace, following, as it did, the avowal he had just 
 made, every thought and feeling but that of passionate love and 
 happiness was for a moment swept away like a torrent from her 
 mind, and she returned his kiss with all the fervour of a long 
 cherished, yet long restrained affection. * * * 
 
 " Oh, but this is very different," whispered Leila at last, as she 
 gently disengaged herself, with a charming little confused laugh, 
 " from what I meant when I came " 
 
 "Aye," whispered Gerald, in return; "but is it not what our 
 Heavenly Father meant ?" 
 
 Rather different, certainly, from the calm Platonic friendship 
 which was all that our poor little Lilybell had intended to allow 
 herself when she last wrote to Gerald before leaving England, or
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 351 
 
 even when, with somewhat haughty condescension, she consented 
 to his accompanying her that evening. But as they wandered along, 
 she had felt what seemed a divine impulse bidding her yield her 
 whole heart to the man who had so long and so self-sacrificingly 
 loved her, and who she had long felt also was worthy of all the love 
 she could give him in return. So she rested there on her lover's 
 arm in perfect peace and joy, with their hands clasped, and their souls 
 blending together in one. And then at length Leila whispered — 
 
 " I can't think what makes you care for me so much. It seems 
 so strange." 
 
 " It seems a great deal stranger to me," murmured Gerald, " that 
 you should care for me, my Lilybell, at all." 
 
 And then Leila blushingly whispered her confession of having 
 seen him kiss her flowers and lay them in his bosom once, and then 
 of having called her lover back, though in vain, when they were 
 parting in that dingy back parlour in the city ; and then Gerald 
 started for a moment to his feet, and upbraided her so piteously, yet 
 playfully, for not having called louder, that she couldn't help 
 laughing at him outright ; and then an owl answered so near that 
 they both started. Leila declared it had been reading somebody's 
 drama, and, quoting therefrom, said it was hooting Gerald for being 
 so foolish ; whereupon Gerald proved the correctness of that view 
 by having no answer to give her but a repetition of a former offence, 
 for which she tried to scold him (but very gently), and almost made 
 him promise not to do it again ; but she did not unclasp her hand 
 for all that. Then they sat a long time silent, looking down the 
 partially moon-lit glade, or up to the moon itself glinting between 
 the boughs, and to the single star that waited by her side, till Leila 
 began to confess all her admiration for Gerald's dramatic romance, 
 and " how very bad " it had made her feel, and how conceited, she 
 was afraid, it would have made him if the critics hadn't treated him 
 so shamefully. But Gerald soon satisfied her that he didn't care 
 then for any critics but herself, and so they gazed on silently. They 
 might well look. The brilliant moonlight invested the forest around 
 them with a weird beauty that was indescribable — even transforming 
 what, seen by daylight, would have appeared common-place and 
 poor into effects of magical loveliness, contrasting the brightest 
 light with the deepest shadows, while that tender radiance of the 
 light, and mystic obscurity of the darkness, which has been the joy 
 of poets and lovers since the world began, threw their strange 
 unearthly fascination over the whole scene, and of itself was enough 
 to make the lovers feel they were transported into some new and 
 heavenly region.
 
 352 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " Oh," said Leila, at length, with a soft sigh of happiness, " how 
 your words and the books you have lent me, and that wonderful 
 dramatic affair, have transfigured this beautiful world to me ! " 
 
 Then they talked of Schiller and " Play," and the worship of 
 Beauty, and of Gerald's drama, and of that eventful night in Port- 
 land Place ; and Leila told her lover how ever since then she had 
 tried so hard to make her music a gospel of life and peace to all 
 who heard it, and how that aim had made the drudgery of hard 
 practising and all other drudgery so different from what it used to 
 be. And, of course, he looked intensely happy to hear it. Then 
 again there was a long, sweet silence, broken by Leila's remarking, 
 with hypocritical remorse — 
 
 " Dear old nurse ! She'll wonder what has become of me." And 
 that made Gerald think of the last time when he had been with 
 Leila, as she was on her way to see that excellent old lady, for 
 whom, as he said, he began to conceive a romantic attachment. 
 And he told Lilybell something about what had passed between him 
 and his horse after she left him ; whereupon Leila looked up with 
 that provoking, sarcastic smile again, and answered, mischievously : 
 
 " It's lucky your knowing young friend, Mr. Edward Grant, 
 (Isn't that his name?) didn't know that; and, perhaps," she 
 added with a sigh, " it's lucky I didn't know of it either, or I'm 
 afraid I should have just a little envied Gypsey, and then I might 
 have been cross with nurse." 
 
 "Ah, but Gypsey hasn't got the kiss this time, my Leila!" 
 whispered Gerald. 
 
 So time went on. Only the silvered trunks of the old trees, and 
 the deep shadows, and the honeysuckles and, the soft night wind, 
 and the lingering white clouds, and the rest of that moonlight 
 vision, knew anything about those two lovers seated there, who, in 
 the purity and rapture of this first abandonment to their long- 
 cherished love, were lost in the beautiful new world into which they 
 had that night entered— not a word passing, but many a glance and 
 many a sigh. 
 
 "Oh, Gerald," said Leila, at length, "how I do wish you might 
 
 sing a little bit but it won't do. We might 
 
 have the gamekeepers down upon us ! " 
 
 " Some day, my Lilybell — some day, you know — I'll sing to you 
 — where the gamekeepers can't get at us." 
 
 A slight rustling in the thicket startled them from their delicious 
 dreams. It was only a graceful deer, browsing as it came into view ; 
 then starting for an instant as it caught sight of the lovers, but 
 apparently reassured by their innocent looks and tranquillity, it
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 353 
 
 just shook its elegant head, and gently trotted away into the 
 surrounding shadows, as much as to say, " Not much harm there." 
 
 But so must pass away that hour of rapture. Continued heaven 
 is not for earth, and the fairest moments here fleet from us, as well 
 as the dreariest. For then the maiden looked at her watch, and in 
 alarm rose to go, and then Gerald drew her down to him again, 
 and, with eloquent eyes shining into hers, said, " Now, now, my 
 beloved, before we part, you must promise me to be one day my 
 wife, sweet Lilybell, as soon as ever I can support you — will you ?" 
 
 For one moment longer she lay passive in his arms, with that 
 wonderful, loving tenderness in her eyes deepened and brightened 
 by the sacred word her lover had just used. Then with a slight 
 shudder she gently released herself ; for that word at length awoke 
 her from her dream. To Gerald the blessedness of the hour 
 had been ever and anon dashed with the haunting, miserable thought 
 which he could not wholly banish — the image of the father of the 
 girl whom he so worshipped. But that image had seldom been 
 absent from the daughter's mind. The sacrifice with her to her 
 father's will had been complete. Hence, as we have seen, she 
 had come fortified by previous discipline and high resolve. Not 
 so, of course, with Gerald. 
 
 " I am your own, Gerald dearest," she whispered, as she drew 
 slightly apart from him, " though you must not claim me in Time — 
 not till " (and then there was that sweet, sad smile again), " not till 
 Eternity. Long ago I resolved I would be no man's wife on earth 
 but yours, and now you must not claim me, dearest, as — an earthly 
 bride — unless — . But, oh ! I know more surely than ever my father 
 will never consent, and without that I cannot marry you. Oh, 
 Gerald ! I cannot bear to tell you, but I must — I ought — I ought to 
 have told you before we came here." (A moment's pause, and 
 then with faltering voice) " My mother spoke to him for me before 
 we left Brussels, and he was so ill inconsequence, the doctor feared 
 apoplexy; he said another attack might be fatal. Would you have 
 me come to you with the guilt of his death upon me ? And oh, 
 Gerald ! while he lay on his sick bed and held my hand, I gave him 
 a promise I would never marry you without his consent. And he 
 may die without giving it — and I never ought to have come here 
 unless you — but I thought we might promise to love one another, 
 to belong to one another, for ever, — even though" (again her voii e 
 trembled) " wc may not marry." Then seeing the shock that her 
 words were giving her lover, she hurried on, " But, Gerald, I am 
 your own for ever. When you gave me that first kiss, dearest, \ ou 
 put your seal upon me as your own. Ellen's lover kissed her 
 
 /
 
 354 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 once, she told me, before they parted for his last voyage. I am 
 thine ; no man but my father shall ever touch those lips again, and 
 oh, Gerald, I do love that father very, very deeply ! Promise me," 
 she continued with increasing earnestness, " promise me you will 
 never again ask me to marry you unless he consents. Oh, Gerald !" 
 she exclaimed, when he started to his feet as if a serpent had stung 
 him, " can we not love one another with this infinite, holy, glorious 
 love of ours without earthly marriage ? " 
 
 But he could only gaze at her in wild amazement. At length he 
 faltered out — 
 
 " Will you not then some day be my wife ?" 
 
 " In heaven — beloved." But, then, as Gerald's head sunk 
 on his breast and he covered his face with his hands, the 
 thought that his love for Leila, which was the only treasure he 
 could offer her, and yet the greatest, inconceivably the most 
 precious offering, if true and pure, that man could make to 
 woman, that this was viewed by her father with loathing, that he 
 himself was regarded by one so very dear to her as a hateful 
 enemy — her father, to whom he would willingly have been as 
 devoted and affectionate a son as ever father had possessed — there 
 was the misery of that strange hour. He had often felt it before, 
 but it now came with the added and inconceivable anguish of seeing 
 his beloved, in consequence, torn apart from him for ever, for in 
 his then state of mind and character this life was all in all to him. 
 A half-stifled groan, while he threw himself on the seat by her side 
 and buried his face in his hands, was the only answer he could 
 give. 
 
 Poor Leila was as much surprised as shocked at the effect of her 
 words. Gently she drew one of his hands from before his face, on 
 which she then saw the full darkness of the shadow of his terrible 
 disappointment. 
 
 " Oh, Gerald !" she whispered, with a strange mixture of haughty 
 tenderness and subdued passion — " dear, dear Gerald, I thought 
 we understood one another better than this ! Do not — do not look 
 so miserable. Why should we be unhappy ? Are we not one — one 
 for ever in our holy trust and immortal love ? My father hereafter 
 will know as he is known, and will honour you as I do ; and he 
 cannot — cannot come between our souls, even on earth." As Gerald 
 looked up in her face she kissed the hand she had clasped, and then, 
 dropping it with a dreamy smile and looking upwards as if she were 
 lost in infinite depths of love and adoration, she slowly rose and 
 stood there silently in all her nymph-like grace and loveliness. The 
 moonlight shone full upon her figure as it stood out in bright
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 355 
 
 relief against the dark background ; her straw hat had fallen off, 
 and her long tresses fell on her shoulders. Then, raising her arm 
 and pointing upwards with a look as if of romantic, lofty disdain for 
 earthly things, she exclaimed softly — 
 
 " Oh, Gerald ! I do believe what the Book of Life tells us — what 
 your own glorious prophet, that noble American writer, helped me 
 so much to realize — that God is Love. I do believe that He meant 
 us— -you and me, beloved — meant us for love and happiness, and for 
 all things bright and beautiful and pure. These may not come just 
 now — just when we want and expect them — but, oh ! they will 
 come, and then we shall know how He loves us ! Dear, dearest 
 Gerald," and she bent over him and laid her soft hand on 
 his throbbing, upturned forehead, as he lay half reclined on the 
 seat, " I am thine own, thine only love. Shall we not outlive those 
 stars ? Will not our love endure far, far beyond this world, and 
 even that starry world on high ? What are a few years on earth ? 
 Oh ! Gerald, my own beloved, can we not afford to wait ? We 
 who have an eternal existence before us full of all heaven's beauty, 
 power, love — we who have infinite riches in our love for one 
 another on earth, and in God's boundless love for us and all — will 
 not that be better than marrying under a father's curse ? Wait, — 
 oh, let us wait on the Lord," she whispered. " Is it not written — 
 ' Blessed are they that wait for Him ? ' Hark ! " 
 
 Just at that moment, by one of those singular and happy coinci- 
 dences occasionally noticed, a few soft notes and then a noble old 
 melody, beautifully played on a key-bugle in the distance, came 
 floating up, probably performed by some belated musician returning 
 home across the park. The effect was singularly enchanting. 
 Gerald, sensitive enough at all times to outward influences, felt 
 completely carried away by it. Leila stood listening like a youthful 
 prophetess (Joan of Arc, for. instance) receiving her message from 
 above — as her brother had once seen her on the mountain by 
 Windermere — all the latent poetry and devotion of her nature- 
 glowing in her face. Then, as the sweet and solemn strains died 
 away in the distance, she added in a hushed voice — 
 
 " Those sounds, are they not the heavenly foretaste of the tones 
 that will welcome us some bright summer evening to our Father's 
 home there above ? Perhaps the music of the angels rejoicing 
 over us, Gerald, will be our wedding hymns. For wedded souls 
 will meet in heaven, though there be no earthly marriage their." 
 Once again the notes rose on the air, still farther off, then died 
 quite away — but the effect coming in the solemn silence of that 
 quiet moonlit night was unspeakably beautiful. It was all that
 
 356 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 was needed to make the moment perfect in its heavenly and spiritual, 
 though far from unmixed earthly, blessedness. For the gradual 
 " dying fall " of the brief symphony seemed to speak of their swift 
 approaching separation. Gerald had raised himself, and was looking 
 almost awe-struck at the sweet young face turned to the skies, full 
 of a pure and solemn beauty, on which the slight look of scorn still 
 lingered, even though the tears were already gathering in her 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 The fallen trunk of a large tree lay across the sward near where 
 they had been sitting. Nature had wreathed it round with innu- 
 merable creepers, lovely convolvuluses, and sprays of woodbine, 
 which gleamed in the bright moonlight — orchids grew in the 
 fissures of the decaying wood, variegated mosses spread themselves 
 over it — wild geraniums and bluebells grew up lovingly by its side. 
 Leila moved towards it, and stooped to pick some of the flowers, 
 brushing away her tears as she plucked them. For years after, 
 Gerald remembered the whole scene and the very colours and 
 forms of the beautiful vegetation with wonderful distinctness ; for 
 who has not known the vivid impression surrounding objects make 
 upon us at such moments of intense excitement ? Then, as she 
 turned with clasped, uplifted hands, looking again towards heaven, 
 she softly exclaimed : " Yes, Lord, we will be Thine. We come 
 to Thee. Thou callest us — we are Thine," and remained bowed 
 for a moment in silent prayer. Then, returning to Gerald, she took 
 his hand once more, saying : " Beloved, have we not found our 
 rest ? Once you took some flowers which I had not given you ; 
 take these now as a pledge of that rest which our Lord giveth." 
 She laid the flowers she had plucked in his hand, while he, poor 
 fellow, half-maddened with passion, and yet spell-bound with 
 reverence, gazed at her in her heavenly, Madonna-like beauty and 
 faith — gazed and listened to her till the strange influence of her 
 spirit passed into his own soul. With a great effort he conquered 
 at once the miserable heart-sickness and the wild passionate 
 longing to fold her to his heart and never let her leave him more. 
 
 "Oh, Leila!" he exclaimed, as he half knelt, with one foot on 
 the fallen trunk, looked up in her sweet face, and reverently pressed 
 her hand to his lips, "my own beautiful, holy Leila, I will try to be 
 worthy of you. I promise you all you have asked of me. God 
 will be with us." 
 
 She pressed the hand he held out to her — gave him one look of 
 such grateful love and thanks as he had never seen even on her 
 dear, romantic face before. Then, placing one little sandalled 
 foot on the old trunk, she stepped lightly across it. on through the
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 357 
 
 moonlit glades, looked round at him with a faint smile, beckoned 
 him, and vanished in the gloom. He sprang after her ; and so 
 once again, but now silently, with throbbing hearts, they re-trod 
 their path towards the house. At length, as if by an effort awaking 
 from a dream, Leila said : 
 
 " We must not part without my letting you know, Gerald, how 
 very thankful mamma and I were for all you said about poor Alfred 
 in that letter to Miss Tylney, and for all you have done. She 
 managed to let us hear of your visits, and what you said, and 
 though — though your highness's name was not mentioned, I had 
 a faint suspicion who ' the friend ' she referred to might be. Will 
 you sometimes continue to see him, Gerald, now that you are in the 
 neighbourhood, if it is not too painful to you, till — till all is over?" 
 " It will be just the greatest happiness of my life to do anything 
 that will please and serve you — and for poor Alfred's own sake too, 
 I will gladly see him." 
 
 He thought he was saying nothing but the simplest truth. He 
 felt strong — in his own strength. 
 
 In what seemed a wonderfully short time they came to where 
 their paths must diverge. The reaction from their romantic and 
 exalted tone of mind, from all the strange exciting scenes of the 
 last two hours, must needs come, and come mournfully enough, in 
 that sad parting moment. 
 
 Leila was quick to mark the growing sadness, even gloom, 
 which in spite of his brave words and high resolve, began to 
 gather over her companion's face. The long years of separation 
 that must lie before them, if they lived, rose up in all their painful 
 dreariness. She had no misgivings for herself. In the romantic 
 frenzy of the hour she thought she was undertaking nothing she 
 could not accomplish. The sacrifice, as was said above, had been 
 made completely on her part. There was no looking back even in 
 that moment. But the thought flashed upon her, and naturally 
 came again and again with terrible vehemence and distinctness 
 during the last ten minutes of their walk, that perhaps she had 
 been proposing to Gerald Arlington far more than she was right 
 or wise in asking. She felt she must leave him absolutely free. 
 So with difficulty she brought herself to say, as they paused by the 
 little bridge : 
 
 "But Gerald, remember — I pray you, dear, foolish Gerald (for 
 you are foolish to care so much about me), newer, never forget that 
 you are not bound — not bound to mc on earth by anything that has 
 
 passed between us this night. I have no right, no "(wish, 
 
 she was going to say, but could not) "to ask, to propose for a
 
 358 GEKALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 moment that you should be bound to me in any sense — should 
 even remember me one hour beyond what you yourself may deem 
 right and fitting. Our lives in this world must be apart henceforth. 
 You will tread a high and noble path wherever it may lead — for you 
 have some wisdom. You will be living for others, I know, whatever 
 may be your earthly calling. I shall hear of you, but we shall not 
 meet. I pray you, remember that I am not, cannot be, a judge of 
 what is right and best for you to do. It will be enough for me to 
 know that you loved me once, wholly, and that you are useful and 
 honoured on earth — honoured too, I think, you will be in heaven," 
 she added. " And believe that I shall be quite happy, oh, beloved 
 and misguided one ! though you are so mistaken as to love me 
 
 now. Yet, if . Yes, even if — if some years hence, you feel 
 
 too dull and lonely to live without such a companion in your 
 earthly home as I may not be, then, dearest, remember you are not 
 bound to me on earth, only let us meet in one of those mansions of 
 our Father's home. Blessings be with you for ever, for all you have 
 been to me. Farewell ! " 
 
 She could say no more. Driving back the tears that, in spite of 
 her attempted smile, would press into her eyes, she parted from him 
 and went her way. One above only knew what it cost her to say 
 what she then did. But she would not betray to him for whom she 
 would have borne the rack the terrible struggle within her. To 
 send him on his way through life from that hour (as far as her 
 influence was concerned) peaceful, rejoicing, free, was then the 
 overmastering desire of her soul ; and, therefore, she veiled from 
 him in that last moment all the conflict, the wild, stormful cravings 
 and emotions of her heart. She would not, could not, trust her- 
 self, even to a last embrace, scarcely to look in his face again. She 
 just shook hands and turned away. For his sake she turned from 
 him with a light and cheerful smile, even while the expression on 
 his face went like a dagger to her heart. For his sake she crushed 
 down all her own emotions, and, therefore, unknowingly, she left 
 him believing that while so gloriously, romantically spiritual in her 
 nature, there was after all too little of the woman there — too little, 
 at least, to match with his love — too much lofty pride — and that her 
 feelings for him were but as the glittering glaciers and snowy 
 wreaths around the volcano fire of that love he felt for her. In those 
 last parting moments when he would have had her fling herself into 
 his yearning, passionate embrace, and then (if she must) tear her- 
 self away with the sobbing anguish he felt rising in his own heart, 
 she seemed so cheerful, cold, and passionless — nay, alas, almost, it 
 seemed to him, distant and proud ! Then the odious thought forced
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 359 
 
 itself on him — " How much might not pride and coldness have had 
 to do with the promise she gave her father — with the whole course 
 she had just been marking out for herself — with the part she had 
 even asked him to play as being so lofty and grand ? " How often 
 before during their acquaintance had he not felt the same most 
 painful characteristics in her nature ? 
 
 Cruel Gerald ! But it was his sufferings made him so bitterly 
 unjust, and even rather obtuse withal. But his mind was clouded 
 after that brief flood of light — conflicting passions, alternate trans- 
 port and misery, had made him for the time utterly unable to 
 reason, or even to see anything in its true colours. He deemed 
 her comparatively cold and passionless ! Could he but have seen 
 her when the necessity for concealment was over — when she gained 
 her own room and threw herself on her knees by her bedside, 
 sobbing as if her heart would break — he would have understood 
 her better — have loved her rather more truly, more worthily. But 
 he had parted from her without a word in answer to her last appeal 
 to him — had turned away from her as she did from him, with a poor 
 cold shake of the hands. She knew he might have been unable from 
 the very intensity of his feelings to answer that appeal with a 
 passionate disclaimer of the possibility of his ever marrying 
 another. She knew her manner repelled, and was intended to 
 repel, any tenderer leave-taking. And yet with human, especially 
 feminine, inconsistency, the thought would come — Oh, if he would 
 but have broken through those barriers she had raised — had but 
 given her one last kiss on earth, — 
 
 " No, no, no ! " she exclaimed, weeping. "Far, far better as it was ! " 
 Yet though that parting was so sad, and the weary, wakeful hours 
 of that night to each were so full of great suffering, the next morn- 
 ing, and many succeeding hours, from time to time, brought to 
 each very peaceful and beautiful thoughts, laden with consolation 
 and hope. The memory of that singular and romantic moonlight 
 ramble brought inspiration, especially to Leila. Again and again 
 she whispered to herself, " His soul is pure ! " She felt as if in 
 spite of all surrounding cares and all future trials, she had, for a 
 few moments, breathed and lived the life that is to come. And 
 Gerald, he too seemed to have risen into a higher and more 
 spiritual state of existence. Striving to harmonize all his reelings 
 towards this lovely ethereal sort of being — who had bowed herself 
 down from her lofty sphere, like Beatrice to Dante, for a brief 
 season to meet and bless him, and then to call him up to lu-r own 
 pure beatitude — he rose for a time to a true spiritual-mindedness 
 himself, and "walked among the stars." Again and again we
 
 360 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 have to quote, " Could we but keep the heights which we are com- 
 petent to gain," and to answer, " Why then we should be very 
 different from what we are." Being what we are, however, we 
 cannot over-strain our nature, even for the loftiest and most 
 spiritual aims, with impunity, as many a noble enthusiast, especially 
 in past and sometimes even in present days has found to his and 
 her cost. In the present instance the consequences to Gerald 
 Arlington of Leila's exalted self-sacrifice for her father's sake were 
 likely to be scarcely less serious than they had been to her earlier 
 lover. It was not self- sacrifice only. Was she not carrying the 
 obligations of filial duty and affection rather too far ? Her course 
 was the more questionable because her father's objections to 
 Gerald, apart from the young man's having no present means of 
 marrying (rather a serious objection, that, however), were ground- 
 less and unjust, as well as vindictive. Yet no martyr ever went to 
 the flames with more undoubting conviction that duty demanded 
 this sacrifice than that with which Leila Featherstone immolated 
 herself, and him who was infinitely dearer to her than self. But 
 she had no conception of what she was inflicting on the man whom 
 she had allowed to take her to his heart. How could she be 
 expected to know that two such earnest, seemingly high-principled 
 young men as Harry Fortescue and young Arlington would be in 
 danger of making shipwreck of their principles, perhaps even of 
 their whole lives, because she could not marry without her father's 
 consent ? She judged them too much by herself. Always devout, 
 she was now enthusiastically religious, and could indeed at this 
 time have devoted herself to realize that lovely yet sorrowful vision 
 of living like the Mere Angelique, or Clara of Assisi, which had 
 often hovered before her. 
 
 For the next few years, under any circumstances, her sufferings 
 would often be great. But could she have lived in England, in a 
 quiet country town or village with her parents, where she would 
 have had a daily round of simple duties and plenty of opportunities 
 for daily beneficence, visits to poor or suffering neighbours, alter- 
 nating with studies, music, Sunday and day schools, church ordi- 
 nances, and the society of a few friends, she could have gone on 
 her way in peace after a time, as hundreds of noble-minded 
 women do — growing more meet for heaven as she neared the end 
 of what would have been her comparatively lonely pilgrimage on 
 earth. Or even if she could have been tolerably stationary any- 
 where abroad, she would soon have made for herself a home and a 
 sphere of loving duties wherever she was permitted to take root. 
 But all this was forbidden. Her father, with restless irritability,
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 361 
 
 her mother, with fancied valetudinarianism, both with secret grief for 
 their eldest daughter and their only son, kept continually moving 
 from place to place, yet almost wholly depending for their pittance 
 of daily enjoyment on the one daughter remaining with them ; 
 loving her with a very deep affection, while they were utterly 
 destroying all her chances of happiness, usefulness, and, as at last 
 it seemed likely to prove, even of health and life. One other 
 requisite, by-the-by, for her to have lived peacefully under the rule 
 she had laid down for herself, and the views she had adopted, was 
 that she should be divested of that striking and dangerous loveliness 
 which attracted no end of admirers, some of whom were not to be 
 repelled even by the calm, haughty indifference which she mani- 
 fested to their persistent attentions. 
 
 Her parents, however, were far from feeling that indifference. 
 To see her happily married was not only greatly desired by them 
 for her sake, but by Mr. Featherstone especially, as a means of 
 effectually putting an end to "that hateful and absurd attachment 
 which his daughter had once cherished for the young scoundrel 
 who had insulted him, son of the man who had betrayed and half- 
 ruined him." Besides, to both father and mother, it would have 
 been a new and charming interest in life to be frequent visitors to 
 their favourite daughter's married home, and to see her surrounded 
 by a husband and children. What could be more desirable and 
 proper ? Why, why did she thus turn coldly, sadly away from the 
 most eligible offers, and only describe them as " persecutions ? " 
 
 Well, here for a while we must leave the poor girl in her beauty, 
 her romance, and her sorrows, with One all-compassionate Friend 
 leading her in the way that she should go towards perfec- 
 tion, answering all her deep, sighing prayers, though not always in 
 the way she desired — One who was surely deserving all that child- 
 like trust and devoted love she gave Him, whatever the unbelieving 
 world might choose to say. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 What we have next to relate of Gerald Arlington will, perhaps, 
 seem to many too inexplicable to be believed. But there arc others 
 who will know it was just the most natural thing in the world to 
 befall him. 
 
 He had returned to the usual routine of his daily duties, to his
 
 362 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 desk and journeys, also to the companionship of the commercial 
 room, which was necessary to a certain extent to enable him to do 
 the needful business, but as he neither smoked, nor drank, nor 
 delighted in scandal, its intercourse was not always highly agree- 
 able. Not only all his early dreams of poetry, art, fiction, 
 beneficent ambition, but even love — i.e., the earthly hope and 
 dream of wedded love, which is the right and natural goal of 
 affection and passion for mortal man — now were all removed, and, as 
 it seemed, for ever, from the sphere of his lawful hope and desire. 
 He found his daily work taxed his utmost strength and attention, 
 so that he was too fagged in the evening for any kind of study 
 severer than that of the newspapers. Novels and poetry he abjured. 
 At first he found a rather wishy-washy relaxation in a game of cards 
 or back-gammon, or when at home, in a little gossiping chat with 
 his fellow-clerk, Mr. Tompkins. The nobler game of chess was 
 generally too fatiguing for his acquaintances, often for himself. 
 Cricket would be a great resource in summer time, but that was a 
 long way off. 
 
 He tried once or twice to sing, both alone and in company, but 
 said nothing would come but a dog's howl. The little local 
 evening parties, and especially the young gentlemen and ladies, in 
 his fastidious state of mind, at first were insupportable. Under 
 these circumstances it is not surprising if he gradually declined 
 from that tone of mind in which he had lived for a brief time after 
 the interview in Bushney Park, or that he should have been able 
 to recur to it less and less frequently. He made great efforts to 
 do so — frequent efforts — but they ivere efforts, and they became 
 increasingly difficult and even wearisome. Just as it was on former 
 occasions, so more than ever now — if he could have given himself 
 up entirely to the study of history, philosophy, and poetry — working 
 to accumulate rich stores of noble and beautiful thoughts, and then 
 to pour them into the minds of listening and appreciative audiences, 
 he could probably have lived a certain kind of peaceful and spiritual 
 life, apart from her whom he would still have loved with all 
 the chivalrous fervour and devotion of his nature, and have gone to 
 his grave a lonely but not unhappy man, rejoicing in his usefulness 
 to society — while, as far as Leila was concerned, content with the 
 consciousness of having her perfect trust and love on earth, and 
 looking forward to an unspeakably happy and eternal union with 
 her in heaven. He was strong enough, perhaps, certainly pure and 
 noble enough, for this — but at the, best, it would have been " living 
 without God in the world." And the Father had some better thing 
 in store for him. Unbroken tranquillity, unimpaired health, joyous
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 363 
 
 outward activity and success, congenial social intercourse, freedom 
 from every sort of trial — would have been necessary for Gerald 
 Arlington to have lived such a life as that. 
 
 These delightful conditions are rarely granted, however, to any 
 one for long, happily for the growth of our highest faculties, our 
 spiritual nature. In the present case, had he been a prosperous 
 and joyous litterateur, Gerald's intellectual life only would have 
 been cultivated, and this would have shot up into disproportionate 
 and overshadowing luxuriance. That which has too often had to 
 be said of far greater and more richly endowed natures by their 
 rejected Ruler and Friend was happily not said of Gerald Arlington, 
 " He is joined to idols — let him alone." But it was said of him 
 instead, that the Lord would " perfect that which concerned Him," 
 though at considerable cost. Could he but have remembered and 
 acted on one of Leila's words at their last interview about " waiting 
 for the Lord " — could he have believed with his whole heart that 
 promise she had quoted, "the Lord will be good unto them that wait 
 for Him " — he could and would have been spared some trials. But 
 he was not likely to believe, for he had never even seen those 
 promises, nor had much chance of doing so. True, there was a hand- 
 some Bible in his trunk — it was his mother's gift when he was fifteen, 
 and he would on no account have left it behind him — but he had 
 scrupulously abstained from using it, for the most part because of its 
 handsome binding, and was content with having it safe in its 
 hiding place. 
 
 Well, the troubles and temptations that were destined to search 
 him happened to come in the following way, just about the time 
 when Harry Fortescue was harnessing in for the winter with his old 
 energy and enthusiasm, though in rather a gloomy way, to the 
 courses of clinical medicine and surgery for which he had entered 
 at the best medical school in Vienna. 
 
 The immediate demand for Gerald's services as a traveller had 
 partially ceased, or his rounds were near home. He had a good 
 many lonely evenings at his lodgings, for, as we have seen, he often 
 shirked such visiting as he might have had among the towns- 
 people after a little acquaintance therewith. The neighbouring 
 gentry, whose circles would have afforded him some of the culture 
 and refinement he had been used to, and to whom he would have 
 been a considerable acquisition, of course knew and cared nothing 
 about an obscure clerk in a coal and timber wharf, though but a 
 single introduction from an old London friend or two would have 
 given him a very pleasant enlrSe among them. But here his 
 alias was in his way, and lie shrank from making himself known as
 
 364 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 the son of the once eminent and now fallen house of Arlington 
 and Co. Moreover, he seldom went to church after one or two 
 trials. It was all so very slow — the Dissenting chapels offended 
 his taste and his theology. Thus he had no " church fellowship." 
 
 So, as his fellow clerks observed, "he kept himself to himself," 
 sometimes rising into very beautiful and noble realms of thought 
 and feeling, dwelling with deepest tenderness and purity on the 
 memory of the charms of the beloved one far away over sea and 
 mountain, sometimes craving with passionate desire for a nearer, 
 more real, more — (must he confess the thought ? He did at last 
 confess it) — more womanly tenderness and affection than that 
 which was associated in his mind, not merely with his last parting 
 from Leila Featherstone, but with unmistakable features in her 
 general character. She seemed to him often so " star-like apart " 
 that he thought of her not only in her lofty, spiritual loveliness, but 
 in her distant coldness, her sarcastic humours, and, perchance, pride. 
 With all his romantic energy he had a wonderful deal of womanly 
 softness in his own nature, and that made him yearn for it in the 
 woman whom he loved. But when he had wanted it, and missed it 
 in poor Leila, and thought there was too much of the opposite 
 qualities, the dreaming poet forgot the singular relations in which 
 they had hitherto been placed to each other, and how much there 
 had been in his own manner at various times to constrain her to a 
 proud and frigid reticence. But he felt the mischief of his blind- 
 ness all the same. 
 
 Now, also, he began in his solitary musings to realize how great 
 had been the help he derived in his struggles against his lower 
 nature in former days from the employment of his lively imagina- 
 tion in composition or in dreams of conjugal felicity, if not with 
 Leila, with one like her, were it possible to find such ; but now 
 there seemed a cold and cruel extinguisher put upon all those hopes 
 and dreams, for he could look forward to marrying neither her nor 
 anyone else. He could not bear the dreary vacuum, but went 
 staggering about in his loneliness with his aching heart longing 
 for something to love, longing for love in return, clutching now at 
 one support, then at another — occasionally looking in at some 
 evening party, " with a little music," and giving himself for the 
 moment to the fascinations of young ladies with long ringlets and 
 charming voices, who, however, soon pronounced him " very clever, 
 no doubt," but too much "stuck up" to suit their fancy. Secretly they 
 allowed he was good-looking, and sang " divinely," but were quite 
 sure he was absurdly conceited. The young men took the de- 
 preciatory,view of the ci-devant poet, but considerably intensified:
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 365 
 
 and Gerald, with mingled amusement and pain, perceived it. Then 
 for weeks he avoided all society, and nourished himself on Carlyle's 
 French Revolution, and memories of Bushney Park. After awhile, 
 perhaps, he would be in a state of vehement indignation and 
 disgust because he had been persuaded for once and away to stay 
 for an evening revel with some of his companions, or employers' 
 customers, in rather humbler life, but where he had met highly 
 cultivated farmers' daughters, and found that he had considerably 
 enjoyed a waltz, or even " Sir Roger de Coverley," and a romp ! 
 Alternately giving himself up to the exuberant, hearty, rather 
 sensuous existence of these rural fascinations, then once and away 
 trying to enjoy the more refined and sentimental but rather uncul- 
 tured charms of the town circle ; then for long intervals secluding 
 himself from all society, and leaving pretty faces, suspicious and 
 disdainful belles, tender, palpitating hearts, hopeful mammas, all in 
 the bleak shade of his neglect. And so, because he felt himself 
 raised far above all the degrading temptations of his business life 
 by the elevation of tone and feeling to which he had been restored 
 through the influences of an hour never to be forgotten, poor 
 Gerald, in his seasons of depression and loneliness, fancied himself 
 also lifted above all danger to his higher life and his nobler love 
 from any other quarter. 
 
 It was after a longer period than usual of the ascetic self-denial 
 and solitude system that Arlington had been obliged to go to a 
 respectable farmer's house, about three miles from Longbeach, 
 where he had more than once been warmly welcomed, and where 
 he was sometimes tenderly looked for. He had been obliged to 
 yield to a pressing request from his employers not to take any 
 Christmas holiday, but keep it till summer-time ; and he had found 
 some slight alleviation of his grief at not joining the far-off, happy 
 party at Neville Court, in the hearty hospitality of this house on 
 the recent Christmas day. On the day in question, he had walked 
 out thither, in the short January afternoon, in a very gloomy frame 
 of mind, just transacted his business with the old man, then sadly. 
 with a weary and sorrowful heart, turned away from the shy and 
 flattering invitations of the blooming young daughter to "stay and 
 have a cup of tea." He did so long for a home, and a wife to 
 bless it, he cared not how humble it might be; and the sight <>f tin 
 pretty, cosy parlour, beaming in -the darkening winter twilight with 
 the bright, ruddy firelight, where the tea with all its hospitable 
 accompaniments and the muslin-apparelled young tea-maker were 
 awaiting him, sent him away dejected — ami it is. doubtless, to be 
 feared — impatient, rebellious.
 
 366 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 The latter part of his walk lay across some fields which had been 
 banked out from the river. As he turned down to enter them it 
 was getting so dark that he doubted whether he would not take the 
 much longer round of the road, but he was getting fagged, and 
 pushed on across the meadows where the fog was gathering. 
 Heavy rains had fallen all the previous night and part of that dav, 
 as well as for some weeks previously. As he climbed a stile some- 
 thing reminded him of a sorrowful sight he had seen two hours 
 before on entering the same meadows from the town side. It was 
 a poor girl, very neatly dressed, sitting in a most forlorn and 
 dejected attitude near the last stile, before gaining the bridge. 
 He remembered she had just raised her head as he passed, and she 
 struck him as being what novelists would call a "very interesting 
 young person;" but just at that moment one of his employers' 
 wharfingers had come over the stile, touching his hat and saying,' 
 " Good-night, sir." He remembered now, too, that he had called 
 after him — " I shall be back in an hour or two, John, if that barge 
 comes up to-night ;" and that the man had said, " No fear of that, 
 to-night, sir. There's a freshet in the river, and it's as much as a 
 boat could do to hold her moorings, let alone coming up again' it, 
 to-night." All this came back to his recollection, just as a man's 
 figure emerged from the gloom, coming in the opposite direction 
 to that in which he himself was going. 
 
 " You'd best make haste, sir, if you want to get to town to-night," 
 cried the figure, " or I don't know but what you'd best turn back. 
 They say the upper sluice has burst. There's a power of water 
 coming down, and I doubt but the old wooden bridge in the 
 meadow won't stand it long. You'd better come back, sir. I'm 
 after our cows." 
 
 "Thank you," was Gerald's reply — "Gammon!" his thought. 
 But he walked on more quickly, yet wearily. He felt very indifferent 
 to what might happen. Another field was passed. He could hear 
 in the distance a sound he had never heard there before. It was 
 the hoarse roar of the rushing waters. Another figure now dimly 
 appeared, hesitatingly approaching him. It was a young girl — the 
 same he had seen as he passed the spot before. Clasping her hands 
 together she exclaimed, in a soft, agitated voice, 
 
 " Ah, Mr. George ! Mr. Arkwright ! I am so glad you've come at 
 last ! I was getting so frightened, and I couldn't bear going into 
 the town alone, and I've waited a long, long time to see you ..." 
 she stopped abruptly, with eyes cast down, and trembling with 
 excitement. 
 
 " What, Jessy ! Is it you?" answered Gerald, in amazement.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 367 
 
 " How on earth came you here, my poor girl, and at this time of 
 night ? Have you left Deansford ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir," the girl began, and then her voice trembled, and 
 she continued in broken sentences, half sobbing, " I was obliged 
 to come away, sir. My aunt and I fell out, and I heard you were 
 living here, sir, and you — you were always kind to me, sir, and I 
 hadn't a friend I could go to." Here the poor girl gave way and 
 sobbed outright. 
 
 " Don't cry, my child," said Gerald, soothingly. " Come on to 
 the town and we'll get some one to take care of you. You are 
 tired, I daresay. Don't cry, that's a good girl." 
 
 Gerald felt paternal and protector-like. The kind voice and 
 words checked the friendless young creature's tears, and she 
 followed meekly by his side. 
 
 " But you said you had been waiting for me. How did you know 
 I was coming?" 
 
 " I sat just here, sir, as you went by an hour or two ago, and I 
 knew you in an instant, and I heard you say to some one you 
 should soon be back, so I waited." 
 
 " Poor Jessy ! That was a cold, damp watch, though. And have 
 you no friends in Longbeach, then ?" 
 
 " No, sir. I've none nowhere now" (inclination to sob), " except 
 father, and I durstn't go home to him." 
 
 "Why, you've not been doing anything wrong, I hope ?" 
 
 He faced full round upon her, and even by that dim light could 
 see her sweet little face covered with blushes, as she sagely and 
 coquettishly answered — 
 
 " Oh, no — no indeed, sir ! but — that young man, sir, I told you 
 of at Deansford — a long time ago, you know, sir. Him as I was 
 brought up with, you know, down at the Holmwood. He came to 
 Deansford and wanted me to marry him, and father said I must, 
 and aunt said I must, and I said I wouldn't, and they both turned 
 again' me because I wouldn't, and father said I should go home 
 with him, and Aunt said I shouldn't stay no longer with her, and 
 they said it was all nonsense, and the young man had been very 
 kind to father, and they said it would be the worse for me if I 
 didn't ." (Pause.) 
 
 "Well, and why wouldn't you have him, Jessy ?" 
 
 " Oh, indeed — indeed I couldn't, sir. He's not at all a nice 
 young man. He used always to drink so, and both he and father 
 used to smell so of beer and spirits when they came ; hut I am 
 ashamed to be telling you all this, and yet I must, for indeed it was 
 not wrong of me, sir, and I've no friends but you, sir. I couldn't
 
 368 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 go to dear Miss Fortcscue, you see, sir, because he lived close by. 
 And I'm afraid, from somethin' Aunt- said, father had been getting 
 into trouble at home — poaching or somethin', and the young man 
 
 had stood by him ; but why Aunt should have . Lord save us, 
 
 sir, we can't get by there !" she cried, pointing to the line of swift 
 running water which was now visibly pouring across the path they 
 were pursuing. The noise had been increasing for some time, but 
 Gerald thought it was only the angry stream chafing within its 
 banks. 
 
 " I don't know, Jessy. It would be a long way round. You 
 won't mind a little wetting ; we have only to gain that bridge you 
 see there." 
 
 "No, sir; but indeed we can't pass!" cried the terrified girl, as 
 the waters came sweeping down with increasing force. 
 
 " By Jupiter ! " cried Gerald, " we are in for it," as he took a few 
 rapid strides back again along the path just traversed. " The flood 
 is coming down worse there behind us than even here. We were 
 only just in time. 'Pon my word, Jessy, we're in a bit of a mess. 
 Never mind ; we'll be all right soon. You won't mind me earning 
 you across this water, will you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir : thank you, if I'm not too heavy." And the blush- 
 ing maid let Gerald take her up in his strong arms, as he prepared 
 to wade through the dark, swirling flood. 
 
 It was an exciting and dangerous situation — physically, if not 
 morally. Gerald had some difficulty in keeping his footing as the 
 cold waters pressed against his limbs. A loud crashing, and then a 
 heavy splash just in front of them. 
 
 " There goes the old foot bridge, Jessy ! Lucky we had'nt 
 reached it." 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, what will become of us ! But I'm too heavv, 
 sir. Put me down, please put me down, sir!" she exclaimed, 
 piteously, as Gerald staggered beneath his burden and the force of 
 the stream. 
 
 "Not yet, my lass; wait an instant. This is better than the 
 bridge," gasped Gerald, as he struggled up to the remains of an 
 old roofless stable that stood in the corner of the field close bv the 
 foot of the vanished bridge. Two walls were standing presenting 
 a corner to the flood, and by gaining that comparative protection 
 Gerald was enabled to lift Jessy, without further mishap, on to some 
 cross beams which still formed a kind of ledge backed by a linger- 
 ing bit of the roof. Then he climbed up after her. and shouted 
 loudly for assistance, thinking there might be some of his em- 
 ployers' boatmen astir at such a time to render help, especially as
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 369 
 
 one of them knew where he was gone. They listened anxiously 
 for a reply. No answering voice. Indeed it was difficult to see 
 how any boat could get near them in such a headlong stream 
 as now came pouring past. They were safe enough, apparently, 
 where they were for a few hours ; but Gerald's clothes were soaked, 
 and when the glow of his exertions were passed he began to feel 
 cool enough. But poor little Jessy's teeth were chattering alike 
 from cold and fear and compassion for her protector. She wanted 
 to take off her merino cloak and wrap it round him, instead of 
 which he insisted upon throwing half his own pea-jacket over her. 
 So there they sat, side by side, and waited the result of Gerald's 
 hullabaloo. A curious mixture of moisture and romance, of danger, 
 discomfort, dampness, and delight in the whole affair. Gerald 
 couldn't help rather liking it in spite of his chilliness, but felt it 
 couldn't, must not, last, and shouted away lustily at intervals. Still 
 no answer. The old walls began to tremble a little under the 
 repeated assaults of the still increasing flood. Gerald had been 
 watching a part of the wall where he could just see the line of the 
 stream as it eddied past, and at length he was convinced the water 
 was rising. Were he and his poor little trembling companion to 
 be swept together out of existence that dark, foggy night, clasped 
 in each other's arms ? What a strange, fantastic fate was present- 
 ing itself. * 
 
 "Are you cold, Jessy ? Don't be afraid, my child. There will 
 certainly be boats coming for us. As I told you, they know I'm 
 out." 
 
 " But perhaps they'll think you never would try to come back on 
 such a night, sir." Just then three or four of the furthest stones of 
 one of the walls fell with a loud crash into the flood. Half-a-dozen 
 more quickly followed. The water was now very evidently rising. 
 Once more Gerald lifted up his voice through the darkness, clear and 
 strong, with an energy given him more by compassion for the girl 
 who looked up at him with such imploring and yet trustful eyes, 
 than for himself. He felt rather a gloomy and desperate satisfac- 
 tion at the thought of getting an end put to all his troubles, and 
 passing away from a world that had treated him of late with very 
 scant courtesy — might he not say with grim cruelty. Yet there 
 was a creeping of the flesh, a dreary shrinking and shuddering of 
 the spirit at the thought of choking down there like blind puppies 
 amid the dark waters. He did not feel altogether ready to front 
 death. He could have swum a good while to save himself, but he 
 knew he should not desert the girl and she would soon drown him. 
 An indescribably tender, human sympathy seemed drawing him
 
 37° GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 to the maiden whom he circled with his big pea-jacket and one 
 arm. She seemed to come between him and the fierce, horrid 
 impulse to fling: himself into the swollen, gurgling waters — to be 
 keeping him within, even if only just within, the circle of loving 
 life and human affections, bidding him to live in hope and love. 
 And it was the very girl in whom he had once begun to feel 
 so much interest that he had fled from the house, and even the 
 town in which she lived. But that was before he knew that Leila 
 Featherstone cared for him, or that he might love her without 
 wronging his friend. Of course Jessy was and could be nothing 
 to him now. Yet — well — Once again he raised a tremendous shout 
 as another piece of the wall fell with a crash, and this time he was 
 answered. Faintly above the roar of waters came a hoarse shout : 
 " Hillo, ho, ho, boy ! Ho !" Then Gerald sent back another cry, 
 and presently the voice came nearer. " Hold on ! Where away ? 
 What, be that you, Master George ?" was the friendly and welcome 
 greeting that now came through the darkness. " I thought you 
 never would have been so venturesome, or I'd been after you afore 
 now. But, bless my stars, how for sure am I to get at you. Bill 
 Hawkins was coming down with me, for he said you might be out, 
 and he was sure he heard siimmun a-yelling ; but he had to pick up 
 a whole lot up stream there — father, mother, children, and pigs — 
 who'd been drownded out and were screeching like mad, which 
 maybe kept us from hearin' o' you." 
 
 Meantime the old boatman was warily swinging his boat from 
 tree to tree, for oars were useless there until he had got within a 
 boat's length of the wall. 
 
 "Eh ! what, be there two of you, Master George ? Well, well, I 
 never ! " and the old chap squinted up at the young couple and 
 uttered his last sentiment in so comical a manner that Gerald 
 couldn't help laughing, and poor'Jessy almost longed to drop into 
 the water to hide her mortification. 
 
 As Gerald lowered her into the boat, it tugged frantically at its 
 moorings, but the rope held out bravely, and in two or three 
 minutes Jessy (covered up in the pea-jacket) sat cowering in the 
 stern, while Gerald and the boatman were pulling with all their 
 might against the rushing stream, into which they shot the moment 
 they swung clear of the trees. But they were not out of danger 
 yet. 
 
 It was the hardest bit of rowing Gerry had ever had in his life ; 
 and as the boatman looked at him once or twice admiringly, he 
 observed, with a gasp, "It's pulling for life; and it's lucky as you 
 know's how to pull, sir : and pull you can !" To be swept out into
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 37 1 
 
 the main stream and be carried down among the tumbling trees 
 and fragmentary houses, or escaping destruction there, to be 
 hurried out to sea about sun-rise and meet the breakers in their 
 little river-boat — to say nothing of Gerald's wet clothes — would 
 most likely have been an unmistakable termination to the career 
 of all three. So they rowed till the perspiration streamed from 
 their brows, and every muscle seemed strained to cracking — rowed 
 stoutly through the darkness and roaring waters ; and at length 
 reached the town, doubtless with thankfulness — certainly with 
 aching bones. 
 
 But what was to become of Jessy ? Gerald briefly told the boat- 
 man how he had met her in the meadow, saying nothing, of course, 
 about their former acquaintance, and asked if his wife could manage 
 to dry and house her for the night. The old lady, on being applied 
 to, gruffly consented, and Gerald dragged himself home to his 
 lonely lair, wondering at the strange relations into which he was 
 being brought with the motherless girl, who had fled to him for 
 refuge. He soon fell asleep, and had wonderful dreams, in which 
 Leila and Jessy, boatmen, drowning, and farmers' pretty daughters 
 were all mingled in curious and hopeless confusion. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Now it had so happened that Gerald's fellow-clerk, in writing to 
 old acquaintances at Deansford, had boasted of having got Mr. 
 Arkwright a situation in their " house." Jessy's aunt had heard the 
 letter when out at a snug little tea-drinking, and had naturally com- 
 municated the interesting intelligence to her niece. Jessy brooded 
 over the exciting news with tender secrecy. Many a time her 
 thoughts flew over to the great warehouse and wharf, where she 
 imagined the kind and handsome young gentleman to be sitting in 
 the counting-house, making heaps of money. Many a time she 
 caught herself thinking whether anything was ever likely to take 
 her to Longbeach, and whether Mr. George would haply remember 
 her if she met him in the street and dropped him a curtsey. Thru 
 she chided herself roundly for such nonsense, and thought of him 
 no liiorL — till the next time— which was probably when taking up tin-
 
 372 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 tea to the young man who now occupied the first floor, and who 
 was rather sharp and peremptory, particularly if his boots were not 
 ready when he wanted them. Then there was that dear little ribbon, 
 much too precious to be worn, though it certainly was a thousand 
 pities it should be kept in a box, for having tried it in her glossy 
 brown hair and against her blooming cheek, she decided that it was 
 very becoming. So she bought a bit just like it, and wore that on 
 Sundays and holidays, with a pretty, jaunty vanity, and a conscious- 
 ness of the original having been given by that very nice gentleman 
 of whom everybody spoke so well. Then, when the sad visit of her 
 father and young Reed ham took place, and stern requirement was 
 made of her to let herself be given in marriage to the latter, she 
 felt her former dislike to him grown into an invincible repugnance ; 
 and when things came to extremities, and she felt herself too weak 
 to resist by fair means, she hatched a little plot, fell sick for the 
 nonce, persuaded her father to depart with Reedham — aunt pro- 
 mising to send her off to Dorking in a day or two. When 
 despatched accordingly by the slow day coach to London, she 
 hoaxed the coachman with a craft and mendacity that astonished 
 herself, got him to deposit her and her box at a small inn in a certain 
 great town through which they passed, and walked off to Long- 
 beach next day, sending on her box by a waggon to the " Pig and 
 Whistle," in the desired haven, where the waggon slumbered till 
 it's diurnal period of return. Thus cleverly — yet not quite inno- 
 cently in one sense, though in perfect ignorant innocence in another 
 — she went on that path that led to her final destiny. Poor little 
 wilful, sentimental Jessy ! 
 
 When Gerald walked down to the boatman's cottage the next day 
 it was without any definite idea as to what he ought to do. He 
 found Jessy was just as devoid of plan or purpose as her worst 
 enemy could have wished. So he came away, revolving visions and 
 schemes, making uneasy moral reflections. His attention was dis- 
 tracted by the signs of the devastation wrought by yesterday's flood 
 on every side. The waters had subsided ; but the stream was still 
 foaming along with irresistible force. His employer's wharf had 
 suffered severely, and many barges had been driven on the banks or 
 out to sea. It was abundantly evident that Jessy and he had had a 
 narrow escape. The consciousness of the common danger they had 
 together incurred — of the deliverance he had effected for her with 
 the old boatman's assistance — the touching, loving trustfulness with 
 which she had fled to him for protection from a persecuting and 
 distasteful lover — the shy, innocent gratitude and gladness with 
 which she met him again — all naturally excited a warm interest in
 
 CERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 373 
 
 him for the poor homeless girl, and made him at length resolve to 
 do what he could to shelter and support her for awhile, till " some- 
 thing should turn up." So having told his landlady rather more 
 than he had confided to the boatman, and in an off-hand, 
 indifferent way, which almost imposed on himself, added a sketch 
 of his first acquaintance with her, and of the lover's offensive 
 addresses, he secured the good old woman's sympathy for the 
 friendless lass, and provided temporary employment for her at a 
 dressmaker's. But then he was rather startled by finding his land- 
 lady proposing to let the young woman lodge at her house — " For 
 don't you see, sir, I'm a-getting in years, and want a little help and 
 company like, and this young lass will just fit, and there's the 
 empty room for her, sir, for I've never been able to let it since my 
 boy left for « Merriker.' " Gerald's common-sense and regard for 
 appearances, if not for the girl herself— to say nothing of other 
 considerations — might have told him he should on no account, of 
 course, have agreed to this plan. But he was taken by surprise ; 
 didn't like to admit, even for an instant, that there could be the 
 slightest reason against it. So the very man who had formerly left 
 both a house and even a town because amaid-of-all-work was living 
 there, lest he should think too much about her, or make her care 
 too much for him, actually consented to old Mrs. Pawsey's motherly 
 and very natural proposition, because he knew in what a very 
 different position he himself now stood with regard to Leila 
 Fealherstone. Besides, as he said to himself, "'the child would be 
 much safer from harm and getting into bad company if she were 
 under his own eye, and under the surveillance of such a respectable 
 old lady as good Mrs. Pawsey." Gerald, in fact, felt a fatherly 
 interest in the homeless wanderer. He was too modest to think 
 much of any risk of interesting her — thought his former scruple on 
 that head rather nonsensical — and so the arrangement altogether 
 seemed simple and natural enough. But when Gerald communi- 
 cated the plan to Jessy, in the course of the day, he might have 
 been warned by seeing her mingled bashful and coquettish thank- 
 fulness and delight. However, he felt so " strong in honesty," thai 
 he let the warning pass "as idle wind." Nevertheless, when he. 
 came home to tea that evening, and saw her sweet little face 
 coming in at the door of his room with the tea things, which she 
 said she had got leave to bring up, and, as he marked again all bet 
 dainty little ways and winning deferential courtesies, he found him- 
 self heaving a deep sigh, and saying to himself when she ba 
 the room, "Well, I don't wonder I liked that girl SO IRUi h (though 
 
 I'm afraid she's rathei vain. Poor tilth thing!) when I lived at
 
 374 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 Deansford, and left in a hurry. But now " (a long pause— feet 
 
 on fender) — " Now, Gerald Arlington " (addressing himself as he 
 walked wearily about the room), " are you not a fool to have her 
 lodging here — a regular fool, or knave ? . . . . Pooh, pooh, 
 the folly is not where I was finding it ! But in fancying that now, 
 now, now that I know who loves me, whose angel lips I have dared 
 to touch — that now I can be in danger — in the remotest danger of 
 any meaner passion ! No, no. I am bound to do what I can to 
 help this poor child, and I will watch over her till she is quite safely 
 provided for ; but nothing more." 
 
 Had Gerry the remotest idea of rivalry in his affections — of 
 Jessy being anything more to him than a poor little ward or sister, 
 say, rather, waif and stray ? Not the faintest shadow of such a 
 notion, of course. 
 
 The fact of her humble parentage, and the menial position, as 
 he regarded it, of domestic service in which he had first known 
 her, would of itself have been sufficient to prevent his looking at 
 her as a companion for life, and, we need not say, he was unques- 
 tionably farther, if possible, than ever in his existence before from 
 cherishing any base design. Yet he could not be altogether blind 
 to the danger arising from the strange and sorrowful relation in 
 which he stood to Leila Featherstone. That relation, so fascinating, 
 so hopeless, preyed upon him, as we have seen, with consuming 
 force. The very distance between Leila and Jessy, socially and in- 
 tellectually — the infinite superiority of the peerless lady increased the 
 danger of his caring for the humbler lass with rather warmer feelings 
 than those which he supposed at first it was possible he should ever 
 entertain towards her. He thought he might innocently, nay, most 
 benevolently and usefully, allow himself to be comforted and amused 
 in his sorrowful loneliness by this gentle, simple-hearted, loving 
 child, as he persisted in regarding her. For it zvtis an infinite 
 comfort day after day to his weary soul to see some one with 
 feminine grace and innocence caring for him so lovingly, watching 
 for his smile of thanks so gratefully — giving him that humble 
 sympathy for which, in one form or other, it was at once his weak- 
 ness and strength always to crave. 
 
 As for poor Jessy, it was just like heaven for a time to her. 
 With all that native refinement and delicacy of feeling so often 
 found in girls of the humblest rank, and with those warm, clinging 
 affections rarely absent from girls of any rank, she was exceedingly 
 vain and a thorough coquette. Hence she was always craving for 
 admiration, or, at least, attention and sympathy, but shrank from it 
 unless combined with the courtesy and freedom from coarseness
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 375 
 
 which she seldom found in her own class. From the first evening 
 that Mr. Arkwright had come to the house at Deansford, and had 
 spoken to her in his musical voice so kindly, and yet " so like a 
 gentleman," she had looked up to him with a reverential interest 
 which gradually led to deeper feelings. 
 
 The very purity both of her and his own mind made their present 
 relations to one another, in some respects, the more dangerous. 
 It is worth thinking of, my excellent friend, that your very excellen- 
 cies may sometimes be the source of your greatest danger ! 
 
 " How is it they let you off so early, Jessy," quoth Gerald, one 
 evening, as the young dressmaker came gliding in with the tea-tray. 
 
 " Oh, they let me bring home my work, sir, sometimes, to keep 
 old Mrs. Pawsey company. She's so lonely, you see, since her son 
 and his wife went away to America." 
 
 " Well, that is very accommodating of them. And what work do 
 you have to do ? " A foolish question which he had no business 
 to ask. The girl, of course, was delighted, and blushingly 
 replied : — 
 
 " Oh, I'm making something so beautiful now, sir ; a sort of 
 collar and cape for a lady that's to be a bride and going to Canada. 
 May I bring it up and shew it you, sir," she added, after a 
 moment's hesitation, " when I take away the tea-things ?" 
 
 "You may, Jessy — by all means." The poor gentleman wants 
 something to amuse him, was the reflection of the old woman and 
 the young one. 
 
 So the elegant apparel was brought up and led the way to more 
 general conversation, and Jessy showed a commendable sense of 
 her own ignorance on points of geography, primarily in relation to 
 America, as well as on various other matters of polite education ; 
 so that Gerald was moved by compassion to get a small atlas from 
 his trunk and enlighten her mind, and then let her take the map 
 down to Mrs. Pawsey for the edification of that good lady, by 
 tracing the route and present " locus in qua" of "dear John" and 
 his accompaniments. Then, on another evening, a volume of 
 Byron's poetry lay on the table, and somehow the little flirt couldn't 
 help whispering, half to herself, "There are some beautiful words 
 in there, I know," and somehow Gerald couldn't help hearing her 
 say it, and asking if she was fond of poetry ; and when she replied 
 with more outspoken vehemence than he had ever witnessed in 
 her before, how could he resist reading a few lines aloud, while she 
 stood tranced in silent admiration and bliss ? Well, it was very 
 pleasant to poor, thoughtless Gerald to have thia young, fresh, 
 unworn heart opening itself to all the beautiful influences which he
 
 376 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 could pour into it so lavishly — very pleasant, too, to be able to 
 make one being so happy. Would it have been equally pleasant 
 had she been deformed or sickly, pining in prison and, therefore, 
 far more in need of his kind attentions ? " Aye, but natu^ is 
 naturY' observes our old lady downstairs. Then he found out one 
 evening that she could sing very nicely, though without having 
 much voice. And she was scarcely happier than he was, sometimes, 
 when he was listening to one of her simple melodies or Methodist 
 hymns, for it brought to him dreams of heavenly rest and peace — 
 the more exquisitely sweet from the contrast to his ordinary state 
 of mind. It was the discovery of this last gift which broke down 
 the great safeguard against too much intimacy, hitherto existing 
 between them, viz., her habit of standing when she came into his 
 room. He could not keep her in that attitude while she sang to 
 him. She could not, of course, resist the request she had long 
 been secretly hoping he would make, that she would just take a 
 seat a minute. Old Mrs. Pawsey did not get quite so much of 
 Jessy's company after that, but she was very unselfish and un- 
 suspicious, and dozed a good deal. Once Gerald sang himself, and 
 the girl almost cried for joy. After which he taught her some duets. 
 It was not very surprising that Jessy's whole nature and faculties 
 seemed expanding gracefully in the rich sunlight of Gerald's kind- 
 ness, with his instructions in literature, grammar, and geography, fee. 
 There was a playfulness and innocent gaiety in the girl, which now 
 came occasionally and timidly peeping forth "like violets," said 
 our poet to himself, " stirred beneath their leaves by the breath of 
 early spring. What a pity she's not quite up in her grammar, or in 
 her aspirates either!" (But what is the use of recording such 
 deficiencies ?) In spite of defective aspirates and grammar, how- 
 ever, life was certainly brighter to poor Gerry for this little bit of 
 sunshine, or rather moonshine (which it was in more senses than 
 one), that came glancing so charmingly into his lonely life. He 
 couldn't resist, at last, telling her so one evening — common grati- 
 tude required him to do it — after the lesson in poetry was over. 
 He took a pen and wrote her name in the little volume from which 
 he had been reading, adding, " from George Arkwright, with his 
 affectionate regards." 
 
 "There, Jessy, you must keep that for my sake, because you 
 have cheered me up a bit, many a time, when I've been in the 
 doldrums." 
 
 It was under strange circumstances when he next saw that book, 
 and his own handwriting in it. Jessy, taking it with well-concealed 
 but secret passionate gladness, thanked him gently.
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 377 
 
 " But I don't think you can care about me, sir," she continued, 
 softly, bashfully, and coquettishly, while glancing up at him grate- 
 fully, " because I'm so foolish and ignorant." 
 
 Now it was quite true that Gerald, having great intellectual 
 powers of a special sort himself, had always, in former days, 
 craved for those intellectual abilities and attainments in the woman 
 he loved which are needful for true sympathy and perfect love 
 when the man has himself considerable intellectual gifts, but which, 
 practically, are too often only found in woman dissevered from 
 that feminine softness, pliability, and humility which constitute 
 some of the greatest charms and most attractive graces of the 
 female character. The desire for these qualities and indifference 
 to intellectual gifts was increased in Gerald's mind, as he sank into 
 the lower scale of spiritual and intellectual being, by his present 
 occupations and melancholy way of life. Hence he replied to 
 Jessy's last remark with some energy. 
 
 "Ah, my child, that is just one reason why I do care for you. I 
 know that you won't" — despise me, he added to himself. Then 
 continued aloud, rather sadly, as he put his foot on the fender and 
 gazed into the fire, " My good little Jessy, you must know that the 
 only women I have ever yet cared about have either been wiser or 
 nobler than myself. It is very pleasant to me to have you here to 
 be kind to, as you say I am, and to teach " — and to be fond of, he 
 was going to add, but did not. Then he saw the pretty little foolish 
 face turned up to him, and the blue eyes beaming with such an 
 indescribable expression that he was fairly swept away, and taking 
 one of her little hands as he rose from his seat he bent down, and 
 pressed one kiss, just one, on her fair, smooth forehead and said — 
 " Be my little sister, Jessy — I never had a younger sister — I do 
 care about you, and I shall be very glad to be of all the use I can 
 to you. You are a good girl, my poor little Jessy, and want to be 
 a good woman — don't you ? — and I'll help you all I can, in any way 
 that's possible. Shall I be your elder brother, Jessy, and will you 
 love me as your brother, and let me be of use to you, my child ? " 
 
 The words were very fair and very innocent — so were the speaker's 
 and the listener's hearts — and yet, with her hand (though but for a 
 moment) pressed in his— her forehead (though but for an instant) 
 touched by his lips— they were walking along that path which has 
 led, in a million cases, two pure and loving hearts down to sin and 
 shame. Yet all the fault has not been always, and entirely, on the 
 part of the man. 
 
 I low did all this affect Leila Fcatherstone's destiny ? As we 
 have seen, she was both willing and resolved to liv< and die
 
 378 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 unmarried rather than destroy the last chance, faint though it 
 might be, of one day becoming Gerald Arlington's wife. And he 
 — was throwing that chance irrevocably away. 
 
 In spite of all the brave, unselfish things which Leila had said to 
 her lover about her desire that he should be free as air, nay, should 
 seek in marriage with some one else the home and the happiness 
 she never expected to share with him, what would her life be 
 worth when the tidings reached her that he had taken her at her 
 word and married somebody else — a vain flighty child, without 
 education or strength of character of any kind — perhaps even be- 
 trayed the girl ? Had she then garnered all her deepest affections 
 in the frail vessel of such love, in such a heart as this of Gerald 
 Arlington's ? Oh ! these poetic, fascinating, loving geniuses ! 
 What a world of trouble in all ages they have caused the women 
 who love them ! For women do love them — more, perhaps, than 
 any others of the masculine sex — that is poetic, unselfish women. 
 And most women are the first — many the second (or both) — by 
 nature. 
 
 Of course there began to be a little gossip in Longbeach respect- 
 ing Mr. Arkwright and the pretty dressmaker, who was observed to 
 be lodging at the same house. 
 
 " That's a charming little lass, now, I must say, Mr. Arkwright ; a 
 man might be very comfortable with a companion of that cut, 
 decidedly," observed Mr. Tomkins, one evening when he had just 
 "dropped in to tea" in his old familiar style. Of late, however, 
 he had not deemed himself sufficiently valued or even particularly 
 welcome ; and finding it rather slow when he did come, he had not 
 favoured his brother scribe with much of his company. " Yes, 
 you're a man of taste." Remarks like these occasionally reaching 
 Gerald, but still more Jessy's ill-concealed happiness and seem- 
 ingly artless pride, made Gerald begin to reflect seriously once or 
 twice whether he was dealing fairly by the poor girl. But Mr. 
 Tomkins' admiration of her, especially his closing remark, after 
 watching her every movement till she left the room, viz., " Well," 
 (with a deep sigh) " a man might do worse," while Gerald secretly 
 resented his impertinence, made him aware that his feelings were 
 fast becoming different from what he had fancied — becoming what 
 he had thought was utterly impossible. They were very different 
 certainly, from what he had ever felt for Miss Featherstone. How, 
 then, if this was, after all, the real love which actual man ought to 
 feel for actual woman ? He was not an angel. She whom he had 
 so worshipped was — all except her pride and a just perceptible 
 inequality of temper. And their love for each other was something
 
 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 379 
 
 far above and beyond this earth. Leila herself had besought him 
 so to regard it and to mate himself elsewhere, if he found life too 
 lonely without an earthly bride. And life, he thought, was fast 
 becoming unbearable — and he argued it was far better to link him- 
 self with a simple, pure and uncultured girl like Jessy, than with 
 one nearer to Leila's level — who might ultimately drive out from 
 his heart's throne that peerless and beloved image. After yielding 
 himself so far as he had already done to Jessy's bewitching softness 
 and sweetness he seemed to have somehow lost that power of 
 rising up to his old tone of thought and feeling. He knew it was 
 on a lower level that he was now living and proposing to live — 
 more ignoble. He knew and confessed to himself that he some- 
 times thought this poor girl rather coquettish and silly, and very 
 vain. But why should he any longer aspire, in any way, or to any- 
 thing ? He had ignominiously failed in all his aspirations — had 
 been cast out, crushed ; why should he not marry Jessie, and settle 
 down comfortably on his £100 per annum? This could not be 
 called false to his nobler love, to that pure and lofty being whom 
 he had once loved so passionately — who had once loved him. 
 Or if it could — what then ? he was weary, even unto death, of 
 lofty idealism and far-off perfection. These thoughts at first 
 were fiercely repulsed — but they would come again and again. 
 And whenever the bare possibility of his one day making Jessie 
 his wife came across him, his manner to her, of course, became 
 involuntarily tenderer — he was less afraid of that intimacy which 
 was so very sweet to her, and so decidedly pleasant to him — 
 the lessons in geography, reading, writing, and poetry became 
 more and more dangerous. One night, in particular, after a 
 day in which Gerald had been more than ordinarily depressed, 
 the poor fellow had surrendered himself ureservedly to the happi- 
 ness which Jessy's singing and prattle gave him. The relief from 
 his previous desolate dreariness was indescribable. He had been 
 pretending to scold her for some carelessness in her writing, 
 and she looked up in his face with such a mixture of arch fun 
 and loving playfulness, that he was on the point of taking her in 
 his arms and whispering, " Be my little wife, Jessy." And if he 
 had done so ! Well, well, we all know what has happened in 
 thousands of cases when marriage is promised and fully intended ; 
 and we know, too, how infallibly — if he had played the villain, if 
 he had betrayed instead of marrying her — he would have lost his 
 love, as well as his respect, for one who had failed to guard her 
 own honour. " Be my little wife ? " Eh ! — was it so ? Something 
 in the last word struck an alarm-bell in his conscience. A secret
 
 380 GERALD AND HIS FRIEND THE DOCTOR. 
 
 half-consciousness rose up within him that he was playing a false 
 game — that that sacred word meant more than he was really 
 prepared for — that he was not thinking of her as a companion, but 
 as a toy — that at the best there would be no such love between 
 them as he had long profoundly felt there ought to be between two 
 souls made in God's image. " Be not unequally yoked together," 
 had some meaning for him. He had seen there was no real 
 strength of high principle any more than of mental power in the 
 girl's character. It was mere sweetness and softness, and very 
 warm affections. She only cared for history, &c., as he saw plainly 
 enough, because such things interested him. Of all she learnt, it 
 was only the sentimental poetry she valued for its own sake. He 
 well knew, for he had witnessed in other cases, how such a nature, 
 under all the cares of a household, of maternity, and straitened 
 means, generally sinks down into a fiat, common-place, rather 
 vulgar character when mated with a man who is constantly either 
 wanting her sympathy in his higher life, or contemptuously neg- 
 lecting, perhaps impatiently snubbing her because she is continually 
 disappointing him, and is so far his inferior. The sweetest of 
 tempers, also, will break down under continual disappointment and 
 irritation. In short, Gerald Arlington knew in his inmost heart, 
 when he once dared to look there, that there was a great gulf 
 between him and the pretty dress-making coquette which could 
 never be bridged over in this world. They might both throw 
 themselves into that gulf and meet at the bottom, but * * * * 
 
 [Perhaps that excellent Miss Fortescue had better not have 
 interfered, says some sage observer — better not, on the whole, have 
 sent Jessy Shalford away from Dorking.] 
 
 So with a mighty effort the man, that evening, conquered and 
 finished the writing lesson with scarcely another word. They 
 parted as usual. 
 
 For the next twenty-four hours Arlington was battling with the 
 dread temptation. The poor girl's plaintive, loving expression, 
 as she bade him good night, haunted him like a spell. Twenty 
 times the next day he found his imagination and his passion 
 hounding him on to fling his scruples to the winds, and take the 
 happiness that seemed offered to him, and give the happiness that 
 was craved from him, and leave the consequences to take care of 
 themselves. 
 
 
 (V