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 PEINCE FORTUNE 
 
 PRINCE FATAL.
 
 PRINCE FORTUNE 
 
 AND 
 
 PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Br MRS. CARRINGTON, 
 
 AUTHOR or "MY COUSIN MAURICE." 
 
 "Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogg in .tsop were extreme 
 wi-e. They had a great mind to some water, but they wimld n«»t leap 
 irit«j the well, because they could not get out again."— Selhen. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RHTNGTOX, 
 
 CROWN BUILDINGS. 188, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1880. 
 
 (^All rights reserved.)
 
 LOXDOX : 
 
 PEINTKD BY WILLIAM CLOWKS AND SONS, LIMITED, 
 STAMFORD STREET AND CHAIIIKG CROSS. ,.
 
 
 
 MAECHESA ADELA MAMELI DEI MANNELLI 
 
 NATA ZOAGLI, 
 AND TO 
 
 ALL DEAR FRIENDS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 
 PALAZZO DELLA CHIESA. 
 
 r^.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Le Lever de Eideau ... ... ... 1 
 
 I. Lady Laure ... ... ... ... 13 
 
 II. A Fungus ... ... ... ... ... 29 
 
 III. To-day and To-morrow ... ... 43 
 
 IV. Chance and Doom ... ... ... ... 63 
 
 V. Romance ... ... ... ... 92 
 
 VI. Realities ... ... ... ... ... lf)5 
 
 VII. The Question ... ... ... ,.. Ill 
 
 VIII. The Answer ... ... ' ... ... 118 
 
 IX. Love ... ... ... ... ... 128 
 
 X. Antagonisms ... ... ... ... 134 
 
 XI. Friendship ... ... ... ... 169 
 
 XII. Watch ant) Wait ... ... ... ... 176 
 
 XIIL God bless YOU ALL ... ... ... 195
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAf. g 
 
 XIV. "God be merciful to me a Sls-^'er!" ... 21'J 
 
 __i 
 
 XV. Demain, il fera Nuit Encore ... 
 
 XVI. "For so He giveth His Beloved Sleep" ... 2.>2 
 
 XVII. Broken Hearts «L>a) Broken Heads 
 
 XVIII. Mother Earth 
 
 XIX. Murderous Meditations ... ... i I 
 
 XX. Men and Angels ... ... ... ... 3ig
 
 PRIXCE FORTUXE AND PRINCE FATAL, 
 
 LE LEYEB DE EIDEAU. 
 
 Maiden, were I a king, and craved to be 
 Thy slave, and power, and purple luxury. 
 And conquering hosts, and fleets that sway the sea- 
 And crown, and subject miUions did resign. 
 To caU thee mine ; 
 
 Xo larger gifts should I then offer thee, 
 Than did I give. Life, Love, and Liberty, — 
 Did sacrifice to thee, this priceless three. — 
 Did pledge them 'gainst that heart and hand of thine. 
 To make them mine. 
 
 A rariatioiu 
 
 It is Xew Year's Eve. 
 
 Awav to the Xorth, in one of those fine old houses 
 that make the land so stately, there is a festive 
 gathering. For this night, non6 bnt kinsfolk, and 
 friends near and dear as kindred, meet beneath this 
 hospitable roof. But of these fayoured guests there is 
 no stint, no lack of house room, no lack of welcome ; 
 three srenerations make the old hall rins: with heartv 
 cheer, and bind themselves in a gay covenant, to see 
 the old year out and the new year in. 
 
 VOL. r. H- B
 
 2 PEINCE FORTUXE AXD PEIXCE FATAL. 
 
 The host, with his handsome face of five and forty 
 years, has a genial word for all. He has had his 
 grief; but he knows how to put black care behind 
 him ; and, though the wife he cherished is no more, he 
 looks with a father's happy smile upon the foir girl 
 and boy at his side. 
 
 A gentle pair. People patted their blonde heads, 
 and praised their pretty English faces; yet scarcely 
 more Enojlish than anythins: else. Just such child 
 heads may be met under many a Southern sky. Even 
 upon Porto Yenere's jagged and shadeless rock, famed 
 for its black-browed women, even there will flock 
 after you flaxen-haired, blue-eyed imps, bold, bare- 
 legged, and ragged, with skins for the sun to colour — 
 skins which soap and water would bring out white 
 enough to match with any little Saxon of the lot ! 
 
 To the left of the blonde-headed heir is another 
 boy, of an altogether different type, taller by a head — 
 a paragon of boyish beauty ; a confident air ; a mobile 
 face, where every word comes with a blush that is not 
 shame but pride ; dark, wav}' hair ; dark, dazzling eyes 
 of varying hue, violet or black or grey ; a figure to 
 match the face, lithe and straight, full of the fair 
 promise of manhood's grace and strength. 
 
 It is to be a ball; the couples pair off; the band 
 strikes up. The seven-year-old Lady Laure is to open 
 the dance with her father's ward. 
 
 He stands in the background, shy or serious. You 
 might have guessed him to be Scotch, and you would
 
 LE LETEK DE EIDEAU. o 
 
 have called him sandy ; a tall, heavy lad, with eyes on 
 the ground. 
 
 The host is beckoning to him. He is advancing 
 awkwardly, when, quick as thought, with eyes and 
 cheeks aglow, the dark-haired boy springs to the side 
 of the small queen of the ball, half bends his knee 
 with boyish laugh, takes the tiny hand in his; and 
 before the noble father can set things right, the two 
 are far down the polished floor, and, for the time, quite 
 beyond the reach of rebuke or restoration. 
 
 Something of a brief dismay succeeds to this bold 
 raid. One voice alone applauds ; " Bravo, my Claude ! " 
 cries the blonde-headed heir. But the dismay sweeps 
 off with the whiriing dance, and much fault-finding 
 was not the way with the good-tempered host ; nor did 
 the dash of darins: in this ** Youns: Lochinvar " come 
 much amiss to him. Yet he is sorry for his ward, as he 
 marks the lad grow paler by a shade. 
 
 ''Fortime of war, Aboyne," is his friendly word; 
 *' never take it to heart, man. If Lorraine has been 
 beforehand with you this time, look out sharp for the 
 next dance." 
 
 The lad was a slow lad, but he could feel. He was 
 brave too, and he tried to laugh out some light reply ; 
 but it was a poor attempt, and he gave it up. He knew 
 as well as any one that he was cutting a sorry figure 
 just then ; but that was not the thing that mattered. 
 
 Our host was thoroughly kind. " It was my fault, 
 if any one's, my boy," says he. laying his hand upon
 
 4 PEDsCE FOETUXE AND PBIXCE FATAL. 
 
 the half-tnmed shoulder. '* I should have called you 
 up before ; but our little Laure knew no better, and 
 Lucie, you know, lores all his friend Claude's madcap 
 freaks." 
 
 " It was no one's fault," says the unlucky one. He 
 has conquered himself, and he lifts his head and speaks 
 with the quiet yoice and manner habitual to him. He 
 turns off to look at the dancers. But here comes the 
 dark-eyed boy, flying past him at full speed, with his 
 lovely little prize borne up in his arms, her tiny feet 
 touching nothing but the air, — success, strength, sauci- 
 ness in his whole swing. It is too much ; but he will 
 stand without flinching till he thinks himseK forgotten. 
 Then he steals away to one of the long oriel windows, 
 and, in its friendly recess, he gathers up his wounded 
 feelings as best he can. 
 
 It is a matchless midwinter night — calm, clear, 
 and frost-bound. Moon and stars without, rival the 
 lamps and lustres within; through the uncurtained 
 windows the white light and the red stream in and out ; 
 the black house-shadows flicker in the double glare; 
 the spreading park sleeps serenely under the cold 
 sheen. As the dance waxes warmer and faster, the 
 high lattices are thrown open, and the swelling blasts 
 of music wake the far echoes of moor and hilL The 
 fallow deer rouse, startled, from their lair, and the herd 
 go at full pace across the open to the low-lying thickets. 
 
 But where is Lady Laure ? Aboyne has sought her 
 in vain. Has the dark-eved hero carried her off bxlilv ?
 
 LE LEVEE DE RIDEAU. o 
 
 Xow the faaUriDom is fooakeii, the ^ies& gather 
 round the siqvpCT-taUe; hot the little ladj^s plaee 
 beside her £ither is yacant. It wants but a moment of 
 midnight. One moment; and then, in tiie hodi of 
 Toioes, the old dock toverthiills the ciisp airvith the 
 knell of tone. 
 
 Sad and stzange do these ^miliar stndoes ftSk, in 
 nights like this, upon hearts and eais, with a Mdnf«Ft 
 that is dose upon teais, a stnmgeneas that gives a 
 shirer of emotion. 
 
 Bnt where is Lady Laore ? The host lools to Ae 
 right and to the left. This launching of tiie wixld into 
 a new epoch has arrested the anxioos question; but 
 now it is pot with redonbled face. The little ladr 
 must be found. 
 
 Then the ^th^ bethinks him of a gieat powo^ 
 
 "" S^id for MzsL PradenceL" 
 
 Mrs. Pradence in doe time appeals ; stardied cap, 
 apion, folded aims, tightlr closed montii, sharp eye — 
 eyery inch the janaeaj aotociat. Xow. Mr?. PrndeBce 
 had nursed and reared, Qghdped to riear,twogeaBfatin«i6 
 (^ tiiis noble hoDse. 
 
 She takes the ovder waril j ; she has lived too long 
 in a weDr<Hdezed hoasehold not to a]^ieeiafte the 
 fntilitr of &lae alaTmg But when, for ten minwies, 
 she has bustled here and thae»i]^ and down; wlieB,fo' 
 the first time, she has made the disooT^y that the 
 confiosion of staircases and galleriess, lofalMes^ and 
 passages, which make the old house sach a labjrintli.
 
 6 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 is the most inconvenient thing in the world, especially 
 to lose a child in ; then Mrs. Prudence's courage and 
 calmness begin to ooze out generally all over her. She 
 talks to herself rapidly ; she moves erratically ; she 
 wrings her hands, pushes up her cap, and gives every 
 bodily sign of mental discomposure ; for the twentieth 
 time she hobbles up and down the empty ball-room, 
 ordinarily the entrance-hall of the house ; she is fairly 
 exhausted, and takes refuge in the porter's chair. But 
 she is up again at once. 
 
 " Why, sure," cries she, " the door's ajar ! And 
 what's that — that white thing ? Lady Laure ? No, 
 never ! " 
 
 Mrs. Prudence's amazement stops her tongue, but 
 not her legs and arms. With a great swing the door 
 flies open, and out she goes. 
 
 The search is over. Upon the broad stone steps 
 stands Lady Laure, her white skirts fluttering to the 
 rising wind, her little shoulders mufiled in a boy's coat ; 
 and minus this complement to his attire, beside her,' 
 bold and bareheaded, is the partner of her first dance. 
 
 Shrill as a whistle, Mrs. Prudence shrieks out her 
 nursling's name. 
 
 The boy steps in between them. " You will please 
 to speak to me about this, Mrs. Prudence." 
 
 " Speak to you ! Pll have nothing to do with you, 
 you audacious young gentleman ! " 
 
 As she speaks, she pushes him aside, seizes her 
 charge with a firm grip, lands her inside the hall, and
 
 LE LEVER DE RIDEAU. 7 
 
 then, breathless with the angry effort, stops to recover 
 herself. 
 
 Lady Laure is not alarmed at the wrath of 3Irs. 
 Prudence ; no one has ever been unkind to her, least 
 of all her old nurse. 
 
 Lady Laure has large infantine, blue eyes, a sweet, 
 colourless face, and is tranquil as a dove. She smiles 
 passively in the indignant grasp that holds her. 
 
 "What, in the name of all that's good, was you 
 a-doing out there, Lady Laure ? " gasps Mrs. Prudence, 
 not yet come to her composure. 
 
 " Watching the deer, nurse." And the blue eyes 
 look up confidingly to the frowning brow. 
 
 " Did any one ever hear the like ? Watching the 
 deer, indeed ! The deer are asleep, where you ought 
 to be, Lady Laure." 
 
 " But, Prue, the deer are awake, and they have 
 been dancing ; we saw them ; their shadows went up 
 and down. It was so pretty, all in the moon," says 
 Lady Laure. 
 
 Mrs. Prudence gives no reply, but she releases the 
 captive, and closes the door with a great bang ; and 
 then she turns upon the elder culprit. 
 
 " You don't deserve to be spoken to, Mr. Claude ; 
 and I wouldn't, if it wasn't to tell you that you ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself taking this baby out in the 
 cold, and alarming of the house. But you'll hear the 
 same from my lord to-morrow, I can tell you ! " 
 
 " I hope not ; " and the boy speaks with a lofty
 
 8 PRINCE FOETUXE AXD PKIXCE FATAL. 
 
 air. "Lord Bellarmine will have to give me Lady 
 Lanre for my wife some day. We have been betrothed 
 to-night, and Lucie is witness." 
 
 ^ Witness ! Betrothed ! How dare you talk such 
 bold nonsense to mv younsr ladv ? " cries Mrs. Prudence. 
 
 "But, nurse," says Lady Laure, "-Lucie brought 
 Claude all the way from Eton for it" 
 
 "' And he may take hiTn back again ; so come along 
 with me ! " and Prudence seizes the child as if the law- 
 less Claude was sroins: at once to carry off his bride. 
 
 As she crosses the hall, she keeps up a running 
 gnmible of threats and angry comments all round. 
 
 *• Ah ! you're a baby. Lady Laure ; but you know 
 better than this, you do. When did I ever take you 
 out in your frock only, at night too, and with this 
 frost? And Lord Lucie, I took him for something 
 better, I did. But to put such stuff into your head ! 
 He is a bad boy, he is ; and brought up so proper too ! 
 And as for you, you young Irish rebel, it's just what 
 I might expect; you neyer cares for no one. But 
 you've seen the last of my lady this visit, you may 
 trust me ! " 
 
 The Irish rebel walks behind, not a whit abashed, 
 holding his head very high ; yet, when he gets into 
 the supper-room, he gives a furtive look up to the 
 head of the table. But when Mrs. Prudence placed 
 her little lady beside "my lord," she smoothed her 
 raffled face, and said not one word at all, like a prudent 
 woman as she was.
 
 LE LEVEE DE EIDEAU. 9 
 
 Lady Laure had some distinct ideas upon the 
 sabject of nuuriagesr and betrothak. But one month 
 before, she had made the prettiest of pretty little 
 bride-maidens to her godmotiier and oonsin; and 
 that very eyening she wore the hxket presented bjr 
 the bridegroom on the occasion. For tlie matteir of 
 her own betrothal; she had listened to the amingement 
 without any surprise. Her brother Lucie pcoposed it, 
 and had explained to her that it was of the snne 
 nature as the marriage ceremony, and always went 
 before it. He told her that Claude did it to please 
 him, and then Lady Lame, as she loved hex brother 
 Lucie dearly, was quite ready to please hfm toa 
 
 "And when you are big, Laure," says Lucie, "yon 
 will belong to Claude for ever. That will be nice, 
 won't it?" 
 
 ''But I want you too, Lucie," <aies Lady Lame, 
 her blue, innocent eyes opening wide npon the yofong 
 match-maker. 
 
 Lucie's answer is to lift the fair little face up to 
 his own for a kiss. 
 
 The boy of thirteen is a pecson of experience to the 
 baby of seven. But the blonde heads matdiwell, obHj 
 the boy's eyes are more ^dent, and his hair has mcHe 
 gold, and he is altogether the more radiant creatore of 
 the two. 
 
 The dark-eyed Claude is full of his dash and 
 dariDg. but he has no sentiment in the fdtme. 
 
 When Lucie cries. "And then we shall be brothers.
 
 10 PKIXCE FOKTUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 Claude ! " Claude replies, " Friends are just as good ; 
 but you shall do what you like, old fellow." 
 
 He hasn't any interest in this betrothal save to 
 humour his friend; but as he said, when describing 
 to Lucie his battle-roval with Mrs. Prudence, "ISTow 
 you've got me in for it, Lucie, I shall have to stand up 
 for my rights ! " 
 
 But this affair stands quite disconnected from the 
 little lady herself. She is to be his " wife some day,'* 
 as he proudly said ; but the " some day " has an un- 
 limited far-offness in it. Now she is his little play- 
 thing, that he amuses himself with amusing ; that is, 
 he tosses and catches her as he does any other ball 
 that comes in his way. 
 
 Upon this eventful night Lady Laure lays her 
 pretty head upon her pillow, with all these things 
 mixing up in her little mind. She is a mighty calm 
 little lady, but to-night, what with the dancing and the 
 deer, and Lucie's fine ceremony, and Mrs. Prudence's 
 fine scolding, her childish intellect is made all alive, 
 and she does not fall sound asleep before nurse has 
 had time to tuck her up, as she does upon common 
 nights, at the sober hour of eight o'clock. But the 
 strongest impression is the one that came last — Mrs. 
 Prue's fine scolding. Lady Laure had never heard 
 Mrs. Prue scold so finely before. She was not at all 
 alarmed by it; but she wondered why she was so 
 terribly cross to Claude, and why she called him such 
 a strange and ugly name as an Irish rebel. She was
 
 LE LEVER DE EIDEAU. 11 
 
 sure that Lucie would not like it at all, and Claude 
 was certain to tell Lucie. She fell asleep with this 
 wonder in her mind, and when she awoke in the morn- 
 ing, it was still there. 
 
 " What is an Irish rebel, nurse ? " asked Lady 
 Laure from between the bed-curtains. 
 
 " An Irish rebel ! Why, bless you, Lady Laure, 
 what's that to us ? You'll be ill asking of questions 
 before you're out of your bed. This comes of keeping 
 a lady like you up to that time of night." 
 
 '•' But, nurse, didn't you call Claude an Irish rebel 
 last night?" 
 
 " Well, if I did, I can't help it, so put out as I was ! 
 He deserved a good deal more than that. But them 
 big boys, who's to do anything with them ? They're 
 not fit to have anything to do with the girls. It's what 
 I've always stuck to, only what's the use of my talking ? 
 It's the mercy of Heaven you've not got your death of 
 cold, I know that." 
 
 " But, nurse, what is an Irish rebel ? " asks Lady 
 Laure, not to be put off by Mrs. Prue's nursery theories. 
 
 " How can I tell you, such a child as you are, all 
 about rebels ? In course, I remember as I used to hear 
 'em told of by my grandmother, who corned from there 
 with my grandfather, who was sent there to catch 'em." 
 Mrs. Prudence pauses. " As to Mr. Claude," says she, 
 " he's Irish anyhow ; and if we had rebels now, take 
 my word he'd be in the thick of 'em. With his auda- 
 cious impudence, he's up to every mischief. He's here
 
 12 PKIXCE FORTUNE AXD PKIXCE FATAL. 
 
 for no good, and if I was my lord he shouldn't set foot 
 here again ; and this I'd yery soon let Lord Lucie 
 know ! " Prudence all this time is folding up Lady 
 Laure's finery of the night before. At last she cries out 
 in the middle of her lecture, '* Dear me, Lady Laiire, 
 how you do talk this morning ! I can't tell half what I 
 am about. Now I've gone and lost your pearl locket 
 that vou had sriven vou at the weddinc:. I know I tied 
 it on your neck last night, and you must have took it 
 off yourself. Here's another pretty business if that's 
 lost now." 
 
 *• Oh, it's not lost," says Lady Laure. '• Lucie took 
 it off and gave it to Claude, and I'm to have Claude's 
 pretty ring, only it's too big for me, and Lucie is 
 going to wear it for me." 
 
 Mrs. Prudence is once more aghast. " Did ever 
 any one hear of two such boys ? But I'll be master. 
 Young scamps ! Before I'm a night older, that locket 
 shall come back ! " 
 
 " Don't try, nurse dear," says Lady Laure, with her 
 little head stretched out of her bed. " It's no use, he 
 won't give it you. He said he'd never give it away, and 
 he never tells stories." 
 
 Lady Laure was right. Mrs. Prudence stormed in 
 vain, and Claude Lorraine left Bellarmine the be- 
 trothed of Lady Laure Lucie, and the bold possessor 
 of the pearl locket. 
 
 And this was the wav it all be2:an.
 
 ( 13 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE L 
 
 LADYLAUBK 
 
 How hath God made ha good to see I 
 So htAj, fan of gnee, and fidr. 
 For the great gifts that in her be. 
 An haste her pniaes to declare. 
 Of heridiat 8oal eoald weary be? 
 Eadi day her beauty dotii repair. 
 Hiow hatii God made ho* good to aee ! 
 So holy, faU of grace, and fidr. 
 'Sat hither, nor beyond the sea. 
 No Damoads nor Dames HuEste are 
 Who can with her in gifts oompare : 
 Only in dreams sodi thn aaghfat «qiii he. 
 How hath God made her good to see! 
 
 BosdeEh CKories IfOttemmt, 
 
 A GLOWING mid-day sim, set in a sky of imiatliomable 
 blue. A scene of soft contrasts, blended into a diyine 
 harmony of light and colour. 
 
 A broad sea, boundless to the eye into its wide 
 distance, sparkling, dancing, and blue as the sky abore 
 it ; its snowy fringes playing round reef and islet ; its 
 murmurs rippling in cave and creek. 
 
 A miniature bay, its perfect crescent stretched 
 between a breasting rock crowned with the walls of 
 an antique city, and a pine-clad cape, against whose
 
 14 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 sombre shades shoot up in bold relief a pile of yellow 
 crags, and in their midst a grey village, like a frown 
 upon the brow of a giant. 
 
 A background of purple mountains, closing round 
 from shore to sky ; their jagged peaks piercing the 
 clear ether, and, on the topmost, the warlike strong- 
 hold — a grim sentinel of other days, marking the line 
 of the giddy road that spans the steep ; — and sweeping 
 down in soft masses from the heights, the silvery olive 
 woods, the glossy citron groves, and the white houses 
 nestling in their green vines. 
 
 There are no words, there is no painter's brush for 
 such a picture : this expanse of water, this strip of 
 land ; a glorious mirror, in a gorgeous frame, all ablaze 
 under the meridian sun. 
 
 This day of sunshine was a long while ago, to 
 measure time by events. The man who fell asleep 
 then, if he awoke to-day, would scarcely know the 
 world he had closed his eyes upon ; he would have to 
 open them very wide before he came to feel himself at 
 all at home again, especially wide if he had chanced 
 to fall into his long nap in the small town that lies 
 hidden behind that thickly wooded cape, the eastern 
 headland of this beautiful bay, — one of the gathering- 
 places of the world now, but, in those days, of no 
 particular interest, save to the people whose lot it was 
 to live in it and around it, — a fortunate lot, no doubt, 
 but for certain drawbacks, which can convert a paradise 
 into a place of punishment. The bulk of these good
 
 LADY LAUEE. 15 
 
 folk, however, had light hearts and peaceable natures. 
 They went their ways, taking the good with the bad. 
 If they sighed under their grievances, they smiled at 
 the sun, gathered in their olives and lemons, put out 
 their fishing-nets, thanked the Madonna for good hauls 
 and crops, and made the best of the bad ones. 
 
 Keener spirits there were in their midst, whose 
 minds took a wider range, and with less content ; but 
 these dines lyriviUgiees — if it be a privilege to be 
 foremost to feel injustice, to resent oppression, and to 
 vindicate men's rights^-do not come in a crowd, 
 though they may come to lead one; and here they 
 might be counted on the fingers. 
 
 This day, however, is the peculiar property of the 
 light-hearted part of the community; it is the anni- 
 versary of the half-yearly fair of the town, and the 
 fete, moreover, of its patron saint. 
 
 It is a grand day ; and as St. Benoit, the St. Swithin 
 of this land, has hid his head before the better in- 
 fluence of the more legitimate saint who presides over 
 all good things (fine weather included), in addition to 
 the more serious business of buying and selling, it will 
 be the occasion of much rustic mirth and mummery. 
 
 The town has put on its gayest attire ; the shops 
 do their best to rival the improvised counters which 
 crowd the narrow ways ; the bells are ringing ; High 
 Masses and processions, and rude attempts at miracle- 
 plays, present religion in its most attractive form, and 
 remind the holiday-makers that now is the time to
 
 1(; PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 make acceptable offerings of cakes and candles, to 
 priest and shrine. The inns and wine-shops do a 
 lively trade ; few are without a fiddler, and card-play- 
 ing and dancing will go on from morning to evening 
 and throughout the best part of the night. 
 
 From early dawn, on every side, the mountain-paths 
 have been alive with travellers. None come quite 
 empty-handed, though the lightness of their burdens 
 betrays the meagreness of their possessions — a handful 
 of wheaten corn grown in some sheltered nook, a little 
 flax, a bundle of fodder, a string of onions, a basket of 
 figs, a case of honey, a keg of wine. If any favoured 
 mortal has a mule to drive, or such a treasure as a 
 coop of fowls, a lean pig, or a tattered sheep in tow, he 
 becomes at once the object of as much envy as respect. 
 
 By mid-day scarce a soul is left in the village that 
 hangs aloft amidst the yellow crags; the few who 
 remain, lean over, the rude parapets of their eyrie, 
 straining to catch a sight of the unusual life that is 
 stirrinor about ; — the main road lies too far down 
 in deep shade under the projecting mass ; but further 
 off, on the slopes, they can see dark specks, like strings 
 of black ants hurrying along; and in their turn, to 
 eyes below them, they lose all human semblance, and 
 take the form, in their gay head-gears, of bright- 
 plumaged birds, perched aloft in the glaring light. 
 
 Viewed from afar, this huge stony cliff seems to 
 descend sheer to the sea ; but, in fact, the bare rock 
 stops short of the waves by about a hundred feet;
 
 LADY LAURE. 17 
 
 grounding upon a small promontory, which, with one 
 of Nature's beautiful caprices, is as luxuriant as the 
 height that commands it, is barren. 
 
 A villa of some pretensions stands upon its green 
 plateau, half smothered in vine herceaux, and shut in 
 by arbutus and rich-flowering trees and a tangled 
 garden of roses and myrtle hedges. 
 
 A citron grove covers the sides and reaches to the 
 edge of the blue water, in which the rock again crops 
 up, forming a broken line of reefs that have their 
 foundations fathoms down in the sea-depths. 
 
 The road that runs between the base of the rock 
 and the small domain of this villa, before it touches its 
 boundaries, is carried with striking effect across one 
 of those perilous stone-ways which bridge the water- 
 courses in these parts. At the present moment, it is 
 slightly more dilapidated than usual, having given 
 way near the centre under the pressure of a very 
 moderate weight. 
 
 The gap is filled up by the simple expedient of a 
 few pine logs thrown across it — surer repairs are in 
 course of execution ; but for to-day all labour is sus- 
 pended. In appearance, this temporary affair looks 
 alarming, but it is probably quite as stable as the rest 
 of the construction. 
 
 The folks bound for the fair, however, are too much 
 preoccupied with what is before them to be troubled 
 with their fears to-day. No doubt, some among them 
 have an ex voto hanging up in the shrine over the moun- 
 
 VOL. I. -J- C
 
 18 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 tains, depicting some miraculous escape of this nature ; 
 but that is only a better reason for present confidence. 
 This bridge is a converging point for all paths, whether 
 coming from the shore or the hills; and crowds of 
 chattering peasants linger near it, and even upon it, 
 exchanging greetings, and forming groups as gay and 
 picturesque as possible. 
 
 The fishermen, handsome fellows, with their red 
 sashes and caps ; jaunty mountain youths, with their 
 wideawake hats set on awry, and their embroidered 
 jackets hung upon one shoulder ; the women, in their 
 broad sun hats or gaudier kerchiefs ; rugged-faced 
 shepherds, in their coats of skins ; beggars, in match- 
 less rags ; bare-legged children ; and, to complete the 
 picture, the element of the Church — the priest, smooth 
 and heavy ; the lean Capuchin, with his fine cowled 
 features, bare throat, ashy hue, and crisp beard, look- 
 ing as if he had just stepped out of some mediaeval 
 picture-frame ; and behind him a wretched third, the 
 begging friar, mumbling and cringing, with sack and 
 stafif, bent and unspeakably dirty, his eyes bloodshot, 
 his beard and hair matted, his knees ready to double 
 under him at each step — a suppliant at all shrines, 
 earthly ones taking the precedence. 
 
 There is one exception, however, to the universally 
 idle hands. To observers, Festas seem especially 
 marked out by the washerwomen for plying their labours, 
 and, true to their habit, yonder, down below the bridge, 
 beside the narrow channel of the water's bed, kneel the
 
 LADY LAURE. 19 
 
 brown-armed, short-coated women, taking no heed of 
 the trooping crowds above them, their heads bent over 
 the shallow stream, their hands remorselessly engaged 
 in beating, very near to a pulp, their neighbour's linen. 
 Hard-featured enough, you can see they are, if one, 
 exhausted for the moment by her efforts, chances to 
 stop and look up ; for here, where beauty is supremely 
 in the ascendant, hard fare, hard work, and hot suns 
 soon reduce to positive ugliness that portion of man- 
 kind commonly called the fairer. But look at that 
 girl, with her ass and wine-skins, who stays to rest at 
 the further end of the bridge. She has thrown off her 
 flat-crowned hat ; she stands bareheaded, barefooted, 
 and barekneed, in black bodice and snow-white 
 chemisette and sleeves, blue neckerchief, and tucked- 
 up yellow skirt. She has a chaussure befitting these 
 upper glories — buckled shoes and the red clocked 
 stockings swing beside the gourds and skins on the 
 ass. Why waste these valuable possessions upon the 
 wear and tear of the mountain stones, and the gnarled 
 roots of the pine trees ahead ? These rude trials safely 
 passed, shoes and stockings will be donned upon the 
 noiseless sward, under the great olive trees — a land- 
 mark which tells her the town is near. See how she 
 poses against that jutting bit of wall, maybe with 
 an air of coquettish pride ; but that may well be 
 pardoned to her, for her face, her figure, the fold of her 
 arms, the turn of her head, the coil of her hair, take 
 you straight back through the centuries !
 
 20 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 She stands before you, the living model of the grand 
 masterpieces of immortal Art. 
 
 But in a safe retreat at hand is a recumbent 
 pair, who make no part of this rustic panorama. As 
 little have they to do with the classic ideal. They are 
 altogether modern, and a la mode^ in look and manner, 
 and talk. Not that they lack beauty. In their regular 
 features, their easy elegance, their exquisite polish, 
 character may be missing, but none of the other 
 charms which grace and youth and the refinements of 
 the world can impart. 
 
 Out of the sun, into the shade, on the groimd under 
 the citron boughs they repose, breathing the fragrant 
 odours of the blossoms, and idly playing with the 
 fallen fniit ; for this, in very truth, is the Land of the 
 Citron, where, with either hand, you may gather fruit 
 and flower. 
 
 Conversation between the two has flagged ; at last 
 it ceases; the faint, warm-scented air is slumberous. 
 The blue eyes of the lady follow a skiff across the sea, 
 as it skims the level waves like a dainty swan, its 
 white sail as snowy as the bird's plumage. The dark 
 eyes of her cavalier take the same direction. 
 
 Watching the sunshiny sea is dazzling, dreamy 
 work. At an indefinite moment, sky, sea, sail, fade 
 from the vision of the blue eyes and the black — the 
 play of thought relaxes in attitude and feature. If a 
 genre painter could have caught this sleeping pair 
 thus, it would have been worth a thousand pounds to 
 him.
 
 LADY LAURE. 21 
 
 With a sudden sweep through the overhanging 
 greenery, comes the rustle of the rising breeze. 
 
 The owner of the black eyes opens them with a 
 leisurely stretch ; he has only been half asleep at the 
 most. He changes his position indolently, and speaks, 
 Avithout looking at his companion, "Upon my word, 
 Lady Laure, I believe I have been napping. I beg 
 your pardon ; these hot suns are so drowsy ! " 
 
 The owner of the blue eyes gives an unconscious 
 start ; they open wide as she answers, with a quick 
 shade of colour on her fair cheek, " Indeed, Mr. 
 Lorraine, I believe — I think I was almost asleep too." 
 
 " Then I must beg pardon again for my awkward- 
 ness in awakening you. What sweet dream did I 
 drive away ? Ladies, young ladies, always dream 
 sweet dreams," says. he, with a laugh ; " don't they ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell. I do not think I ever dream." 
 Lady Laure drops her eyes half shyly before the full 
 look that is turned suddenly upon her. 
 
 " Nor do I." He answers indifferently, with a half- 
 yawn. " It is such a waste of good sleep, isn't it ? " 
 
 " But who can prevent dreaming ? " 
 
 "Well, if you're young, and don't eat shell-fish, 
 and avoid the grand emotions, you are pretty safe." 
 He gives himself a stretch and starts to his feet. " I'll 
 not run the risk again to-day of sleeping in a fair 
 lady's presence." He stops, as if a thought struck 
 him ; then he goes on, with a quicker tone of interest, 
 " By-the-by, Lady Laure, when did you say Lucie is 
 I. -i-
 
 22 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 to come ? Now he, amongst other good things, would 
 keep us awake to a certainty." 
 
 "I don't know," says Lady Laure, musingly. 
 " Lucie is full of dreams — waking ones, and he loves 
 to be alone. But I fear we shall not see him yet ; 
 he is bringing out his poem." 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; strange. I had forgotten it, though I 
 think you spoke of it yesterday. Passing strange, it 
 seems to me. Lucie turned poet and dreamer! To 
 a certain sense, he was always something of the latter. 
 But poet ! — well, no one's safe till he's dead. But how 
 about the county politics? — how does all that agree 
 with the poetry ? " 
 
 " You have heard, then ? " says she, hesitatingly. 
 " Heard nothing," he answers, " except what you 
 have told me ; but hustings speeches, which, by his 
 prescriptive rights, Lucie is born to, don't strike me 
 as in a poet's line." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighs Lady Laure ; " he will have nothing 
 to do with it. It so much disappoints his father!" 
 Then she sighs again and says quite pathetically, 
 " Lucie has such different opinions to papa ! " 
 " Broken out of harness ? " laughs Lorraine. 
 "But they are always good friends," continues 
 Lady Laure, quickly. " Lucie would be miserable if 
 it were not so ; and my father, you know, is so kind, 
 and he does not mind it quite so much now that " — 
 she stops a moment — " that Mr. Aboyne is going to 
 stand for our division of the countv."
 
 LADY LAUKE. 23 
 
 "Aboyne! Is lie still the same confounded silent 
 prig ? " asks Lorraine, bluntly. 
 
 The colour rises to her face. '' That is not a fair 
 question," she says, with a little show of spirit. '^' I 
 may not understand what you mean by ' prig ; ' but I 
 don't think he is, or ever was one." 
 
 '•Ah! a favoured " But Lorraine breaks off; 
 
 his eyes are still full on the lovely face, where now the 
 rose shade reddens to crimson. The saucy speech is 
 checked upon his tongue ; not with any confusion, how- 
 ever ; he has sang-froid sufficient for the whole brigade 
 to which he belongs. He speaks again, and still in 
 reply to Lady Laure's protest ; but it is in a different 
 voice. '• You are quite right. Lady Laure. Friendship 
 — I have a great respect for friendship " — he empha- 
 sizes the word — ** friendship forbids us to admit the 
 faults of our friends ; but ^Ir. Aboyne is no friend of 
 mine, nor was, as a boy. I have not seen him since. 
 He seemed to me the very model of a prig ; if I met 
 him now, I should be surprised if I had to change my 
 opinion."' Lorraine sets great store by his opinions, 
 even one formed at such a very early period of his life 
 he cannot bring himself so much as to pretend to 
 relinquish, though at the risk of an ungallant argu- 
 ment with his fair companion. But Lady Laure has 
 by nature the art of silence, and the matter drops. 
 
 But it has stirred up the past ; it has taken 
 Lorraine back to his boyhood and set him thinking. 
 
 "To fancy," he cries, "that I should be staying
 
 24 PEIXCE FOKTUXE AXD PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 with you here, actually under the same roof again 
 with you, after all these years! Your father, Lady 
 Laure, will be hospitable, whether at home or abroad. 
 So remarkable," he adds, with a look as if he were 
 making out a problem, "that we should never have 
 met before ! " 
 
 "But you have been out of England," suggests 
 Lady Laure. 
 
 " That's true. Of course ; yes, that may account 
 for it. You in the West, I in the East ; we have been 
 out of each other's beat decidedly. But it's a whole 
 twelve months, you know, since I came home and 
 exchanged into the Guards. Time to get tired of it, 
 I assure you." 
 
 Somehow all this time Lady Laure is feeling 
 terribly embarrassed by her father's determined hospi- 
 tality to the gallant Guardsman. 
 
 " It is astonishing," continues Lorraine, " how soon 
 one gets tired of most things ! " 
 
 To which Lady Laure replies not quite to the 
 point, but with a very apologetic accent, " We have 
 such a number of spare rooms in the villa." 
 
 " Ah ! I dare say," says Lorraine. He makes no 
 other comment, but he looks curiously at her. "Do 
 you remember me ? " he asks ; " not as I am naturally, 
 but as I was ? I remember you, as if it were only 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Yes, I think I do ; indeed, of course I do. You 
 are not much changed, are you ? " But she blushes
 
 LADY LAUKE. 2o 
 
 as she tries, with very ill success, to look him in the 
 face. 
 
 Lady Laure blushes so much to-day. Yet blushing 
 is not her wont ; her lily cheeks rarely borrow the 
 damask of the rose, nor is her sweet composure often 
 fluttered from its serene repose. 
 
 " Changed ! " returns he, with a most self-approving 
 smile. " I should think I must be mightily changed. 
 I believe, in my young days, I was a regular beau — so 
 my Eton dame used to declare ; she was the only fair 
 one who ever told me flattering tales. But, you see," 
 he moves a little before her ; " behold ! Hyperion 
 changed to a Satyr ! " 
 
 A look of pride crosses her face. She does not 
 blush now ; and yet, before the words are well spoken 
 with which she replies, the pride is gone and the 
 blush comes again. " I am not able to pay you 
 compliments." 
 
 " Come, I like that ; that's just what I like ! " 
 declares Lorraine. " You are honest — honest as Lucie 
 was. You can be nothing better than like your 
 brother." 
 
 Her face softens with pleasure. "You have not 
 forgotten Lucie ! " She looks at him now without 
 embarrassment. A bond of sympathetic union and 
 confidence is set up. "What great friends you were !" 
 she cries. 
 
 " Forgotten him ! Why should I ? And when we 
 come together again, we shall be as great friends as
 
 26 PEINCE FOETUXE AND PEDsCE FATAL. 
 
 ever. And you — you and he — you are always devoted 
 to each other still, I suppose ? Let me see. How long 
 is it ago ? Eight — ten years. Well, never mind the 
 time ; but in those days, when we all were young — 
 not grown old, as I have — in those happy days, Lucie 
 hadn't a thought but for you — and for me." The last 
 word comes slowly. He would have followed it with 
 a sigh, if sighiDg had been possible to him. " What 
 a worship it was ! " he cries, after a moment's pause. 
 " There was something sublime in it. And the visions 
 he had! but never for himself; the plans he wove 
 in his fertile brain ! " But Lorraine brings himself 
 short up ; his memories are running away with his 
 habitual protectors — his prudence and his indifference. 
 But he knows well how to cover his mistake. " What 
 a delightful tie," says he, "is that of brother and 
 sister ! the envy of a lonely fellow like myself." 
 
 '' Ah ! we love each other very dearly,'* answers 
 Lady Laure, with glistening eyes. "But Lucie is 
 too kind ; he spoils me." 
 
 " That's impossible ! " Lorraine's voice has the 
 ring for once of genuine sincerity. " Excuse me for 
 flatly contradicting you. But the sun is growing 
 really too hot. Don't you feel it so? The air is heating 
 like a furnace. I should recommend a move. Let 
 me give you a hand — and an arm, if you will accept 
 one — up this steep path. Climbing is the order of the 
 day hereabouts. A little exhausting under these baking 
 suns." He looks up at the sky, and then at the
 
 LADY LAURE. 27 
 
 fragrant arbour they have quitted. " That lemon 
 grove is not the sort of shade for heat like this ; the 
 pine wood over yonder would be much more to the 
 purpose. By-the-by, the town we passed through on 
 our way here yesterday lies, I think, in that direction. 
 We were under the trees, I think, for the greater 
 part of the road. I am afraid I must make my bow 
 to you for the present, Lady Laure, and screw up my 
 courage to the severe task of walking over there to 
 inquire after the rest of my luggage, which I directed 
 to be sent after me to the coach-office, or whatever 
 name they give to the place where the public convey- 
 ance stops." 
 
 "It is already done," says Lady Laure, simply. 
 " I gave Burton orders about it this morning." 
 
 Lady Laure was but just seventeen years old, and 
 something shy, at least with Mr. Lorraine ; but as 
 hostess she was quite at her ease, and played that part, 
 which, indeed, had been her position from her baby- 
 hood, with all the graceful foresight and charming 
 irrevenance of a matron of twice her years. 
 
 " A thousand thanks ! But I am sorry to give 
 trouble." 
 
 Lorraine speaks with politeness; but he fails to 
 look so very much obliged. A gloom, or, at least, a 
 weariness settles upon his face. He was frank when 
 he exclaimed, "How soon one gets tired of most 
 things ! " If he had repeated the remark now, 
 candour, complete candour, would have compelled him
 
 28 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 to add, even of a prolonged tete-a-Ute witli a companion 
 lovely as Lady Laure Lucie ! 
 
 In fact, the move from the citron grove was not 
 otherwise than strategic in this intention ; but Lorraine 
 at least deserved some credit for the offhand natural- 
 . ness with which he performed it.
 
 C ^^ ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FUNGUS. 
 
 The dyer's hand, the dyer's trade, 
 
 To its own hue subdueth ; 
 And Shakespeare sings the man is made 
 
 The very thing he doeth ; 
 Thus sheepish grows the shepherd lout, 
 
 Habit o'er race prevailing ; 
 And brewers oft are extra stout, 
 
 And drunkards always ailing. 
 
 When they entered the garden paths between the 
 myrtle hedges, Lorraine fell a little behind Lady 
 Laure. He pushed his hair from his forehead, stopped 
 for a moment, took a long look right and left, and 
 another look full at the sun ; and the happy result of 
 these observations was that his face, under all circum- 
 stances a pretty fair index of his mind, assumed at 
 once a less lugubrious expression. 
 
 "After all," thinks he to himself, "walking over 
 there in this heat would be a most tremendous bore," 
 And hereupon he closes quickly up to his companion, 
 with his tactics altogether altered. 
 
 " Really, Lady Laure, I owe much to your kindness
 
 30 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 in sparing me this walk to that miserable little town 
 this afternoon." 
 
 There was all the difference of day and night, 
 between this tender of thanks and the other. 
 
 Lady Laure's pretty head turns over her shoulder, 
 with a sweet, graceful smile: it is her silent way of 
 expressing the pleasure she feels. So she smiles now ; 
 yet, then, she did not frown, for she is one of those 
 natures easy to please, hard to displease. 
 
 He, in his turn, gives a half smile, though more to 
 himself than to her, and chiefly with the feeling that 
 his natural indolence has had a happy escape. Then, 
 with one of those curious involutions of the mind, 
 common to all, yet hard to account for, he begins 
 playing with the bearings of a subject, from which, but 
 just now, another association of ideas had startled him 
 away with something very like a scare. 
 
 "You would make a capital soldier's wife. Lady 
 Laure," says he, holding open the glass door of the 
 centre sitting-room to let her pass through. "You 
 are so prompt ; up and off at a word." 
 
 "It does not take much thinking," she answers, 
 laughing, " to move from the garden into the house." 
 
 " Well, no, not actually ; but it is a way with most 
 women to make little difficulties. I suppose it is 
 considered interesting; but not by me. It's one 
 reason why women in general go so against my grain ; 
 they are such actresses ! " 
 
 Lady Laure looks up with surprise written upon her
 
 A FUNGUS. 31 
 
 face. This very frank speaking ! What little ex- 
 perience she has had of the polite phrases of mankind 
 is quite at variance with this new specimen of it. 
 
 " Ah ! you look astonished. You don't know, Lady 
 Laure, that I pass for a regular Orson with your sex ; 
 they give me all sorts of hard names." 
 
 Lady Laure's face still bears the effects of his 
 previous speech. 
 
 Lorraine, to be sure, is an old friend, a very old 
 friend. " He never cares for no one " used to be 
 ]Mrs. Prudence's verdict upon him in those old days ; 
 and he is not much changed, as Lady Laure said to 
 him a while ago. She can see this ; he was not a 
 person likely to change, and she admires him for it — 
 admires him in her secret heart for this, amongst 
 various other things, in which he seems to her quite 
 difterent, quite superior to the rest of his fellow men. 
 But now, this savage side of his manners, she has not 
 yet arrived at the point of thinking this perfection 
 along with the rest. 
 
 " There's no concealing it," says he, laughing, and 
 clearly enjoying her perplexed looks, '* because, do as 
 I will, you'll be sure to find me out. I am a wretched 
 contrast to Lucie ; nothius: of the knis^ht-errant or the 
 gallant troubadour about me." The mention of his 
 friend leads him back to talk of him again; it is 
 the one subject that seems to give him undisguised 
 pleasure. " Ah, Lucie ! There never was such a capital 
 It'llow in the world as Lucie I But his turning poet
 
 32 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 is a poser to me. He was of such a practical turn of 
 mind, some things excepted, and they had nothing in 
 life to do with rhyming. You see, Lady Laure, I 
 can't see the connection, for instance, between toasted 
 cheese and the IMuses. Now, for a sausage or a Welsh 
 •rabbit, Lucie hadn't his match. Our suppers, with 
 Lucie for chef, were feasts to wonder at." 
 
 " If he were only here, to hear you sing his praises! " 
 cries Lady Laure. " How much I wish it ! " 
 
 " I'm sure I wish it too," responds Lorraine. " It 
 would make all the difference. I'd much rather have 
 his presence than his poem. When he comes. Lady 
 Laure, you shall study the poem, and I'll talk to the 
 author." As he speaks, Lorraine laughs again; his 
 good spirits are quite returned, and he seems also 
 quite unconscious that this last speech is again not the 
 most polite in the world, — to the lady, at least. Any- 
 how, his next move is an act of attention — he draws a 
 lounge-chair close to her. " Won't you sit down ? " he 
 says. " It's hot enough in here too, in all conscience. 
 In India, with proper appliances, the heat is kept in 
 order; but in these enchanting European climates, 
 the indoors is invariably stuffy." Lorraine does not 
 concern himself to remember that the move to indoors 
 was his own proposal. He has the greatest regard for 
 liis opinions, but few persons could be caught out 
 oftener, in two minds upon the same question. " I see, 
 Lady Laure, you don't object to heat ! " he adds, 
 languidly.
 
 A FUNGUS. 33 
 
 "I can bear it," she says, quietly. If she had 
 understood herself, she would have added, " xis I am 
 able to bear most other things in the world." But 
 Lady Laure's self-discoveries were to be made by 
 degrees, and assisted by circumstances and people, Mr. 
 Lorraine amongst others. "But in the afternoons 
 the breeze rises," she continues. " I think I can feel 
 it now." 
 
 Lady Laure was not mistaken, and the doors swept 
 to, as a proof of it. 
 
 " You feel a breeze ! " replies Lorraine. " It's more 
 than I can do." And he throws himself upon a couch, 
 with a sigh of suffocation. 
 
 " The fishermen here," she remarks, " have a pretty 
 plaintive little song when they want a breeze." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven they'd sing it now, if it's effica- 
 cious. It would be turning their plaintive ditties to 
 some good account ! " 
 
 " I see, you despise all sorts of poetry." 
 " Despise ! No ; that's a strong word, and I am pre- 
 pared to admire Lucie's at all risks. I always admired 
 everything he did and said ; he had me in perfect 
 leading-strings — the only person, by-the-by, who ever 
 had. And now, I haven't a doubt, when it comes to the 
 point, I shall not only knock under to his poetry, but 
 read it. Yes, Lucie and I never fell out ; we lived 
 together in all brotherly love, and I expect we shall 
 do the like when we meet now. Outside of Lucie, I 
 don't think I was very tractable — particularly the 
 
 VOL. I. -1- D
 
 34 PEIXCE FORTUXE AXD PEIXCE FATAL. 
 
 reverse possibly ; but I put it down to tliose English 
 schoolmasters, that I turned out such an infidel in 
 most things. They have a singular knack of setting 
 some fellows against rhyme and reason and all good 
 things, human and divine. They mar many a piece of 
 goods which, but for them, might have been worth 
 something. They know nothing of their raw material 
 or their proper tools, and yet against the practices of 
 their trade there's no appeal ; cut and dried creatures, 
 who treat boys like a Chinese puzzle — all's right that 
 squares, all's wrong that doesn't; creatures with no 
 margins and no indiarubber in their composition. Now, 
 I love a good margin— for one thing, it lightens your 
 reading so unmistakably." 
 
 Lady Laure laughs merrily. " I wish Lucie could 
 hear your description," says she ; " but still, he liked 
 Eton." 
 
 " Of course he did ; so did I. Liking has nothing 
 to do with it. And Lucie, no doubt, came out of it all 
 right; he was above it all, or it was all below him. 
 
 He just touched the earth with his feet ; his head- 
 
 well, I suppose it was in the heavens. There's no 
 occasion, you know, Lady Laure, to mount beyond our 
 atmosphere to be celestial." 
 
 *• Ah ! how glad Lucie will be to find you here ! " 
 cries Lady Laure. For herself, she scarcely follows 
 the drift of all this rattle ; but she is convinced that 
 Lucie will be delighted with it, and with his new-found 
 friend.
 
 A FUNGUS. .J.) 
 
 Lorraine puts his hand to his head in military 
 fashion. " Thanks, Lady Laure. This is compliment 
 number one, in spite of your protest just now." 
 
 She is not abashed now; the two are getting tu 
 understand each other apace. 
 
 " No, indeed ; it is no compliment at all," she says, 
 with a pretty, serious smile. 
 
 " You are looking forward so much to seeing him, 
 and I am sure this meeting will be quite as great a 
 pleasure to him ! " 
 
 Earnestness and serenity. Well, these two words 
 sum up pretty definitely the character of Lady 
 Laure. 
 
 " Ah ! here comes my father," she cries. " He is 
 such a walker now. At home he always rides; but 
 I persuade him only to walk here — I am fearful of 
 these hills for him; and besides, there are no good 
 horses." 
 
 In the distance Lord Bellarmine is to be seen, a 
 packet of papers in his hand. 
 
 " In spite of the sun, I see papa has been as far as 
 the town. He has got our letters," says Lady Laure. 
 
 Lorraine steps out of the open window, and meets 
 his host. 
 
 " Ah ! Lorraine," says the earl. *• Glad to see you 
 looking settled down. As to your first idea of putting 
 up at the hotel over there, you don't know the distance 
 or the road as I do. I suspect in that case we shouldn't 
 have seen much of you ! It's an absurdity to call that
 
 36 PRTNCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 place an hotel, too — a mere hostelry. You wouldn't 
 have found anything like comfort at it. We were a 
 fortnight making this place habitable. And as to the 
 cookery — we won't talk of that ; it's too doubtful a 
 subject to discuss. Well, and what have you two been 
 doing with yourselves all the morning ? The worst of 
 this place is, you can never get upon a level ; up and 
 down for ever. It is a little trial to unaccustomed legs, 
 I can tell you ; and as to the riding and driving, they 
 are a little at the risk of your neck, it must be 
 granted." 
 
 "One doesn't want much exercise here," replies 
 Lorraine. 
 
 He waives the question, and notices only the 
 remark. He gives a quick look at the earl, as if to read 
 at a glance what he thinks of this tete-a-tete with his 
 daughter ; but the father's face expresses nothing but 
 frank good humour. 
 
 Ten years have lightly touched his friendly brow ; 
 his step is as firm, his voice as full as ever. He still 
 maintains his reputation as one of the handsomest 
 men of his time. He turns to his daughter with a 
 smile of affection — that smile which, above all others, 
 brightens up a loving father's face to the daughter he 
 is proud of. 
 
 " I missed you, Laure, before I started ; and so I 
 went down to Mildew first, and made him my com- 
 panion to the town. We came back by the hills ; but 
 for his pilotage, I should have lost my way over and
 
 A FUNGUS. 37 
 
 over again. I may say Mildew missed you, in another 
 sense ; I made him a very poor substitute for you, my 
 dear." 
 
 Lorraine opens his eyes full wide ; he looks side- 
 ways at the lady, but she answers readily — 
 
 "I am sorry you either of you missed me, but it 
 has almost been too hot to-day for walking. We have 
 been sitting for an hour in the citron grove, when we 
 got tired of looking at the peasants going to the fair." 
 Then she adds, by way of a comment upon these in- 
 active proceedings, "Mr. Lorraine, papa, can't bear 
 the heat ! " 
 
 " JS^ot bear heat ! Why, bless me ! I thought you 
 had been in India, Lorraine." 
 
 " Ah ! so I have ; six years of it and more. But 
 that's quite a different thing." 
 
 " So I should think," said the earl, laughing. 
 
 "What treasure has Mr. Mildew found to-day?" 
 asks Lady Laure. 
 
 " I am not prepared with names, Laure ; but he dug 
 up one plant which was quite new, at least to me. 
 The smell of it was intolerable, and he told me the 
 ancients were supposed to have used it much in 
 warfare." 
 
 " And how was that ? " inquires Lorraine, with a 
 quizzical voice. 
 
 " Oh, it was a perfectly simple stratagem," returns 
 the earl. " You had but to fling a few handfuls into 
 the enemy's camp, to put it altogether to the rout."
 
 38 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Your friend should make it a present to the peace 
 party; they might reconcile even their tender con- 
 sciences to this bloodless weapon. Did you say this 
 gentleman's name was Mildew ? " 
 
 " Yes ; Mildew — Horace Mildew," answers the earl. 
 
 Lorraine's levity gets the better of him. "Any 
 relation to the family of the Fungi ? " he asks. 
 
 " You shall make his acquaintance, and judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 "He is the dearest old man," says Lady Laure. 
 
 "Old! Luckiest old man, at any rate," rejoins 
 Lorraine, " to have such a tribute as this from a young 
 lady's lips. But I fear age is the whole gist of it. At 
 what age, other things being equal, may we younger 
 men begin to hope for such kind words ? " 
 
 Lorraine speaks with a smile, yet he feels — quite 
 unreasonably, since he is very indifferent how he 
 stands in Lady Laure's good graces — still he feels a 
 sort of irritation against this senile hero. 
 
 "Laure and Mildew," interposes the earl, "are 
 great allies, and age is by no means my friend's only 
 merit in her eyes, though, as you shrewdly remark, 
 Lorraine, it's a help to us, with young ladies — a help, 
 at least up to a certain point, to be on the wrong side 
 of fifty. As to Mildew, however, he is a man of many 
 attractions — mental attractions, I should say. He was 
 a handsome fellow once ; but his day for that is gone 
 by. What I was going to explain is, that he is a man 
 with a singularly accomplished mind, and, amongst
 
 A FUNGUS. 39 
 
 other things, a most charming walking companion. 
 He knows every plant and tree, crag and stone, rock 
 and cave, of the^e shores and hills ; so you see, Lorraine, 
 if you would rival him, you must begin by acquiring 
 his special recommendations. However, he began this 
 search into nature, as I have heard him say, among 
 his native mountains, in Northumberland, when he was 
 a mere boy." 
 
 "I am altogether cut out," is the young man's 
 reply. " What can a man do after twenty-five, if he 
 has begun to do nothing before it ? " 
 
 " Do you call twenty-five too old to begin any new 
 thing ? " asks Lady Laure. 
 
 Lorraine answers with a laugh. " I am afraid 
 Lady Laure, my case is desperate ; I am clearly proved 
 at once too old and too young." He checks himself, 
 and turning to face Lord Bellarmine, he asks, " Who, 
 then, is this Mr. Mildew? Is he one of that august 
 body of wise men who have lately taken to digging 
 their learning out of the earth, — dry bones and 
 stones? It is a musty mania. And, pardon me, the 
 name sounds musty, too. So often trades and names 
 agree ; they attract or suggest each other. Builders 
 are Cubitts, engravers Strong-i'-the-arm. A friend of 
 mine had a whole dictionary of these odd identities ; 
 he went about collecting them, just after the way of 
 your friend here, unearthing them in every hole an<l 
 corner." 
 
 " Well, that amused your friend's fancy, no doubt,"
 
 40 PEINCE FOKTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 replies the earl. "But I claim for my friend's re- 
 searches more valuable results. You want to know, 
 then," he continues, " who Mr. Mildew is ? In the 
 tirst place, we were at college together; he was my 
 most intimate friend there — friend, in the fullest sense 
 of the word ; and I never regretted anything more 
 than losing sight of him absolutely, after a course of 
 Inmily misfortunes, poor fellow, as I came to learn 
 hiter, — just as one does lose sight, you know, Lorraine, 
 of one's early friends." 
 
 " Ah ! " rejoins Lorraine, quickly ; "just as I have 
 lost sight of Lucie." 
 
 " Happily for Lucie, he will have the pleasure, 
 Lorraine, of renewing his friendship with you, after 
 the break of but one decade. I should be afraid to 
 reckon up how many decades there are between the 
 day I parted from jMildew at Oxford and the one in 
 which, by a mere chance, I discovered him here, a few 
 weeks ago. Thanks to Laure, I may say, for she it 
 was who brought my old friend to me, with all a 
 woman's instinct for what is good and valuable." 
 
 Lorraine lifts his eyebrows with the slightest 
 possible shade of inarticulate comment. 
 
 "I found him changed enough," the earl con- 
 tinues ; " but not changed in his intrinsic worth. 
 When you meet Mr. Mildew, Lorraine, you will 
 see an excellent and gifted man, devoted to science 
 and to his fellow-creatures — things which do not
 
 A FUNGUS. 41 
 
 usually go together. Here he is idolized by the 
 people. He has lived amongst them I should be 
 afraid to say how long^ — a quarter of a century and 
 more ; he gives them much good advice and care, 
 and I suspect supplements these with money he 
 can ill spare. His charitable work may not be all 
 in vain ; though, about here, they strike me as a 
 deplorable lot altogether. One positive benefit they 
 have gained from my friend at least, is the exercise 
 of his medical skill ; how acquired, I do not know — 
 probably it is instinctive, as it is with some. It is a 
 fact that twice a week his house is regularly besieged 
 like a country doctor's surgery. In short, after a 
 splendid start, and a crushing series of subsequent 
 misfortunes, he has known how to make of his life a 
 useful and a happy one. He is one of the very few 
 instances I have known, where the position of a small 
 independence, without a profession, has not proved a 
 disadvantage." 
 
 " Ah ! quite true," says Lorraine, musingly. " It's 
 not a bad thing to have to work for your bread. It 
 makes all the difference to useless fellows like me. 
 I'm sick of the army, and fit for nothing else. Yet, I 
 think I shall throw it up and encounter the dis- 
 advantages of doing nothing." 
 
 " Come to me," says the earl, " when we get back 
 to England. If this Ministry stays in, I think I can 
 find you a post and work."
 
 42 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Lorraine answers, with one of his half-smiles, " The 
 worst of it is, I am not willing to work." 
 
 " Time to talk it over, Lorraine," rejoins the earl, 
 good humouredl y ; " and now, I am ready for dinner ; 
 I don't know what you are; and our hours here are 
 early."
 
 ( 43 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TO-DAY AXD TO-MORROW. 
 
 Ah ! God knows, 
 It rains and blows, 
 The heavens are dark to-day. 
 Heed it not ; 
 'Tis soon forgot. 
 When suns are bright. 
 And skies are light, 
 To-morrow sings roundelay. 
 
 Ah ! God knows, 
 Man swears and vows, 
 With a storm of sighs to-day. 
 Heed it not ; 
 'Tis soon forgot. 
 When smiles are bright. 
 And hearts are light, 
 Tomorrow sings roundelay. 
 
 ViLOTA DI VeXEZIA. 
 
 The calendar set forth that the year was near to its 
 close, and midwinter at hand ; yet a traveller, who had 
 lost his reckoning, arriving just now at this southern 
 bay, might well have taken the season to be mid- 
 summer. The ground was cracked and crumbling, the 
 leaves were dusty and withering, the watercourses 
 were still rivers without water. The nights were warm, 
 the evenings clear, and each morning the white mists
 
 44 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 rolled away, like a veil from the face of beauty, leaving 
 the earth all aglow beneath a cloudless sun. 
 
 But one day, not so very long after Lady Laure 
 and her companion had taken that improvised siesta 
 in the citron grove, the inevitable change came, not 
 with the gradual advance of day to day, but with that 
 suddenness which belongs to all things Southern, 
 whether men, women, or skies. 
 
 It came, with the reversal of all fine weather prog- 
 nostics. In the half-light before the dawn, coast-line 
 and mountain-peak stood out sharp and clear ; but as 
 the sun came up, there came also a cloud following 
 close upon its path. It darkened the golden line 
 along the weaves, it swept into the shore, it crept up 
 the hill-sides, it gathered to it all the vapours of the 
 earth, it grew blacker and bigger, till it hid the 
 mountains, shut out the headlands, and hung over 
 the visible world like a leaden shroud. 
 
 The land was wrapped in gloom. The sea alone 
 lay gleaming, like a fantastic mirror of many colours, 
 becalmed but threatening ; for as yet the wind was 
 only felt in the gusts that went moaning and shivering 
 through the woods and groves. 
 
 Abroad betimes in this murky morning, a hale 
 man, of middle age, staff in hand, stands amid the 
 broken masses of the bold heights that dominate the 
 villa, upon the green promontory. It is a lofty vantage- 
 ground, but a very narrow look-out post to-day, when 
 the lower earth is wrapt in clouds, and even the village,
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 45 
 
 which is set sky-high, just below his feet, is densely- 
 hidden from his eyes. 
 
 Up here it is rough walking, and, what with clouds 
 and crags, there is not much to guide the steps. But 
 our pedestrian is sure of his way ; he takes the zigzag 
 line warily between the jagged peaks that rise about 
 him, high above his head, and, descending always, he 
 goes forward, till, by a sudden turn of the flank of a 
 huge boulder, he conies at once upon the village street, 
 which abruptly ends at the base of it. 
 
 This is not just such a roadway as a carriage and 
 pair could take conveniently. It is rather an irregular 
 line of slabs, after the fashion of a staircase, partly 
 hewn, partly built up, twisting as it can, between the 
 houses, where the roof of one is often on a level with 
 the basement of another. Now it is a short bore 
 through the ruck itself; now the rude masonry of 
 some partition wall is brokeu through to give it 
 passage ; and again it is partially blocked and bridged 
 over by the sheds which serve as stabling to a few 
 mules — the only beasts of burden equal to these 
 high ways — two or three pine logs, with a big stone 
 to keep them steady, jammed in from eaves to eaves, 
 give at once a ready roofing. The houses are not high, 
 but their upper floors project so far that the twelve 
 feet or so of street below is only half lit even at mid- 
 day. The smaller passage-ways wind in and out in 
 absolute darkness, till they come at a turn suddenly 
 into the full light — and, perhaps, to the edge of a
 
 46 PEIXCE FORTUXE AND PRIXCE FATAL. 
 
 precipice. The whole clustering, clinging mass of 
 human dwellings resembles nothing so much as a 
 monster oyster-bed, where moving and breathing space 
 is the last thing to be considered. 
 
 Lower down indeed by many yards, where the* 
 church stands, with its piazzas and ramparts, and 
 other surroundings, appearances are more inviting ; 
 but up here it is no surprise to find the houses empty 
 by day, and at night — such nights as the South alone 
 can boast — to see their owners sometimes taking a 
 lodging by preference at the Moon's inn. 
 
 This morning, however, no one is abroad. The 
 people are stirring, but they have got no further than 
 their doorways. In these they are huddled together, 
 some on the ground, some up behind, head above 
 head ; there is little to see but a crowd of upraised 
 laces peering dismally at the narrow slit of sky above. 
 
 Planting his staft" well in advance before each step, 
 the pedestrian comes firmly and quickly down the 
 steep little street. But he is soon stopped by th<- 
 people, who come confidingly about him, pouring into 
 his ears their lamentations. 
 
 " Ah ! good master. See ! it comes ! " 
 
 " Ah ! God ! what a time it will be for us ! " 
 
 The answer is given in their own rustic dialect, and 
 with a full and friendly voice. " Yes, friends, the kind 
 heavens promise us rain at last ! " 
 
 A peasant youth throws up his arms with an action 
 of despair.
 
 TO-DAY AXD TOOIOEBOW. 47 
 
 " But, 3Iatto, you would not have the olives perish ? 
 My children, you should be thankful, and Ml of joy. 
 I tell you this every year ; and every year when the 
 rain has fallen, and you see all things green and grow- 
 insr, then you do rejoice. Why not take it cheerfully 
 beforehand ? " 
 
 '• It is hard upon us, Padron men," says a young 
 woman. " We must work all the same, we poor women, 
 work and wash, rain or shine." 
 
 "She says the truth," whines a crouching old 
 creature, so grizzly and withered that she might have- 
 been the great-grandmother of the whole community.. 
 *•' It is a hard world for us when the sun shines, and 
 when the rain falls it is hell itseK." 
 
 She rocks in her arms a wizen little infant, and the 
 wind and the babe wail in unison tosrether. The men 
 are more silent ; they shiver and shake, and mutter an 
 interjection, as an expression of their feelings. 
 
 " Come, come ! " cries their friend. " Why shiver 
 so ? You are none of you a-cokl, and you must know, 
 as well as I do, that the fruits are dropping off for 
 want of this precious rain ; the earth is dried up, and 
 cracking under our feet. But now, if it comes " — he 
 looks up — "and, thanks to God, there is little doubt 
 of it — then by to-morrow this dry earth will be changing 
 into a gay paradise, Kosetta ! " 
 
 " Paradise ! " echoes the old crone, whose misnomer 
 was Rosetta. '* And what then, 3Ionsu ? Shall we not 
 have to crawl for weeks on the wet earth after the olives.
 
 -r' .y4"|i!,iJ^«a.!R 
 
 48 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 twisting up our poor bones ? " See here ! " and she 
 stretches out her arm, showing its distorted joints. 
 " No, no," she croaks ; " we are none the better for the 
 rain, none the richer, no good to us ; no more paj^, 
 gather in the wet, or gather in the dry ! " 
 
 '*' That is a bad thought, Eosetta," is her counsellor's 
 grave reply. 
 
 A ragged old man, in indescribable patches, stands 
 leaning his chin upon a long club stick, and looking 
 gloomily upwards. He has not the air of the rest of 
 the people ; there is something still more Southern in 
 his eye, something cosmopolitan in his bearing. He has 
 the stamp of the travelling mendicant, but he looks as 
 if he thought it a favour to take your alms. He has a 
 fine face, in spite of its stains and lines, and his words 
 come forth with the refinement of a tongue which has 
 nothing to do with the peasant's patois. 
 
 "To-day," says he, "the signer will not have to 
 tramp it, as I must do, soaked to the skin ; he will not 
 liave to go knee-deep through the river-beds ; he will 
 not break his neck or his legs on the wet rocks. It 
 matters little to me," he adds, with an inimitable sneer, 
 " as the Eccellenza knows, what the paradise is ; but 
 they do tell us vines and olives grow there without 
 rain ! " 
 
 "I don't know about that," says the pedestrian, 
 laughing ; " but I do know that I am likely to get a 
 soaking as well as you, Signor Tommaseo. How long 
 have you been back amongst us ? Did you deliver that
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 49 
 
 letter which my good Caterina gave into your hands 
 for her mother ? " 
 
 Signor Tommaseo answers only by a sulky drop of 
 the head. 
 
 " That's well, good friend. You have, no doubt, news 
 for Caterina. Do not forget, if you are passing, to call 
 in at the Villa Bianca." 
 
 " Little fear of that ! " says one man to another in 
 the background. 
 
 But at this moment, with a great swirl in the air, 
 the rain-drops begin to fall fiercely through the narrow 
 slit over their heads; the wind suddenly rouses to a 
 tornado; the houses creak and rattle, and down the 
 narrow ways the blast drives as through so many 
 funnels, and with a violence, that threatens to take the 
 people off their feet. 
 
 The good Padron, as the peasants call him, does not 
 stop for shelter. He waves his hand to his rustic friends ; 
 speaking, to be heard, is out of the question — but, in 
 fact, there is no one left to speak to, he has the street 
 to himself. At the first trumpet note of the storm the 
 peasants fall back, as if for dear life, into their dark 
 (lens. There, with their rueful grimaces, they will 
 shiver and lament, till their brief trial is over; — to 
 make things within doors a little better does not enter 
 into their ideas. Soon the sun must shine again, and 
 with this bounteous sunshine comes all the good and 
 ease life has to give them. 
 
 Later in this same day, looking a little as if he 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 had just escaped from drowning, the friendly monitor 
 of these shiverinj^ peasants walks into the hall of Lord 
 Bellarmine's villa. 
 
 In the doorway stands Lorraine, smoking a cigarette. 
 The introduction must have taken place, for he greets 
 the new-comer with, "Good morning, Mr. Mildew. 
 Fine day!" 
 
 " Very fine, in a certain sense," is the answer. 
 " The natives are not of our opinion," says Lorraine, 
 laughing. " They don't seem to see it at all. What 
 poor devils they are ! I've been watching that fellow 
 there, chopping the wood for a fire we are going to 
 set up, chopper in one hand, umbrella in the other." 
 
 " You will see most of our out-of-door operations so 
 arranged whilst the rain lasts." 
 
 " Well, I shall be off if it goes on. I can't stand 
 the wet in a place like this ! " and Lorraine throws 
 away his cigar end and yawns. 
 
 Mr. Mildew looks quickly at him with a cheerful 
 air. " Ah ! indeed. Well, you certainly could not do 
 better. But our rustic friend there can't cut his 
 Gordian knot in your pleasant fashion, so he betakes 
 himself to his umbrella." 
 
 "Old bear!" is Lorraine's mental ejaculation. 
 " How he encourages me to depart ! I'll stay, if it's 
 only to disappoint him." 
 
 By this time it was, indeed, a deluge. Through the 
 air, and upon the earth, the rain in floods poured, 
 hissed, and eddied; down every guUey and path it
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 51 
 
 frothed and foamed and forced itself, tearing up the 
 ground like a river-bed. But not a drop is stationary ; 
 every little stream rims into a bigger one, and big and 
 little hurry down to the sea. 
 
 "If this goes on," says Lorraine, "we shall have 
 that village up there tumbling about our ears, unless 
 we are clean washed off first into the water. I don't 
 suppose there are many swimmers amongst us. By- 
 the-by," turning to Mr. Mildew, "are you wet? Will 
 you have anything dry? You seem pretty well 
 drenched." 
 
 "I'll just give my overcoat and hat to Sabine, 
 thank you. The inner man is pretty dry." 
 
 Mr. Mildew retires with the waiting-maid into a back 
 lobby. He is evidently an lictbitue of the villa, for 
 when he reappears he is dry-shod, and with altogether 
 a more presentable appearance. As he enters the 
 parlour Lady Laure gets up, and comes forward to 
 him, with kindly effusion — 
 
 " How good of you to come to us in all this rain ! 
 
 But now, you are not to go away any more to-day ; 
 
 you are to stay and dine, and we have bedrooms irt 
 
 plenty, as you know. Indeed, I wish the dinner were 
 
 as sure as the bedrooms." Lady Laure speaks the last 
 
 sentence disjointedly. " Keally," she says quickly, as 
 
 if resolved to out with her difficulty — " really, I don't 
 
 know if we are to have any dinner to-day ! My maid 
 
 tells me that Sabine says, she for her part, would 
 
 rather go without her dinner than go out and order it 
 
 I. -j- 
 
 UBRAR^ 
 
 ^JS:vERsn.onamo.s
 
 52 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 in the rain, and none of the people have come up here 
 from the town to-day." 
 
 Lorraine laughs. 
 
 " I really am serious, ^Ir. Lorraine. I am sure you 
 wouldn't like not to have any dinner." 
 
 " It is positively serious, Lady Laure ; I don't deny 
 it. And you judge me rightly. The man who despises 
 his dinner is not fit to live." 
 
 " Well, I am sure I don't know how you will get 
 one to-day." Lady Laure walks to the window and 
 leans her head pensively against it. The driving rain 
 eflfectually prevents her seeing half a dozen inches 
 beyond it. 
 
 " I have it ! " cries Lorraine, and he starts gaily 
 towards the door. " ITl take a basket, and go down to 
 the town. It's a capital idea ; it will fill up the morn- 
 ing. And you'll see, I'll cater like a very maitre 
 d'hdteir 
 
 " I advise you to borrow the woodcutter's umbrella," 
 says Mr. Mildew, drily. 
 
 " It's large enough to shelter a colony. I wonder 
 what he'll take for the hire of it. But now, where's the 
 basket ? " and Lorraine looks round the room. " This 
 is too small ; we should starve with this," and he 
 points to Lady Laure's dainty workcase. 
 
 Lady Laure laughs. " But you are not serious ? " 
 
 " Did not Lady Laure say she was serious ? AVe 
 are all serious," says he, with an air of mock gravity. 
 *^ For myself, I never was so serious in my life. Think
 
 TO-DAY AXD TO-MORROW. 53 
 
 what is at stake ' Conceive what our feelings will be, 
 let alone our tempers, when about four o'clock we shall 
 be staring into each other's faces, dinnerless ! " 
 
 The earl was in the room, but sitting with his back 
 to the party, before a table in the furthest comer of it, 
 wading through a pile of business papers. 
 
 Lorraine walks briskly up to the table. " Can you 
 tell me, my lord, where there's a basket to be found ? " 
 
 " A basket, Lorraine ! I really don't know ; I 
 never had a basket. You must ask Laure." Turning 
 round to Lady Laure. " Laure, have you a basket ? " 
 
 Lady Laure, laughing still, shakes her head. 
 
 " I should think it possible that the servants may 
 have one, my love. No doubt; indeed, when one 
 comes to consider it, they must have a basket. Eing 
 and ask for one, Lorraine." 
 
 " I'll go and see, myself." And, waving an adieu 
 to Lady Laure, Lorraine disappears. 
 
 " Laure," says the earl, " what does Lorraine want 
 with a basket ? " 
 
 Lady Laure's lips and eyes are still full of the 
 merriment of the joke, and even 3Ir. 3Iildew's risible 
 muscles are involuntarily affected. 
 
 " I believe, papa, he wants to go and buy us some 
 dinner. I really think we should stop him. See how 
 it rains ! " 
 
 " Buy us dinner ! " and the earl stops amazed. 
 " Why should Lorraine buy the dinner, my dear 
 child ? "
 
 54 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Oh, I mean fetch it, bring it." 
 
 " Fetch it — fetch the dinner ! Are we all gone a 
 little out of our minds, this rainy day ? " 
 
 " That is the very thing," cries Lady Laure. " But 
 I forgot. Of course, you have not heard what we have 
 been saying. It is the rain, all through the rain, 
 papa. You see, it is so wet ; the tradespeople have not 
 come up from the town to-day, and are not likely to 
 come, the servants say ; and I am sure Burton would 
 be cross all the time we are here, if he were sent out, 
 even in a little shower; and Jenkins, though she is 
 not exactly disobliging, says she has a most dreadful 
 cold ; and as for Sabine and Maddelena, they say they 
 would rather do anything than go out in this storm ; 
 and as for Giause, he is busy cutting wood under an 
 umbrella, and besides, he can only speak jyatois^ and 
 can't understand us." Lady Laure finished by looking 
 extremely concerned. " It is really, after all, no joke, 
 papa," says she. 
 
 The earl is laughing too heartily to reply at once. 
 " But, my dear Laure, what do you call a joke, then ? 
 Upon my word, I congratulate you upon your effec- 
 tive staff. But don't look so pitiably anxious, my 
 darling. If we do fast to-day, our penance will not 
 be through any fault of yours." But still the earl's 
 laugh goes on. 
 
 " Ah ! papa," says Lady Laure, " you laugh now ; 
 but what shall we do at dinner-time ? Sabine says we 
 had the last cutlets at breakfast." Lady Laure sighs.
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORKOW. 55 
 
 " Of course," she adds, half to herself, " Mr. Lorraine's 
 going means nothing." 
 
 " He is gone, at any rate ; by this time he is well 
 on his way. But you mustn't expect to see him back 
 just directly; it's heavy walking against wind and 
 rain." This comes from Mr. Mildew. 
 
 " Gone, actually ! " exclaims Lady Laure. 
 
 " Gone," replies Mr. Mildew, " with the basket, and 
 without the umbrella. I saw him myself cross the 
 garden." 
 
 "And just see how it rains!" cries Lady Laure, 
 with every sign of increased concern. 
 
 "It won't do him any harm. Lady Laure," is the 
 unmerciful rejoinder. " Getting a good wetting and a 
 good walk is better for him, than lounging about all 
 day in the house against his will. He was chafing at 
 his imprisonment when I came in just now, with all an 
 Englishman's impatience." 
 
 " Ah ! but he is not an Englishman, he is an Irish- 
 man," says Lady Laure, her eyes fixed anxiously upon 
 the shower-bath outside. 
 
 Lady Laure's clenching argument brings a rallying 
 retort from Mr. Mildew. 
 
 "Well, my dear young lady, Irish skins are, at 
 least, as thick as English ones." 
 
 " His mother, 1 fancy, was Spanish," says the earl. 
 
 "Ah!" returns Mr. Mildew, "that is explanatory." 
 He stops to think. " A mixed descent." He goes on. 
 " For myself, I am in favour of pure races, as far as one
 
 56 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 can get them — a prejudice, I see, not shared by you," 
 and lie looks straight at Lady Laure. 
 
 There was nothing so very personal to her in his 
 speech, but she colours up significantly. 
 
 " I can assure you. Mildew," says the earl, who has 
 not been able to settle back to his papers, "that 
 Lorraine is a capital young fellow. Indeed, you must 
 be aware I shouldn't have asked him to join us if he 
 wasn't ; nor is he a stranger to us at all. You see, he 
 was Lucie's old Eton chum, and was often with him in 
 vacation at Bellarmine. I shall be delighted to see 
 the two together again. There's something so reasonable 
 about Lorraine. Now, you'd never find him fishing in 
 troubled waters; he has too much ballast here," and 
 the earl taps his forehead. Then he adds, casually, 
 "He is a nephew of that eccentric man, Sir Loftus 
 Lorraine, of Loughmore — his heir, indeed. It is one 
 of the finest estates in Ireland, and perfectly unen- 
 cumbered. I have heard it is quite a principality." 
 
 " Ah ! indeed," says Mr. Mildew ; and he fixes his 
 eyes upon a distant point of sight, and falls into a 
 profound silence. 
 
 The outcome of this wet day was a sensible advance 
 towards intimacy in Lorraine's relations with the earl 
 and his daughter. Trifling as were its incidents, they 
 effectually broke up what ice there was left to break. 
 He had returned from his foraging raid in much 
 triumph, with a troop of ragamuffins, whom he had 
 impressed into his service, bearing his spoils. Upon
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORKOW. 57 
 
 these spoils tliey had dined "superbly," as the earl 
 remarked ; "and quite in spite of the weather," says he. 
 
 "And so well chosen," says Lady Laure. "And 
 this mutton ; how could you find mutton ? We are 
 so tired of that never-ending veal." 
 
 "A maitre dliotel spoilt," cries the earl. "We'll 
 •drink his health all round in a bumper of this Asti." 
 
 The friendly hilarity of the dinner could not be 
 surpassed. Mr. Mildew alone ate his food in silence ; 
 but, except in a tete-a-tete, he inclined that way. Even 
 the skies shared the smiling good humour of the rest 
 of the i^arty. And by the close of the afternoon, the 
 clouds had cleared away, and the sun burst out with 
 his farewell rays aslant the western mountains. 
 
 " Bless me ! " exclaims the earl ; " there's the sun 
 again. After his eclipse to-day, we know how to value 
 him." He gets up and throws open the windows, and 
 walks out. " Come out, all of you," he cries ; " this is 
 splendid." 
 
 Lady Laure prepares to obey the call, but Lorraine 
 recommends a shawl. And with an empressement of 
 politeness not quite usual with him, he hastens away 
 to discover one at the hands of Mrs. Jenkins. 
 
 " You will come too ? " says Lady Laure, addressing 
 Mr. Mildew, who stands risen, but not stirring from his 
 place, looking on with a sternness gathering about his 
 mouth, whilst Lorraine, with a mock awkwardness, is 
 prolonging the operation of wrapping the shawl he has 
 brought round Lady Laure's graceful shoulders.
 
 58 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Mr. Mildew gives a quiet sign in the negative. 
 
 But Lady Laure will not have this silent man left 
 out of their doings. With her sweet voice she begs 
 so kindly. " Do come," says she ; " it is so refreshing 
 after dinner." 
 
 So he yields and comes up, meeting her soft blue 
 eyes with the sternness changed to a regretful smile. 
 
 " You know it so well," says Lorraine, accounting 
 in his way for the reluctance. 
 
 " I know it so well," echoes Mr. Mildew, absently. 
 
 It was, in truth, a glorious and reviving sight. 
 The earth bright, and glistening with every shade 
 from purple to green ; the mountain line, all cloudless 
 now, chiselled against the reflected glow ; the sea in 
 the creek deep dyed in crimson, the blood of many 
 slain might have been mingled with its waters. 
 Beyond the red pool a line of indigo dark as the 
 grave ; and again, where the shadows ceased, opal and 
 yellow lighting up the shining sea till it faded into 
 the violet horizon. 
 
 "Get something for your head, Laure," says the 
 earl, turning to his daughter. "Take a short walk, 
 my love; you look a little tired, I think, with this 
 day's close confinement, or it may be it is this glare 
 which affects my eyes; but, anyhow, a walk can do 
 you no harm. Lorraine will escort you, whilst Mildew 
 and I have a bout of chess."
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MOKROW. 59 
 
 " It is very good of Lord Bellarmine to trust you 
 to my care, Lady Laure," says the young man, a 
 furtive smile playing about his lips. 
 
 Lady Laure walks beside him, looking at the lovely 
 sky. "I often go out here quite alone," says she, 
 "though in Italy, you know, one cannot do it. My 
 father knows that I can take care of myself." 
 
 " Hum ! There now, with a word you have taken 
 down all my pride." 
 
 " What pride ? " asks she. 
 
 "The pride," answers he, "that every man must 
 feel who is permitted the honour of a tete-d-tete walk 
 with Lady Laure Lucie." 
 
 "We have made Mr. Mildew exceedingly proud, 
 then," and Lady Laure laughs gaily; "for he has 
 walked with me every day till lately." Now Lady 
 Laure falls into a slight confusion, whilst she adds, 
 "Now, of course, that you are here, my father is so 
 glad to have him for his game of chess." 
 
 " Worse and worse," cries Lorraine. " Why, I am 
 clearly nothing better than a makeshift ! Lady Laure, 
 who taught you to mix such bitter with the sweet ? " 
 
 Lady Laure glances up at his semi-serious face. 
 Hers wears its frequent puzzled look. 
 
 " I wonder," says Lorraine, at last, after a deliberate 
 pause, "if you could enlighten me a little further. 
 I believe we are all of the fungus species — we men, at 
 least; but can you tell me the exact odds between a 
 young mushroom and an elderly toadstool ? "
 
 60 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 "What can you mean?" says she. "I do not 
 understand." 
 
 " Don't you ? Ah ! quite right ! Nor do I exactly. 
 But what opinion I have makes me think, that there 
 must be all the difference in the world ; " — a farourite 
 formula with Lorraine when he wishes to express things 
 limitless. 
 
 " How wonderfully everything has dried up ! " says 
 Lady Laure, as they came back by the mountain- 
 path. " But for the freshness, you would hardly know 
 that the rain had fallen." 
 
 " So it is with time. Lady Laure, leaving out the 
 freshness. See Lucie and the poets on the subject. 
 What we feel to-day we forget to-morrow." 
 
 " But do we forget ? " says she. 
 
 " I suppose we do. I do," he adds, coolly. 
 
 " I do not, I am sure," she answers, quickly. 
 
 "Well," says he, "it depends a little upon what 
 we have got to forget, or rather to remember. Besides," 
 he continues, looking at her, " you and I are essentially 
 different. By rights, therefore, we should agree; 
 that's the rule, you know. Lady Laure." 
 
 Lady Laure laughs and says, " Is it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; did you never hear it ? " 
 
 "You and Lucie, then, who are so very different, 
 will be certain to agree ? "
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 61 
 
 " Quite certain to agree ; but not because of this 
 rule or that, but because there are affections which, 
 once formed, nothing can disturb, nothing can change." 
 
 " Then we think alike, after all," rejoins Lady 
 Laure ; " for that is exactly what I feel to be true." 
 
 " Forgive me ! " But there Lorraine stops. He turns 
 half round to his companion, his hand out ; — he keeps 
 her back for a moment. " Let me, Lady Laure, add 
 this amendment, which I believe to be also unalterably 
 true — there are affections, which on the contrary, can 
 do nothing but change." 
 
 " Not real affections," she cries. 
 
 "Well — passions, then." Lorraine speaks with 
 something of an interjection. Then he drops his hand 
 and walks on, and lowers his voice to another tone. 
 ** But," says he, " from your own standpoint. Lady 
 Laure, your argument is quite sound. Of the passions, 
 let me think, you know nothing. Believe me, such 
 ignorance is bliss." 
 
 Half his time, whatever he said, Lorraine might be 
 taken to be more in jest than in earnest. Now, to 
 look at him and listen to him, you would have said 
 he was more in earnest than in jest. He was, indeed, 
 far too earnest to be like himself. It might have 
 been the Asti ; these foaming wines move the spirits 
 capriciously, and make the gay sad, and the grave 
 gay. There is besides the proverb, " In vino Veritas." 
 
 Lady Laure had no reply to give. She knew not 
 why ; but this fine analysis of passion and affection
 
 62 PEINCE rOPiTUXE AXD PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 touched lier almost to tears. And Lorraine, when he 
 chose to use it, had a fine, full pathos in his voice, 
 which came, indeed, from the simple advantage of a 
 broad chest and sound lungs, but which struck on the 
 ear with a cadence, as if springing from a deeper 
 source. 
 
 " You are tired. Lady Laure," says he, for her hand 
 trembles, as he takes it to help her to mount the 
 broken flight of steps below the garden. 
 
 " Perhaps I am," she answers. 
 
 Like many other things, this walk began more 
 gaily than it ended. It might have been Lorraine's 
 fault, with his jest and earnest, or it might have been 
 inevitable — due, alas! to that disheartening dualism,, 
 to that bitter-sweet, that surgit amari aliquid, which 
 is the inseparable concomitant of every mortal delight.
 
 ( 63 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 
 
 In my right hand let me take heart and soul, 
 
 And let me bare them to the light of day, 
 
 And let me to my Judge, in calmness, say, 
 
 " Behold me as I am ! — a lump of clay ; 
 
 Thrust here and there, as Chance and Fate control." 
 
 But fuU of shame and hate let me be not : 
 Shame for myself — hate for the things that be. 
 For what I am and must be, what my lot 
 Full well of all this doom my Judge doth wot. 
 So leave I in His hands my destiny. 
 
 Claude Loeraine at twenty-five was practically what 
 the earl described when he spoke of a " poor man with 
 a small competence and nothing to do;" for he held 
 on to his profession now, too loosely for it to be counted 
 for anything, but a possible alternative to absolute 
 idleness. But to this small competence there was 
 the important addition of great expectations — a very 
 substantial encouragement to the idleness. 
 
 These expectations came to him by the way of a 
 <}oilateral inheritance through his father, younger and 
 half-brother to Sir Loftus Lorraine, the present pos- 
 sessor of Castle Loughmore — that "principality" of
 
 64 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 which Lord Bellarmine spoke in terms of so much 
 consideration to jMr. Mildew. 
 
 Sir Claude, the father of these two brothers, had 
 lived the jovial life of the period to which he belonged ; 
 he had lived likewise to a good old age, his joviality 
 not shortening his days ; so that when Sir Loftus, the 
 son by his first marriage, came in for the family 
 honours, he was already well advanced in life. Un- 
 married, silent, and secluded ; hating men, and hating 
 women more ; his eccentric habits and unsociable way 
 of life had long set the imaginative but untaught 
 world about Castle Loughmore upon inventing a 
 variety of marvellous histories to account for pecu- 
 liarities decidedly not hereditary. 
 
 The agency of nameless powers was freely hinted 
 at, the favourite theory being that the heir of Lough- 
 more was nothing but a changeling brought by the 
 malicious Fir Doicha in dead of night, whilst mothei- 
 and nurse were wrapt in their slumbers. 
 
 But in less rustic quarters a more intelligible tale 
 was accepted. It was said that while still a youth. Sir 
 Loftus had been crossed in love, had shot his rival in 
 not too fair a fight, and all to no purpose, since the 
 woman they both loved went mad and died with the 
 shock of the tragic event. Whatever may have been 
 the particulars of the affair, it was of certain knowledge 
 that the fierce passions he was born with suddenly 
 subsided into a gloomy misanthropy ; and that from 
 youth to middle age he led a morose and unprofitable
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 65 
 
 life, associating with no one, avoiding the convivial 
 company which gathered round his father, and spend- 
 ing his days, sitting alone with vacant hands and eyes, 
 or hunting, without gun or rod, the covers and shores 
 of their wild glens and lakes. But his aversion to his 
 fellow-creatures went no further than avoidance ; with 
 so much of the raven in his habits, the dove, as far as 
 his harmlessness went, might have stood for the typ3 
 of his doings. 
 
 Yet with the people he would have been less an 
 object of dread if he had kept to the role of violence 
 with which he began. As they took it, there was no 
 mystery and much excuse in that sort of thing ; but 
 for a melancholy, lonely creature like this, wandering 
 about without a word for any one, and with a power 
 of money at his back, if he wasn't the spawn of the 
 Fir Doicha, he must have come in for somebody's 
 curse, and that was to the full as bad for his fellow- 
 creatures, as for himself. 
 
 Now, curses, and even evil wishes — which are to 
 be classed in the category of curses — were of a 
 singular and capricious nature in this part of the 
 country ; they might hang over you for years before 
 they struck home, they might be intercepted by the 
 wrong man, they might involuntarily be passed on 
 from one to another. With these articles of faith in 
 the matter of curses, and with the general sentiments 
 in this particular case, it followed quite reasonably 
 that there was not a peasant in the district at critical 
 VOL. I. -I- F
 
 66 PEIXCE FOETUXE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 times and seasons, such as Midsummer's Eve, or when 
 the moon was in her horns, or when a birth was ex- 
 pected, or a bargain to be struck, who would not go 
 any distance round, rather than run the risk of en- 
 countering the dark brow and downcast face of Loftus 
 Lorraine. 
 
 Thus shunned and shunning, a more solitary- 
 existence at large is scarcely to be conceived. But Sir 
 Loftus had a speciality in this way, and when the old 
 squire came to die, he contrived to make his isolation 
 still more complete and systematic. Gates were nailed 
 up, foot-paths closed, doors and windows barred and 
 bolted, and three parts of the great house permanently 
 shut up. 
 
 The women were sent off in a flock ; Sir Loftus 
 would have in his service male servants only, and of 
 these the smallest allowable staff must answer for all 
 purposes. With his father expired the single sym- 
 pathy that seemed to unite him to the rest of 
 humanity. It \ias a feeling that could scarcely be 
 called an affection ; it was rather a morbid worship of 
 everything in life that he himself was not. 
 
 If at a hazard the two met — the father and the son 
 — the father, with his ringing voice, his gay, "Well, 
 Loftus, my boy," his open eye, his head up, his full 
 step, his sporting dress, at his button-hole the never- 
 absent myrtle sprig, which gained for him, with his 
 picturesque-tongued people, the fancy title of "Lord 
 Myrtle ; " the son, shabby and slouching, would hurry
 
 CHAXCE AXD D003L 67 
 
 by without a word, and with just a scant glance at the 
 fine, jubilant face, smiling so broadly at him. But once 
 past, if no one was there to see, he would stop and 
 turn and follow the robust figure with strange softened 
 eyes, and stand and watch till it was lost to his yiew. 
 Then, with its going, he would take back the old, 
 hard, haggard look, like a mask of the dead, and enter 
 again into the stone world of his estrangements and 
 his antipathies. 
 
 Very deep, and Tery far off in this stone world 
 did he place his half-brother MichaeL Fnjm the 
 first, he set his face so persistently against him, 
 that it was a common word that Lofhis did not 
 know ^Michael by sight. And Michael desired nothing 
 better. In the direst contrast, madcap and scapegrace, 
 brimming over with mirth and mischief, from his 
 birth — which cost his mother her life — he grew up 
 the idol of his father, the plaything of servants and 
 friends ; indulged, admired, and spoiled by eyery one 
 but his gloomy brother, at the bare shadow of whose 
 grim presence, as a matter of course, he took to his 
 heels. But llichael's sunny days at Loughmore were 
 nimibered. 
 
 With Sir Claude's death, the rude change that 
 set in was altogether insupportable to his younger 
 son. Xor did Sir Loftus show any inclination to 
 make things more endurable to him ; and when, as 
 an ineyitable finish, Michael went off from his home, 
 with a loud yow never to see it aeain till he came
 
 68 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 back its master, Sir Loftus, in his turn, registered a 
 silent one, to live out his life, if only to keep Lough- 
 more out of his reckless hands, — and from the bottom 
 of his soul he wished him God speed to a returnless 
 distance ! 
 
 To this returnless distance Michael went away with 
 little of a broken heart. He knew his own mind, and 
 without more ado, with his mother's little fortune, of 
 which he had the control, bought himself a com- 
 mission and entered the army; and, as things were, 
 a wiser head could not very well have improved upon 
 the step. 
 
 Michael Lorraine, though little more than a lad, 
 was very well prepared for the rough life of a march- 
 ing regiment. Effeminacy had made no part of his 
 spoiling. Before he was scarce out of his petticoats he 
 had taken a fence at the side of his father ; he could 
 swim and wrestle and bring down a cock as warily a& 
 the oldest hand of the lot. The roistering elements 
 of the military life of those days came quite naturally 
 to him, and gave full vent to his headlong tastes. He 
 was happy as a king, or rather a great deal happier. 
 Nothing checked his spirits or cooled his courage, and 
 in the midst of the new excitements there was no time 
 to fret about the lost pleasures and pastimes of the old 
 life, or the little love left behind him in the old home ; 
 and when the route came for Gibraltar, he, for one^ 
 found nothing to complain of. 
 
 On the Eock, " Mad Michael," as he was not unfitly
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 69 
 
 called, soon became a favourite ; he kept every one 
 alive with his capital voice and his rollicking Irish 
 songs and his perfect good humour, and with his crazy 
 doings, into the bargain — the craziest being the running 
 off from the mainland with an Andalusian beauty, 
 barely fifteen, and making her his wife. 
 
 He had not much difficulty in arranging his mis- 
 demeanour with the spiritual and temporal powers in 
 authority over his Spanish lady love. At the tag end 
 of a great war, things have got into loose gear, and 
 take some years to get back to order ; and, moreover, 
 the Eock was not the most accessible spot to be reached 
 by an " angry father." 
 
 Amongst his comrades, the juniors cheered him on, 
 and envied him his luck. The superiors shook their 
 heads, but they could not get much further in their 
 wise chidings, so gay and beautiful were the young 
 couple — a mere boy and girl, laughing and loving all 
 the hours round, not knowing how to take their 
 buoyant lives mirthfully enough; wasting upon dull 
 care no moments of their blooming age ; not hoping, 
 not fearing, giving no heed to what men mean by 
 taking thought. 
 
 A poor, childish pair ! making their start together, 
 with no ballast but saucy joys and frolicksome jests. 
 But they went only a little way. It may have been 
 that Heaven took pity upon such Golden Youth ; 
 for " whom the gods love die young," was sung by 
 poets and said by sages long ago. Yet 'tis a hard
 
 70 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 saying, — hard to prove. It has a despairing ring in 
 it, as it echoes down from the old Pagan hopelessness, 
 and, even with the hopefulness that some of us have 
 now, it is a Good, which at best, if existence on this 
 planet has any meaning at all, can be but an excep- 
 tional one, on all its sides. 
 
 But these things need not be meddled with, since 
 they do not make clearer, but rather lend a confusion, 
 with their " whys " and " wherefores," to the brief tale 
 of these smiles and kisses, which lasted just long enough 
 to usher our hero into this troublesome world, and then 
 came to a sharp close between two dawns, with a malig- 
 nant fever. It has a tragic sound about it, but the 
 joyous young father and mother laughed on, to the 
 end. 
 
 *'He makes believe to die," sighed the girl; "but 
 I shall shake him out of his game." And then she 
 sickened. 
 
 " When he wakes, I will be dead too ! " and the 
 little head, with its heavy black tresses, drooped down. 
 And so the twain passed from their playful humours 
 into a solemn eternity. 
 
 Of such an early doom, one may say — Few of us 
 do better ! — and another — Many better have died — 
 
 "Auch Patroclus ist gestorben, 
 Und -war mehr als du ! " 
 
 And again a third may cry — What matter ! day by 
 day, so many come, so many go ! — Kismet. 
 
 Perchance one sheds a tear, and this is better;
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 71 
 
 though it availeth not to the dead ; still it is better : — 
 for the dead are holy. 
 
 It was a time of trouble all round. The sickness did 
 not stop with its first yictims. Even nature sickened. 
 The clouds hung low, but could not break into the 
 blessed rain. In the stifled sunshine there was a 
 deadly heat, and the Kock, with its great mass, seemed 
 all a-fire. The level tracts, behind far away, sent up 
 a malarious vapour ; a blue mist hung over the cork 
 forests ; no stir in the air, no freshening breeze ; all 
 things flagging, withering, dying. And the men 
 were dying too, and the children and the mothers, 
 dropping off daily ; and in the midst of all this 
 stricken state, was one forlorn little life — Mad Michael 
 Lorraine's orphan boy. 
 
 Where the lot is cast together in a narrow space, 
 human feelings expand the wider, grow the keener, 
 both the cruel and the kind ; and now, though many 
 hearts were aching for the lives that were gone or 
 might go, there was not one that was not touched with 
 pity for the little life but just come. 
 
 What was to come of it ? The chances were all 
 against it. Better if the feeble thread were snapped at 
 once, with the wild blood that ran in its veins, and with 
 only the misanthrope of Loughmore, in the way of 
 home and kindred, across the seas ! 
 
 Thus did these kind souls make their sad auguries, 
 and, with eyes moist with compassionate forebodings, 
 calculate the chances of this young life.
 
 72 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Mais, la destinee a ses intentions. 
 
 The book of fate is, indeed, open to us all, but it 
 can be read but one way — backwards ; and human 
 prescience in human affairs is a poor thing, since above 
 all the calculable chances, stands the great factor 
 Chance, of which there is no predicate save the un- 
 expected. It would, in truth, have taken a very 
 sanguine seer to divine that this feeble and fatherless 
 babe, lying helpless in the lap of destiny, had come 
 into the world with such a rebound off misfortune that, 
 like some comets we are told of, it had no choice there- 
 after, but to maintain its course in the same happy 
 hyperbole to the very end. 
 
 Its helplessness was all on its side, for the Fortunate 
 need no exercise of " disastrous will " — they have no 
 hand in that decree, which allots to them a Country in 
 every Land. 
 
 But to return to events — to the orphan and his 
 friends. 
 
 Better it had never been born. This was the theory 
 of these good people ; but to this theory their practice 
 was entirely opposed, and everythiDg was done that 
 could be done to cherish the infant and to prolong its 
 life. And to this rash work, considering what might 
 come of it, all contributed after their means. A soldier's 
 widow, whose child and husband had both died of the 
 epidemic, did not wait to be sought out, but out of
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM, 73 
 
 pure love offered herself as nurse, aud took the babe 
 to her ariQS with tears of consolation. Every man was 
 its Father — you might have said, its Mother — so tender 
 was the interest in this Child of the Kegiment. But the 
 constancy of these kind hearts was not to be put to any 
 lengthy test. 
 
 An early post brought a handsome sum of money, 
 and a briefly worded letter from the master of Lough- 
 more, desiricg that child and nurse should be forwarded 
 without delay and with all care. 
 
 It was no forced benevolence which prompted Sir 
 Loftus, without demur, to accept all charge of his 
 orphan nephew. 
 
 The stones of Castle Loughmore, the oaks, the 
 tarns, the purple moors that spread about it, shone with 
 a new light, — took the value of a long-lost treasure, as 
 he thought of the baby heir that was coming across 
 the seas. 
 
 It was this heir that Sir Loftus had prayed for — 
 whatever was the form he used — night and day from 
 the moment the down had appeared upon Michael's 
 bright face ; it was in this possibility that he saw the 
 only good thing that could come of his young brother's 
 unwelcome existence. 
 
 " He'll break his mad neck, Burke," Sir Loftus 
 would say to the family factotum, the only living being 
 he exchanged thoughts with. " Let him do it if he will ; 
 but in God's name make him give us a boy to the 
 house first."
 
 74 PKINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Poor Michael, in his returnless distance, contrived 
 very closely to comply with the spirit of his brother's 
 programme. 
 
 One preliminary condition Sir Loftus affixed to his 
 generous reception. Child and nurse were to keep 
 themselves out of his sight ; instant dismissal was to 
 follow the breach of this command. Such, at least, was 
 the threat. The child was not yet in a position to 
 give an opinion ; but the nurse was not backward with 
 hers. 
 
 " Horrid old wretch ! He need not be afraid," said 
 she to herself. " I must be out of my mind indeed to 
 put my child in his way." 
 
 It must be owned that the devoted creature did not 
 reach this state of distrust, except through much 
 depression of spirit, and many dashed hopes. 
 
 She had bidden farewell to her friends on the Kock 
 with a light heart, for the prospect before her was a 
 bright one ; she counted the hours of the sea voyage, 
 and relieved its tedium, by dreaming at night and 
 prattling by day of the fine gentleman and fine house 
 and fine doings they were bound for ; and it was no 
 more than the most natural revulsion when the gloomy 
 facts of the real situation actually dawned upon her, 
 that she should be filled with dejection and indignation. 
 A comely Kentish woman, born and bred in the sunny 
 Weald, the whole surroundings inspired her with as 
 much terror as disgust. She shuddered at the wild 
 country, with its sparse habitations, and shuddered no
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 75 
 
 less at the wild tongues of the inhabitants ; and when, 
 with despair, she retreated with her nursling to the 
 rooms appointed to them, she clasped the child with 
 dread to her breast, as she beheld the black waters of 
 the lake lying cold and dark beneath the windows. 
 
 But time brings consolation. The child throve to 
 her heart's content ; the wages and the dinners were 
 good ; and the whisky was not bad ; and last, but not 
 least, Mr. Burke, the butler, looked in two or three 
 times every day, ostensibly direct from Sir Loftus, to 
 see that all was right, but clearly quite as much to 
 please himself, for when he came he was in no hurry 
 to depart. 
 
 " He's a very affable man," wrote the good woman 
 to her Kentish kinsfolk, " and I can understand what 
 he says, which isn't the case with the rest of them ; 
 and he calls Master Claude a regular beauty." 
 
 The language of flattery is always intelligible, and 
 no doubt Mr. Burke had a side word of admiration 
 for the nurse as well; but as to Master Claude, he 
 fully justified the compliment paid to him, and if any 
 stronger term than " a regular beauty " could have 
 been devised to denote infantine smiles and dimples, 
 roundness and rosiness, truth would not have stood 
 in the way of its being used. 
 
 Things in this manner shook down at last into 
 something very like cheerfulness and content — in the 
 nursery department, at least. Sir Loftus himself, as 
 far as this part of his household went, might as well
 
 76 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 have been in the land of the dead, for he was neither 
 seen nor heard. 
 
 The house was a large, straggling building, with 
 inner and outer court, central tower, and modern wings, 
 affording ample room and to spare for half a dozen 
 different establishments. Its melancholy owner had 
 long given up his dismal wanderings abroad, and con- 
 fined himself exclusively to the two or three rooms 
 which he had appropriated to himself; and by way 
 of precaution, if a chance necessity induced him to 
 leave them, a sort of cow's horn was put in requisition, 
 from which the most unearthly sounds were blown up 
 and down, to warn all stragglers to keep aloof. 
 
 Thus it was, that babe Claude grew into a sturdy 
 boy, running wild among the paternal hills and dells, 
 before uncle and nephew met face to face. The event, 
 when it did occur, was characteristic. Fed by his 
 nurse's pride, and by Mr. Burke's family pedigrees, 
 all the glory of which, he was taught to feel, must, 
 no long time to come, centre in his important self, 
 the boy grew insubordinate of his backstairs life, and 
 finally, to the dismay of the household, made his way 
 to his uncle's apartments unannounced. 
 
 Kunning breathless up to the old man's chair, as 
 he sat moodily watching the burning peat, the boy 
 flung his little cap at his feet, crying out, " I'm come 
 to live with you ! I'm Claude Cormac Lorraine, and 
 I'm come down from Cormac Lharhane, and I'm as 
 good a Lharhane as you, every bit ! "
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 77 
 
 It was a fine descent to claim, from Cormac Lhar- 
 hane, the wild head of the family, in the days when 
 they were all wild Lharhanes here ; when everything 
 in life was wild hereabout ; and before the degenerate 
 descendants of this wild stock had forsaken their wild 
 home for tamer scenes, and had learnt to fashion them- 
 selves, their name, and their manners upon foreign 
 and feebler types. 
 
 Young Claude did not speak at a venture. He 
 had listened to many a thrilling tale, told by Mr. 
 Burke, beside the winter's hearth or amid the heather 
 in summer days, of the pride and strength of the 
 haughty chieftain, Cormac Lharhane. Nor did he 
 speak at a venture in regard to the effect of his speech. 
 If he had been trained to the part, he could not have 
 played it better. 
 
 As if a trumpet blast had rung in his ears. Sir 
 Loftus roused up strongly. Erect and straight, he 
 had not seen such an attitude for fifty years. He sat, 
 not raising a finger, staring at the boy without a word, 
 but with a light in his wolfish grey eyes as wild and 
 fierce as ever lit up Cormac Lharhane's own fiery orbs. 
 
 The boy did not flinch ; he stared at his uncle 
 in return. There he stood, the bold heir of the first 
 of the Lharhanes and of the last of the Lorraines, and 
 the very model of old Sir Claude : the head thrown 
 back ; the waving hair ; the fine, fearless face ; the 
 steady glance, — there it all was, the same to the life. 
 It mastered Sir Loftus.
 
 78 PEIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 The fire in his eyes died out, and the bushy eye- 
 brows lowered over them ; the figure collapsed again ; 
 and as his arms fell down, unconsciously he clutched 
 the boy's cap at his feet. Each day the fond senti- 
 ment of the faithful Burke delighted to place in the 
 youngster's cap the traditional sprig of myrtle, the 
 debonair badge of his joyous grandfather. 
 
 Now, as Sir Loftus handled the cap, the myrtle 
 spray fell out. The old man picked it quickly up, 
 surveyed it long, smoothed down the leaves with a 
 gentle touch ; then hid it in his breast. 
 
 It was the first and only tender act of his life. 
 With one hand still hid in his breast, with the other, 
 he set the cap upon his nephew's head. 
 
 " Boy," said he, " you may well be a better Lhar- 
 hane than I am ! " 
 
 The servants who had followed, with the nurse in 
 the rear, stood trembling in the doorway. 
 
 " Burke, set the table for two," was Sir Loftus's only 
 other word. 
 
 From that day, the master and heir of Loughmore 
 dined together. No one in the castle, setting aside 
 the two principals, believed that this was a purely 
 natural occurrence. 
 
 " It's the blessing of Heaven that he did not strike 
 the boy where he stood," wrote the nurse, sending off 
 to her people the earliest tidings of the unlooked-for 
 event. " But the Lord is good, and the orphan and 
 the widow are never forsaken."
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 79 
 
 But nurse's simple piety was prosaic, to the highly- 
 coloured beliefs of the rest of the household. 
 
 "Musha! " said Mike, the boots of the house, "It's 
 me Father nosther that I'll not forget this night, I 
 will ! " 
 
 " Hould yer long tongue ! Ye'll forgit it ; and who 
 doubts iv it, ye reprobate ? " This reproof came from 
 the old gamekeeper, who, with his long grey hair, six 
 feet of height, and the splendid birds in his hand, 
 made a fine central figure in the midst of the kitchen 
 worthies. 
 
 " Annyho, be me sowl, but it bangs Bannagher ! " 
 grumbles Mike, slinking away. 
 
 "Annyho," takes up the gamekeeper, turning his 
 keen blue eyes after him — " Annyho, who'll be bould 
 eno' to sware me black an' white that it wasn't the 
 pore mither iv 'im jist kim 'oure the seas, to goan in 
 wid the childher to the masther ? " 
 
 "' Whist wid yees ! Wull ye wake the dead ? " cried 
 the cook, brandishing a gridiron over his head. " Be 
 this holy iron, iv the word was to be spake, it's a mighty 
 dale narer the house we wad be findin' 'im as tuck it 
 in hand. The blessin' iv the saints in the memree iv 
 'im this day." 
 
 " Bad scran to ye ! it's the dead ye air after raisin' 
 yersel' ! " retorted the cellarman, who, by virtue of the 
 spirits under his care, claimed to have superior infor- 
 mation. " Isn't it the lot o' ye that don't know nothin' ? 
 And isn't it Master Burke hissel', wut seed wid his
 
 80 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 own eyes Ihe back iv the crater, and he wnd sware to the 
 Dullahan ? But it's hard frae the back o' sic a crater- 
 like to desade." With which oracular winding up he 
 proceeds to serve out the whisky all round. 
 
 " Shure it's dhraming entirely was Mr. Burke," 
 suggests the mail-boy, who has just come in booted 
 and spurred, and is the sceptic of the neighbourhood. 
 
 " Shure it's a quare dhrame annyho," says Mike, 
 sneaking forward for his share of the whisky. 
 
 " Shure it's idlin' and lyin' and dhrinkin' yer air, 
 yer meddlin' varmints," cries Mr. Burke, appearing 
 upon the scene. " By the Jasus ! but ye'U sup sorrow 
 for this, wid yer blasin' imperdence, interfarin' wid the 
 masther's honbel famelee. I'd jist counsil ye to silence 
 iv ye wad no be tuck off this vara night be ane iv 'em." 
 
 This judicious threat was not made in vain ; it 
 stopped all discussion, scattered the party, and thrilled 
 the fat cook to the marrow. It confirmed Mike the 
 boots in his good intentions ; that night he said his 
 Pater noster not once, but many times, till his teeth 
 chattered in his head. 
 
 In this world of satiety, there is nothing like 
 possession to let a pleasure down. The boy Claude 
 soon sickened of the much-coveted privilege his bold 
 front had won for him. 
 
 The life with his uncle, in truth, was dreary enough.
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 81 
 
 Dismal enough, too, were the mute dinners, with no 
 sound save the stealthy step of the submissive Burke, 
 as he glided to and fro, doing the service. And thrice 
 dismal the after-hour, when Claude sat on the floor 
 beside Sir Loftus, and watched with him the faces in 
 the fire. 
 
 Then the boy, being wilful and lacking veneration, 
 took the matter once more into his own hands. 
 Oftener absent than present — absent when he should 
 have been most forthcoming, even at the dinner hour. 
 Nurse and Co. talked of turning out of doors. The 
 boy simply said, " He dare not." 
 
 Sir Loftus, on his side, made no sign. If he resented 
 the boy's truant tricks, they had no proof of it. He sat 
 before the burning peat, the same to look at, and yet 
 not the same, for the mind moved — moved to and fro 
 between the past and the future ; but in this past and 
 future there were but two figures, his father and 
 his nephew. The humble world about him knew very 
 little of his nature, except that he had hated where he 
 should have loved, had saved where he might have 
 spent, had moped where he might have been merry, 
 and that they feared him, for they knew not what. 
 They saw, to their surprise, that he bore with the 
 boy's absence as passively as he had suffered his 
 presence ; but they were far enough from guessing at 
 the effects of that presence — far enough from seeing, 
 under those bent eyebrows and that rigid form, the 
 warming process that was going on within, as, day by 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 day, the old man built up the future of his house upon 
 the corner-stone of his nephew's life, or fell dreamily 
 back into the past, with eyes fixed on the boy's uncon- 
 scious face, tracing the features of his father, sitting, 
 with a moody look but a softening heart, pondering 
 upon all the things, the Sir Claude of the past had had^ 
 or done, and planning that all these things the Sir 
 Claude of the future should have, and should do. 
 
 Now, old Sir Claude had been educated at Eton ; 
 his mother was an Englishwoman, and his father an 
 Irish absentee, and for the first twenty years of his 
 life he never set foot in what it would be an Irishism 
 to call his native land. 
 
 Thus it came about that on the day the boy Claude 
 became eleven years of age, Sir Loftus despatched 
 him under trusty escort once more across the sea, and 
 made him what his grandfather was, an Eton boy. 
 Claude's education hitherto had not been in very 
 efficient hands. His nurse, not a bad scholar, had 
 taught him to read; but the higher branches were 
 entrusted to the parish priest of Loughmore. What 
 that poor man went through during the two hours' 
 daily lesson, from the consciousness of his own ignor- 
 ance, and from his pupil's idleness, it would take a 
 volume to tell. It is sufficient to say that results, 
 as far as acquirements went, might be summed up in 
 the word nil. 
 
 The boy, however, was as intelligent as he was idle, 
 as he wrote to his uncle from Eton : — " There are lots
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 83 
 
 of stupid boys here. I can learn better than they do ; 
 and I'm not ashamed at all ! " 
 
 In speaking /to. Lady Laure of his Eton days> 
 Lorraine was scarc^v^ust. He owed much every way 
 to Eton. It was^is 'first step to his natural place in 
 society. A grea^ school seems made expressly for the 
 benefit of boys coming from secluded homes ; and if the 
 schoolmaster can mar a boy, the school can very often 
 make him. We know something already of the way 
 young Claude's school days were spent. He passed 
 through them with no discredit to his name, and made 
 the one friendship which, in spite of himself, coloured 
 his life. 
 
 When he came to quit for good the " fields beloved,'* 
 he gave another instance of his faculty for disposing of 
 himself. 
 
 Other youths were full of home plans ; he had no 
 home, so to speak, to make plans about. His holiday 
 time had been passed either with the families of his 
 boy friends or with a tutor ; and now, what to do 
 and where to go were questions he was at a loss to 
 give a ready reply to. Sir Loftus desired him to pass 
 on to Oxford. Old Sir Claude had passed from Eton 
 to Oxford ; it followed that this was the course marked 
 out at Loughmore for young Claude. 
 
 But Loughmore was not London, and young 
 Claude's will went only so far as he pleased — no 
 further; and in the matter of Oxford, he decided 
 promptly that it was out of the question. Books were
 
 84 PEINCE rOETUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 not in his line ; *^ and," said he, " if I am to go to 
 Oxford to be idle, I may as well be idle somewhere 
 else, and in a way more to my mind, and with no 
 pretence about it." 
 
 That was Claude Lorraine's way of viewing things 
 from the first. Still, he was brought up short, though 
 not daunted. He looked about him, as might an 
 Alpine traveller who finds himself, at break of a sum- 
 mer's day, upon some upland ice level, no taint of 
 earth above his head or beneath his feet, and all 
 around him, piercing the blue skies in unbroken chain, 
 the snow peaks, white, glistening, and surpassingly 
 bright. The intense exhilaration of his corporeal 
 altitude, is yet exceeded by his mental spring and 
 soar ; but neither of these grow the less because, may- 
 be, he has yet to find the track, that shall take him 
 over these alluring heights and dazzling slopes, to the 
 next stage of his high-pitched wanderings. 
 
 So stood the stripling Claude, at the most joyous 
 moment of life. Tutelage in the rear, freedom in the 
 van, blest with the purest health, the most perfect 
 spirits. Possessing money and money's worth, it was 
 not in nature — not in his nature, at least — to sit 
 down discouraged, for lack of a home and the human 
 lurnishings thereof, — father and mother to consult and 
 obey, sisters to be convenient to, brothers to imitate 
 or irritate. There was a brighter side to home life, no 
 doubt ; but whether bright or not, he could do without 
 it, for the world was before him.
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 85 
 
 In this last word lay the key to his next step in 
 life. This world that was before him ! Why should 
 he not see it ? — not in an imaginary sort of way, but 
 practically. But still, the first difficulty remained. 
 How to set about this — at what end of things should he 
 begin ? Suddenly a thought struck him, so eminently 
 simple that he called himself a blockhead for not 
 having hit upon it before : he would follow his father's 
 example, and enter a regiment going abroad. This 
 way of seeing the world would save him all personal 
 arrangement and trouble. There was nothing to keep 
 him in England ; nothing to take him to Ireland ; 
 nothing, in fact, to hinder the proceeding. The pur- 
 chase money should come out of his own patrimony 
 w^hich, as he very well knew, had not grown the less 
 during the eighteen years it had rested in Sir Loftus's 
 tenacious hands. 
 
 The resolution taken, a little allowance must be 
 made for the temporary elation which followed. He 
 went about as a man might go who had imbibed some 
 exciting gas; but being naturally of an even tem- 
 perament, he came down to sober earth with the third 
 day, and, thus steadied, wrote a letter to his uncle, 
 which he flattered himself was a model of clearness, 
 persuasion, and common sense. 
 
 It failed, however, of its expected effects. Sir 
 Loftus was deeply displeased, not with the indepen- 
 dence of the decision, — there was nothing tyrannical 
 in his rule over the boy ; his displeasure lay with the
 
 86 PRIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 decision itself. To his apprehensive mind the succession 
 was again imperilled, and, moreover, there was a soft 
 spot owned by Claude alone, in the horny heart of the 
 recluse. It was the first blow the boy had given to 
 the old man ; that blow — which sooner or later, daring 
 Youth will inevitably deal to doating Age. 
 
 Claude got his way, and that without many words. 
 In words, in fact. Sir Loftus did not deal ; the lines in 
 his face grew deeper, but he said nothing. He retreated 
 still more into silence, the resource of his life-time, 
 the expression of all his suffering. 
 
 It was to the East that our hero went on this his 
 first venture in seeing the world. The novelty at first 
 pleased. He congratulated himself upon having made 
 a very good beginning, and upon a wide scale, too. 
 Such were his first impressions; but first impressions 
 soon wear off, and sometimes degenerate into the very 
 reverse of what is favourable. After all, a mess-table 
 and the capital of an Indian presidency are very narrow 
 grooves in which to see the world, and it was not very 
 long before Claude Lorraine came to see these facts in 
 the most forcible manner. But though he saw his 
 mistake, he did not see so clearly his way out of it, 
 and he paid the penalty of five consecutive years of 
 foreign service for his rashness. 
 
 But at the end of this term he bestirred himself
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 87 
 
 in good earnest, for the prospect of five more such 
 years was intolerable to him ; so, making a virtue of 
 necessity, he despatched another letter to Loughmore^ 
 framed this time in a spirit of some humility, ac- 
 knowledging his mistake, and expressing his desire 
 to exchange into a home regiment. He even pro- 
 posed, though with a distinctly stated intention of 
 repayment, that Sir Loftus should make him an 
 advance towards this end. 
 
 If he had not been very hard driven, he could not 
 have brought himself to this last. But desperate 
 straits beget desperate measures, and unless he could 
 back his exchange with a good sum down, he might wait 
 some time — it might take him months in fact, to 
 arrange it out of his own finances. But, in placing 
 himself in his uncle's hands, Claude knew full well what 
 he was about ; he did not calculate without his host. 
 His eagerness to return was as nothing compared to 
 Sir Loftus's gnawing desire to know him to be once 
 more within the British Isles. All this he shrewdly 
 guessed, nor did it take him by surprise when the 
 very earliest post that could arrive put the following 
 reply in his hands : — 
 
 "Nephew Claude, 
 
 " Come back ; sell your commission ; draw 
 on me ; go into the Guards. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 "Loftus Lokraine. 
 " P.S. — You will not come over here."
 
 88 PKINCE FOKTUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 Sir Loftus's brief style was a foretaste of the model 
 telegram, clearly within the twenty words, barring the 
 postscript. 
 
 But this postscript could not be done without ; 
 it was as indispensable as postscripts proverbially are. 
 It was, however, a legitimate postscript, for it expressed 
 an after-thought. 
 
 The penitent's tardy but welcome annoimcement 
 threw the household of Loughmore into a spasmodic 
 state. The worthy Burke, still filling the post of 
 major domo, was so transported by the good news, 
 that even in the presence of Sir Loftus he could not 
 contain himself. He threw up his eyes and his hands, 
 gave vent to many wild ejaculations, and wound up 
 with, " The Lord be praised, and the blessed Virgin, 
 and all the saints, ivery one iv 'em !. for these eyes will 
 be afther seeing the young masther again. And I'll 
 soon be setting the table for two ; and Sir Loftus, yer 
 honour, ye'll not know yersel' again, for the comfort iv 
 it all to ye." 
 
 Sir Loftus lifted his head with a start. He gave 
 a furtive look about him ; once or twice he said, *' Let 
 be, let be ! " as the excited butler rearranged the peat^ 
 and lingered over the service to give himself further 
 time to vent his feelings. 
 
 When the door at last closed. Sir Loftus raised 
 himself laboriously, for he was feeble now, dragged 
 himself slowly across to a writing-table on which lay 
 an open sheet, sat down — and added his postscript.
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM. 89^ 
 
 It was the old story of the boy's ready adoption 
 and the boy's backstair banishment. Full of all the 
 joy his joyless soul could feel at the return of this 
 precious heir of the house, grasping with both hands 
 at the erent, providing for every obstacle, — the idea 
 suddenly presented to him of meeting him face to 
 face, filled him with the keenest alarm ; the habit of 
 seeing him was gone, and he trembled in his chair aSy 
 in imagination, he heard his nephew's footfall on the 
 stairs. 
 
 The nephew was well suited to the uncle. His 
 feelings were not in any way wounded. He smiled 
 at the letter, laughed at the postscript, called it 
 capital news, and felt heartily obliged to Sir Loftus,. 
 without the smallest grudge or the slightest desire 
 to go against his uncomplimentary injunction. 
 
 Eight months or a little more saw this new move 
 carried through, and Claude Lorraine installed in 
 London society as the handsome Guardsman, and as a 
 very eligible and well-conditioned _2Jar^^, with brilliant 
 expectations. It depended upon himself alone to 
 become the favourite young man of the day. 
 
 But he was restive, and before a year was out he 
 voted the whole thing a bore. He found society a 
 game not worth — his candle, at any rate, and the loung- 
 ing military life at home, was a greater nuisance to
 
 90 PKINCE FOETUXE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 him than the drowsy one abroad. A man is scarcely 
 to be blamed if his tastes don't run in these lines ; 
 but it must be admitted that with Lorraine there was 
 a certain inadequateness at the bottom of his dissatis- 
 faction. He had no predilections, no ambition ; it is 
 almost absurd to say of him that he had no enthusiasm — 
 he was so entirely wide of that feeling ; almost as true 
 would it be to say that he had no passions. His leading 
 characteristic, the one that broke out, was an im- 
 patience of the existing state of things, whatever they 
 happened to be. It was not iustability, but luke- 
 warmness ; it is a quality of the mind often most 
 dominant under the least burdensome circumstances, 
 for trouble and ennui are rarely travelling com- 
 panions. 
 
 But, unlike his uncle, Lorraine was not given to 
 suffering in silence ; on the contrary, he sent his dis- 
 gust and discontent all round. 
 
 The regimental doctor, a man of much sagacity, 
 listened with some amusement. Lorraine declared 
 that his condition w^as not to be jested at. 
 
 " Call it a sluggish liver," rejoined the doctor. 
 
 " I have said it is no joke," retorted Lorraine. 
 
 " That is the very point," replied his medical 
 friend, coolly. " On the grounds of your sluggish liver 
 you can ask for long leave, and try what travel on the 
 Continent will do for you." 
 
 This diagnosis of the sluggish liver was accepted 
 by the authorities.
 
 CHANCE AND DOOM, 91 
 
 Lorraine's own account of his state to one of liis 
 intimates the day before starting was quite as near to 
 the truth. 
 
 " You see, my dear fellow," said he, " I am not a 
 horsey man, nor a boating man, nor a rowing man, nor 
 a reading man. I'm not music mad ; I hate politics as 
 politics — I mean, I can't stand with my back to the fire 
 iill day, arguing about my opinions. And I haven't the 
 distractions you have : I don't play ; I don't drink ; I 
 don't go to the devil for the fair sex ; I can't go in for 
 such trifles as tailors and trinkets, because my purse is 
 short, and I'm averse to coming upon Sir Loftus — time 
 enough to spend his money w^hen it's mine. There ! 
 You've got my case. I'm going away now, but I don't 
 expect to mend it. I'm the man with nothing to do ; 
 and, as far as I can see, there's nothing on the face of 
 the earth for me to do." 
 
 There is something to be said for Lorraine's lamen- 
 tations. As a philosophic friend of mine remarked to 
 me the other day, pleasure, like colour, is purely ob- 
 jective. It is as you take it ; the trees are green because 
 we determine that they are green. The amusements of 
 life are such because they amuse you ; if they do not 
 amuse you, they cease to be amusements. And so with 
 life's interests. Labour and pain alone are actualities — 
 positive, not relative, though some have mounted to 
 such sublime metaphysical heights, as in the case of 
 pain, to deny even this. But sound health may possibly 
 be one of the conditions of such flights.
 
 92 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 " Gentle stream, why hurry hy ? 
 
 Canst thou not a moment stay ? 
 Fragrant flowers with painted eye. 
 
 Birds sweet singing on the spray. 
 Peace and joy together vie 
 
 To persuade thee to delay ; 
 All things love thee here. Then why^ 
 
 Gentle stream, why haste away ? " 
 Nothing cares the stream, nor heeds. 
 Onward ever, onward speeds, 
 Only sighs, " I love the sea ; 
 There I long, I haste to be ! " 
 
 " Gentle stream, yet hear me speak 
 Ere you quit your peaceful home. 
 And to far-off oceans roam. 
 
 "What the perils that you seek ? 
 Many a long and desert mile 
 
 You shall course, and cease to smile ; 
 
 Or o'er rocks be hurl'd and lost. 
 
 Fretted, shattered, tempest-tost. 
 
 Gentle stream, while still you may. 
 
 Pause " The stream is far away ; 
 
 Only sighs, " I love the sea ;
 
 EOMANCE. 93 
 
 ** Gentle stream, yet let me teach 
 What the end your race must reach, 
 When, within the sea, you leave 
 Love and all you have to give — 
 You will perish unrequited, 
 All your love unfelt and slighted ! " 
 Sang the stream, " Thus let me die ! 
 
 Yes, though this embrace shall kill. 
 
 Let my life this presence fill ! " 
 So she sang, and hurried by. 
 Sighed, " I love, I love the sea ; 
 There I long, I haste to be ! " 
 
 The Villa Grimaldi — such was tlie name of the house 
 rented by Lord Bellarmine — occupied, with its rustic 
 garden and terraced citron and orange groves, nearly 
 the whole of the small promontory on which it stood. 
 The situation was a pretty isolation, commanding the 
 sole access to the bit of rocky shore below it. The road 
 which skirted its inland boundaries was merely a local 
 one, uniting the town on the one side with the city on 
 the other. It was not much of a macadamized route. 
 You could just get along it with a horse and wheeled 
 vehicle, and that was about all ; but it had, like many 
 another indifferent road, the charm of variety: now 
 beside the sea, now between the rocks, now bridging 
 the watercourses, now mounting, now descending, now 
 beneath the lofty screen of the pine-clad cape, now 
 threading the deep shade of ^the olive wood, then upon 
 ^ bare steep against the sky, mule-tracks and by-paths 
 intersecting it at every angle, some leading down to 
 the shore, some up to mountain shrines and towers and 
 distant hamlets, only to be reached on foot.
 
 94 PEINCE FOETUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 In that long time ago, taking your pleasure by these 
 shores and hills, to have met another English face 
 would have been somebody to wonder at, as the earl 
 said to Lady Laure, when she entreated that they 
 might stay for a while in this lovely spot. "At 
 least we shall have it all to ourselves ; there's that 
 advantage." 
 
 In the substance he was right. At that moment he 
 was not thinking of the natives, still less of such excep- 
 tionally welcome godsends as Mr. Mildew and Lorraine. 
 He had rather in his eye that irrepressible British 
 being, to be encountered in foreign parts, who, with an 
 exhilarated countenance, of which you have not the 
 faintest recollection, is — " So charmed to have met 
 you ! " " So delighted to renew the acquaintance ! " or, 
 possibly, of that distant relation who turns up unawares, 
 and whom you have been trying all your life to keep 
 out of the way of; or of that tribe of gossiping 
 acquaintance, who find their liveliest distraction de 
 voyage in making notes of the sayings and doings of 
 their neighbours, and who fill up their letters to their 
 friends at home, with precise details as to whether you 
 aj)pear in a white hat or a black one. 
 
 If, indeed, just now this neighbourhood, rich in so 
 much loveliness, had also been blessed with one or two 
 of these painstaking observers of their travelling com- 
 patriots, no doubt the Villa Grimaldi and its inmates 
 might have afforded a good deal of food for their 
 inquiring minds ; nor does it need much imagination to-
 
 KOMANOE. 95 
 
 conjecture what they would have said. Take Lady 
 Laure, for instance. " So singular that she was in such 
 a hurry to exchange her old Squire for her young one. 
 It was wonderful, too, what a change there was in her, 
 quite a rose tint upon her cheek, and quite a new light 
 in her blue eyes, and such a new animation in her 
 graceful manners. But then, climate does so much for 
 the young ; draws out all those latent fires which do 
 but smoulder beneath more chilly skies." 
 
 Then for the earl, — "Good, simple man, yet so 
 perfectly polished; such a good host and so fond a 
 father. Yet it was odd, playing his chess as he did, and 
 throwing his daughter upon that young man's hands ; 
 it was a very different affair walking about with that 
 old Mr. Mildew." 
 
 Old Mr. Mildew himself might have been altogether 
 passed over. He was old and grey and rather grim; and 
 he was, after all, only an outsider. Perhaps of late he 
 had become a shade more grave, and grown somewhat 
 cynical ; but such qualities sat quite naturally upon his- 
 lined and thoughtful brow. As for the young man,, 
 the gossips might have found in him their most 
 piquant puzzle. Sometimes bored, sometimes buoyant ; 
 always going, never gone. Full of brusque speeches, of 
 polite devoirs, of enigmatical words, of praises of friend- 
 ship, of warnings against love ; easy in temper as in 
 manners, yet capable of a sudden petulance ; changeable 
 as a chameleon to Lady Laure — always at her feet, always 
 affecting indifference ; always with two sides to him-
 
 ■96 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 self — always playing two parts, and yet without a mask. 
 So natural was his ennui and his enjoyment, his atten- 
 tions and his indifference, his good temper and his bad, 
 that it might have perplexed the keenest looker-on to 
 make out what he was about. 
 
 In one thing only was Lorraine consistent. This was 
 his absolute antagonism to Mr. Mildew ; it began with 
 the first hearing of his name, and from that moment it 
 suffered no change or abatement. If there is such a 
 thing as Hate at first sight, this was it. 
 
 Equally unmistakable was yet another fact, namely, 
 the favour in which Lorraine stood with the earl and 
 his daughter. It was one of those cases of determined 
 partiality, in which everything that is said is received 
 with a smile, and nothing that is done can bring down 
 a frown. From the first, the earl had welcomed him, as 
 he said, " not as a stranger," but as a new-found and 
 cherished member of the intimate circle. 
 
 " Who could have thought," he took a pleasure in 
 remarking, " when you, Laure, induced me, much, I 
 own, against my private inclination, to pitch our tent 
 in this pretty wilderness, that we should find Mildew 
 and Lorraine ready to hand, to make us such good 
 company ? " Then the satisfied father would laugh, 
 and say it was all Lady Laure's happy doing, and 
 shake his hand playfully at her, and call her " a clever 
 little witch." 
 
 In the midst, however, of all this frank liking and of 
 these approving smiles, Lorraine was met from day to
 
 KOMANCE. 97 
 
 day by one dissentient face. No one knew better than 
 be himself did, that Mr. Mildew returned his dislike 
 with a distrust that fell little short of pure disgust. 
 When he came out with his bantering sallies or his 
 lackadaisical speeches, Mr. Mildew became severely 
 silent, or, with a lift of the eyebrows, cut him short 
 with some curt truth. 
 
 Lorraine would have told you that he cared not 
 one straw for this man's opinion, good or bad ; and he 
 endeavoured to prove this to the man himself, by 
 exhibiting before him his idlest caprices, and by what 
 is called " rubbing him up the wrong way," with a show^ 
 of reckless amusement, whenever he had the chance. 
 
 But this hitch in a general way had no appreciable 
 effect ; none at all, in fact, with the earl, — if he observed 
 it, — he passed it smoothly over. Mr. Mildew and 
 Lorraine were not of the family, and nothing whatever 
 to each other ; they were simply welcome guests, in 
 whose society the time, which otherwise might have 
 hung heavily, passed pleasantly away ; and each had 
 something special to recommend him in the way of 
 intimacy and companionship. What more was there 
 to desire ? 
 
 Time's wings, however, took very unequal flights in 
 the villa ; and Lorraine, for his part, would have 
 declared that they were weighted with a good deal 
 more of lead than of quicksilver. The days for him 
 dragged a very slow length along. They had grown 
 to WTcks, almost to months — very desperately and 
 
 VOL. I. -1- H
 
 98 PRINCE FOETUNE AXD PEIXCE FATAL. 
 
 despairingly wet ^^eeks tliey were — never, in the 
 memory of the oldest inhabitant, had there been such 
 a deluge ; and still the rain continued. 
 
 And again one more day sets in, which is nothing 
 brighter than that other day, when all these dark 
 doings began. 
 
 The clouds, which at its opening had conducted 
 themselves in a more hopeful way, by twelve o'clock 
 belied the faint promise they had given, gathering 
 together all around, black and threatening and so low 
 that the Yilla Grimaldi was only in half light, and 
 the village above it was invisible. One difference, 
 indeed, from yesterday might have been remarked : the 
 mountain-tops to the w est stood up cold and colourless, 
 piercing the slaty veil which wrapt their sides. 
 
 Lorraine sits listlessly watching some mystery of 
 needlework executed by Lady Laure's fair fingers. 
 He yawns undisguisedly, gets up, lounges to the 
 window, comes back, drops heavily again into his 
 chair, with " What intolerable weather ! This is the 
 most detestable climate I was ever in ! " 
 
 Lady Laure lifts her eyes with a sympathizing 
 little nod and a smile of amusement. She takes no 
 shadow from these lowering clouds ; she is soft and 
 bright as a blush rose opening to the sun. 
 
 " It's so hard for you ! " says she ; " but it will not 
 last much longer now ; the clouds are quite down, and 
 you can see those mountains above them over there. 
 Every one says that is the best sign."
 
 ROMANCE. 99 
 
 "We've had nothing but better signs and best 
 signs, according to the people here, for the last month. 
 It's a base invention on their part to detain us." 
 
 " But you know," remonstrates Lady Laure, " that 
 they say they have never had anything like it. Every 
 day they expect the fine weather ! " 
 
 "And every day it doesn't come," grumbles 
 Lorraine. "If we had Lucie here, it might be en- 
 dured ; but he is like the fine weather, a snare and a 
 delusion! But for his false hopes, I should have 
 vanished long ago ! If he doesn't appear, I shall take 
 myself out of this wet sponge, at any rate before the 
 week's out." 
 
 "Your last appearances, Mr. Lorraine," remarks 
 Mr. Mildew, just released from the chess-table, " remind 
 me of * the last night positively ' of a provincial star." 
 
 " Ah ! very true," says Lorraine, throwing himself 
 back in his chair, impatiently ; " with the difference 
 that the star wants to stay, and I want to go." 
 
 " Why not go ? " suggests Mr. Mildew, with an 
 immovable voice. 
 
 " Because I'm a lazy idiot." 
 
 "A harmless reason, at any rate, as far as your 
 neighbours are concerned," says Mr. Mildew. 
 " Yesterday I thought you were waiting to see Lord 
 Lucie." 
 
 "Well, yes; but I don't remember yesterday. 
 These rains wash everything out of mind and body. 
 I am developing into that fungus. Lady Laure, which
 
 100 PEINCE FOETUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 I talked to you about one evening long ago ! Heigho ! 
 liow long it ^vas ago! Do you think we shall ever, 
 any of us, get away from this place? I have my 
 doubts. Isn't there a fable somewhere, of people 
 taking root ? — growing out into stones and trees ? " 
 
 He gives a glance across at Mr. Mildew, who i& 
 evidently watching the effect of his words upon Lady 
 Laure. The glance brings another direct upon himself 
 — a glance from under Mr. Mildew's bent eyebrows, 
 full of silent menace. Lorraine's lips curl slightly. 
 He gets up, and, taking a light chair in his hand, he 
 plants it close beside Lady Laure, and sets himself 
 in it, blocking out Mr. Mildew. 
 
 Playing with one end of her hroderie as he speaks, 
 " If this is to be our ultimatum," says he, " you shall 
 be the tree, Lady Laure, and I will be the stone at 
 your feet." 
 
 She meets his eyes for an instant with a quick 
 blush ; she is not likely to give him any other answer 
 about this arrangement. 
 
 " I shall at least be quiet and comfortable," adds 
 Lorraine ; " and I hope you, too. Lady Laure, will find 
 some advantage in the situation ! " He pushes his 
 chair back, and opens Mr. Mildew again upon the scene. 
 
 "Oh! we need not fear," says Lady Laure, still 
 blushing, but with no sign of displeasure at Lorraine's 
 *' comfortable arrangements." " Look at Mr. Mildew ^ 
 he is quite safe at present, and yet it is almost twenty 
 years that he has been here."
 
 ROMANCE. 101 
 
 Lorraine does as he is bid ; he looks round ; he 
 ■expects to see Mr. Mildew white or black with wrath. 
 The whole of his " comfortable arrangement " was 
 rehearsed, not for the purpose of making Lady Laure 
 blush, but to make Mr. Mildew frown ; but, for a 
 wonder, Mr. Mildew meets him with a smile — a most 
 irritating smile. 
 
 Lady Laure sees only the smile, and none of the 
 irritation. " You see he is quite safe," she says again, 
 recovering from her confusion under the cover of Mr. 
 Mildew's remarkable safety. 
 
 " Quite safe," echoes Mr. Mildew, always smiling. 
 The ironical tone matches the smile. 
 
 Lorraine's temper takes fire, he is transported to 
 sudden exasperation, his balance fairly goes. "Why 
 not ? " he exclaims. " A fungus by name and nature ! " 
 
 Lady Laure reddens to the brows ; her work drops 
 from her hands in distress and agitation. From a calm 
 she is plunged into a chaos. It is the affair of an 
 instant. Mr. Mildew alone is cool. 
 
 " You are confounding me with yourself, Mr. Lor- 
 raine — a most unaccountable liberty ! By your own 
 representation just now, it is you who are the fungus. 
 For myself, I only claim to be the naturalist, making 
 my observations upon all varieties of species." 
 
 Mr. Mildew's stern face gives Lorraine to under- 
 stand what sort of observation he is making upon him 
 in particular. 
 
 Ladv Laure looks from one to the other, her blue
 
 102 PETNCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 eyes stretclied wide in pain and surprise. She would 
 give the world to say something, to do something, to 
 make it all right again, to wipe out that wanton speech, 
 to console Mr. Mildew, to bring an atoning word from 
 Lorraine. 
 
 To wipe out what Lorraine had scored upon the 
 pages of the ineffaceable was not given to Lady Laure 
 to do ; but she moved him with her unfeigned distress, 
 and he was stung himself with the glaring fact that 
 be had transgressed the bounds of decent manners. 
 Banter is never repented of — insult may be. Lorraine, 
 after his inexcusable outburst, is cooling down into 
 something like contrition. It was strange, but he had 
 never felt so little inimical to Mr. Mildew before. 
 
 He had no particle of personal pride, as pride — 
 wbat he had, was a most complacent self-confidence; 
 as for anything like dogged obstinacy, it would have 
 been too much trouble to go through with it. Con- 
 vinced now of the wrong, it was perfectly easy to him 
 to say, " You are quite right, Mr. Mildew ; it was a 
 mistake — a very unwarrantable one, I admit. I beg 
 your pardon." 
 
 Mr. Mildew was a philosopher and a philanthropist ; 
 but he was not flexible — he could neither bend nor 
 unbend before the winds of Lorraine's rash follies or 
 frank apologies. He draws himself up stiffly and 
 bows. Then, with a brief leave-taking to Lady Laure, 
 he goes.
 
 KOMANCE. 103 
 
 It is too much for Lady Laure. It is the first storm 
 of her gentle life. She is heartbroken to have witnessed 
 this offence ; she is heartbroken to think of the offender ; 
 she is heartbroken to see the proud displeasure of her 
 old friend — so just a displeasure — so just, she knows. 
 And now beside her is Lorraine, subduing her with 
 a fresh emotion. 
 
 He takes her hand between his own, a real regret 
 in his dark eyes. " Forgive my folly ! " he pleads. 
 " I am a sad bear ! " He smoothes with unconscious 
 tenderness the hand he still holds. " A sad bear. I 
 always told you so — told you to beware of me." 
 
 It is too much for Lady Laure. She cannot control 
 herself; her tears fall abundantly. Like the showers 
 Avithout, once begun, they continue to fall, she cannot 
 stop them. 
 
 It was Lorraine's first acquaintance with a woman's 
 tears, as an appeal against himself. At the next 
 exhibition of this sort he may become more hardened ; 
 but now he is completely conquered. If he had com- 
 mitted murder on the spot, he could not have felt more 
 guilty. "I am a wretch ! " he cries ; " a monster, to 
 bring these tears to your eyes ! " 
 
 Lady Laure fain would say, " No, not a wretch, not 
 a monster ; " but since she has no voice to speak it, she 
 looks it. 
 
 Lorraine for the last month has been laying every- 
 thing upon the weather. It may be the weather to-day 
 which has so upset his sang-froid; clearly he is fast
 
 lOi PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 losing his balance again. " Your sweet blue eyes," he 
 murmurs, remorsefully. 
 
 Lady Laure's blue eyes, glistening with tears and 
 forgiveness, are sweet indeed, sweet, tender, resistless. 
 
 Lorraine's mental horizons are turning upside down. 
 The common things of this world — coolness, caution, 
 cold-blooded calculation — fade from his vision; he 
 sees only a pair of tearful blue eyes, and at their bid- 
 ding the far-back Past and the bewildering Present 
 rush together, and with a strong wave of his feelings 
 bring him to his crisis. 
 
 "Laure, you are mine. You remember the old 
 days — you remember our betrothal?" He says no 
 more ; but he has said enough. 
 
 He takes both hands now, and clasps them in sign 
 of full possession. He presses for no spoken word. 
 Why should he ? Modest make-believe is not in his 
 nature. When he dallies with things, it is in amuse- 
 ment, not in mock humility. Why should he hide 
 that he has read this long time the heart that he 
 has made his own, together with these clasped hands ? 
 He besrins where others end — as master. 
 
 And yet — and yet, it is on the cards that witli this 
 heart, and these two white hands, he has taken the 
 Fate which is to be his master, whether he will or no, 
 — come what — come may.
 
 ( 105 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 REALITIES. 
 
 Full sweet is May and sweet is June, 
 
 When birds and buds are all in tune, 
 
 To wander in the star-lit night, 
 
 Or in the round moon's silver light, 
 
 And sing the praise of two bright eyes ; 
 
 'Tis sweet as Muslim Paradise. 
 
 Yes ! — May, and June, and stars, and moon, 
 
 And Love's bright eyes, and minstrel tune, — 
 
 Delightful all ; no doubt, they are. 
 
 But, friend, the world is better far ! 
 
 After Heine. 
 
 Let us suppose that gossipmonger we were talking 
 about just now to have been peeping unawares in at 
 the windows upon these two young people. She — or 
 it might very well have been he — would have gone 
 away, and said, upon the best authority, that Lorraine 
 had lost his heart ; but getting only a superficial view 
 of the affair, as is so often the way, he would have 
 said the thing that was not. It was his head that 
 Lorraine lost. He was not the first man, and probably 
 will not be the last, who has found himself planted on 
 his knees before the fair one, making eternal vows, and 
 claiming all that she has to give in return, without
 
 106 PRIXCE FOETUNE AXD PEDsCE FATAL. 
 
 having had the smallest premeditation in the matter. 
 No one is so taken by surprise as the ardent lover 
 himself — no one so glad as he, could he, in drill phrase, 
 be " as you were." But all the world over, it is easier 
 to do than to undo. 
 
 The man who is capable of losing his head after 
 this fashion, allowing for rare exceptions, is probably 
 without the courage of his convictions. In vain he 
 says to himself — he says it to no one else — that he 
 doesn't care a straw for her! But he swallows it all 
 down ; he does not even struggle ; and the finish of 
 it is, the model marriage, and the model couple, who 
 live happily ever after — or seem to do, which is the 
 essential point. 
 
 We left Lorraine as near as possible upon his 
 knees — upon one knee certainly — absorbed in the task 
 of drying Lady Laure's tearful cheeks by calling into 
 them the timid blushes of happy love. 
 
 It was one of those critical situations, which, like 
 retiring backwards, it is difficult to withdraw from 
 with the natural ease and finish suited to the occasion. 
 Once on your knees, the question is how to get off 
 them, and when. Lorraine had scarcely begun to put 
 this question to himself, when it was solved im- 
 2yromptu by a voice at his back, with the croak of 
 a raven, and the words, " Did you ring, my lady ? " 
 
 It was Burton who had thus taken advantage of 
 these unguarded outposts.
 
 EEALITIES. 107 
 
 It is a curious thing to consider what the effect 
 would have been if this inquiry had been made 
 five minutes earlier. It is not too much to say that 
 the eventualities of two lives at the least would, 
 in all human probability, have been quite otherwise 
 to what they proved to be. But then, they say. Fate 
 fits affairs to a nicety, and philosophers tell us all 
 things happen of necessity; and therefore we must 
 accept that it was not in the range of possibilities that 
 Burton's croak could have come one moment before 
 it did. 
 
 This catspaw of destiny, after letting Mr. Mildew 
 out, had lounged for a while at the hall door. " How 
 quiet you are ! " said he to himself. " I wonder what's 
 going on." Finally he came to the determination 
 that he would just go and see. 
 
 Burton and Mrs. Jenkins, Lady Laure's own maid, 
 had had their eyes open for some time. When, indeed, 
 do servants not have their eyes open ? When is their 
 prescience at fault in your concerns? They can tell 
 you what must happen before you know it yourself; 
 it is quite useless to try to hoodwink them ; it is better 
 to take them into your confidence. 
 
 There is something burlesque in these love sur- 
 prises, especially by the butler ! Lady Laure falters, 
 "No." Lorraine curses the situation with all his 
 heart. He gets on his feet with an angry start, takes 
 out his watch, mutters something about its being late, 
 and escapes upon the plea of dressing for dinner. It 
 was a bad beginning.
 
 108 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Lorraine's bedroom, or rather the room in which he 
 slept, was in a sort of side entresol, with a short flight 
 of steps up to it, and another short flight leading up 
 again to the first floor proper. It was as incommodious 
 as improvised sleeping-rooms usually are ; and to this 
 might be added also the usual Continental shortcomings 
 of bedrooms in those days. 
 
 It had been a little salon, and the space was 
 blocked with a variety of tables, couches, and cabi- 
 nets. Some grim-looking oil paintings hung upon 
 the walls, and between the two windows was a mirror, 
 in which your reflection took the appearance of a 
 shadowy mass, without outlines. The toilet-table was 
 to be sought for in the darkest corner of the room ; 
 it was simple, — consisting of a meagre tripod wash- 
 stand, and a cracked, oblong looking-glass nailed high 
 above it. There was a desolate feeling about the 
 room, in spite of the lumber of furniture ; perhaps for 
 its inappropriateness, or by reason of the half-excluded 
 light, or through the dreary look of the empty hearth — 
 a wide and dusty cave, that seemed to be yawning for 
 the giant logs which were not. The windows opened 
 double ; both stood half ajar ; the rain came freely 
 through, and everywhere went the musical hum of the 
 mosquito — airy insect ! Near to one window, upon a 
 chair, lay a pile of collars and linen, partially moist- 
 ened, and all more or less in shreds — the effects of the 
 vigorous stone-beating au hord du rivage. 
 
 The room was not altogether solitary, for upon a
 
 EEALITIES. 10^ 
 
 couch, out of the draught, reposed the solemn Burton's 
 pet poodle, taking his siesta upon Stultz's chef d'oeiivre. 
 If the dog had been a physiognomist, he would have 
 got at once out of the way. 
 
 Lorraine's face is lowering ; he shivers, frowns, and 
 turns himself round. Clearly a storm is brewing. 
 The first signs of it, comes with a dash at the poodle. 
 In his pursuit, he catches his foot in a mosquito 
 curtaiD, and rends it remorselessly. Finally, the crea- 
 ture escapes by the window, at the risk of its legs and 
 its neck. It was not fair upon the dog, for in happier 
 moments Lorraine had encouraged the intimacy : but 
 such is the friendship of man ! 
 
 Matters being so far arranged, Lorraine stands- 
 posed in the middle of the room, his hand to his head,, 
 meditating. 
 
 At last, with the air of a man who has arrived at 
 a decided opinion, he bows his head, and makes thi& 
 sotto voce speech to himself, "Claude Lorraine, the 
 engaged man ! — I congratulate you upon this day's 
 work ! " And then he begins to dress. 
 
 But this operation does not improve his temper. 
 This is the day for all things to go wrong. One split 
 collar after another strews the floor ; he stumbles over 
 the furniture; he can find nothing. He kicks the 
 impediments right and left. He is more worried than 
 he has ever been in his life. 
 
 " If they'd given me a garret instead of this furni- 
 ture shop ! Breaking my shins, and losing one thing 
 after another, like an idiot ! "
 
 110 PEIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 But he gets tlirougli it somehow. Now he is 
 planted before the glass, to give the final touches. 
 But the necktie partakes of the universal tendency; 
 it has such an atrocious twist in it! No wonder, when 
 the split surface reflects everything awry. Lorraine 
 grows weary of the game. 
 
 " You cracked bit of rubbish," says he, " you are 
 a deal too good to show the face of such a — confounded 
 fool as I am ! " 
 
 Thus suddenly Lorraine drifted away from his 
 calm security* his safe soundings. Not of deliberate 
 will — far enough from that; but because, in spite of 
 protesting, he was only a man like the rest — prone to 
 anger ; prone to pity ; prone to passion ; he might 
 himself have added, prone to lunacy.
 
 ( 111 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE YII. 
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 Just a thing or two, 
 Before hence I go, 
 I should like to know. 
 
 "Why does not modesty thrive ? 
 And why can the bold knave dive 
 With his hand unstung in the hive ? 
 
 And why, with danger in sight, 
 With the wrong as plain as the right. 
 Don't we choose as well as we might ? 
 
 And why will a woman love best 
 The man who has freely confest 
 Open scorn for her and the rest ? 
 
 Two clays are past and gone, and yet, save by tacit 
 admission, this pair of lovers have not reverted to that 
 emotional scene between them which had been so 
 prosaically brought to a close. Certainly it was for 
 Lorraine to renew the subject, and he knew it. Still, 
 he delayed ; only delay, however, if he had hopes of 
 drifting away from it — of letting it drop out of mind 
 in a natural sort of way — if at first he allowed him- 
 self any such hopes, he very soon abandoned them. 
 On his side, indeed, such a lapse would have been
 
 "-•,^J^'' 
 
 112 PEIXCE FOETUXE AND TEIXXE FATAL. 
 
 easy enough. That half-hour of romance had left him 
 where he was ; but, read by the key he alone had, 
 he beheld Lady Laure altogether transfigured by it. 
 Her voice, her eyes, her mantling cheeks, her move- 
 ments, her gentle gestures were all redolent of the 
 love she had dared to take and had dared to give. 
 Lorraine saw it all, felt it all, as he followed her steps 
 and studied her face with more observance, — with some- 
 thing of a freer eye than heretofore ; he read it all. 
 
 If these signs of her maiden passion awoke no 
 corresponding thrills of rapture in his own breast, they 
 broke up for the moment the monotony of the life ; 
 if the sight of her sweet, queenly loveliness, tremulous 
 with her new joy, did not bring him again to her feet 
 it at least qualified some of his self-remorse at the 
 sacrifice he had made for her. 
 
 " If a man," said he to himself, " must make a fool 
 < »f himself, could any woman on earth furnish him with 
 a better excuse ? " 
 
 It took two reluctant days to bring him to the 
 ])oint ; on the third he resigns himself to his position. 
 
 As usual, the two are left to their own resources. 
 Lady Laure has put aside her embroidery, and is 
 daintily playing with a bunch of rose buds Lorraine 
 has gathered for her. Lorraine himself is walking up 
 and down in a fidgety way. At last, he stops short in 
 front of her. 
 
 " I suppose," says he, '' I must speak to Lord Bel- 
 larmine."
 
 THE QUESTION. 113 
 
 Lady Laure lifts her eyes with an uncertain ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Lorraine answers her look with another, which says 
 quite plainly, " Don't afiect not to know what I mean." 
 
 Lady Laure is truth itself. She has neither 
 coquetry nor affectation. She understands now, quite 
 well ; but still, it was scarcely fair on his side. 
 
 " Well,"'says he. 
 
 " Oh, you know how much he likes you I " she 
 murmurs. 
 
 " Likes me ! " — a half-smile comes upon his lips. 
 •• Well, yes, certainly I have every reason to believe it." 
 
 Then he falls a-thinking, and goes back to his walk 
 up and down. At the second turn he stops again, throws 
 his head back with the air of putting a thought on one 
 side. He touches her cheek lightly. " What do you 
 say, Laure ? Shall this secret belong to you and to me 
 for yet one more day ? How can we best enjoy this 
 stolen bliss? Shall we climb to that mountain-top, 
 and confide it to the winds ? only we must take care 
 — take care they don't blow it away ! " He speaks 
 with a laugh, a reckless laugh. 
 
 Lady Laure sees no harm. She sees nothing but 
 her handsome lover and her own love ; her eyes beam 
 Avith it. 
 
 *' You are happy ! " says Lorraine. She would fain 
 reply. But he goes quickly on. "You are happy; it 
 wants no words to tell me that." Then he looks steadily 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 PRIXCE FORTUNE AND PRIXCE FATAL. 
 
 at her. " And you are lovely this morning. Now, don't 
 be hurt ; but it's true, that before the last two days I 
 never knew you were even beautiful. But now," says 
 he, smiling, " now that I have formed my opinion, let 
 me tell you that you are lovely, very lovely, Laure ; 
 and lovely, takes in a great many — well charms I 
 will say — that beautiful does not." 
 
 Then he throws his head back again, — it is a 
 trick he has, to suit certain expressions. He goes on : 
 "I, you see, Laure, have a habit of not noticing a 
 woman's looks. Now, some men would tell you off her 
 points in half an hour. Are they the better lovers, do 
 you think ? By-the-by, I have a right now to be in- 
 quisitive. Talking of lovers, did you ever have a 
 lover — a grown-up lover — before Laure? — the inimit- 
 able Aboyne, for instance?" He has turned grave; he 
 looks as if he means to be answered. 
 
 Lady Laure masters a hesitation. " Why ask this," 
 says she, " when you know that Arthur Aboyne is 
 nothing to me — except that we have been friends all 
 our lives ? " 
 
 "That's not the point. Does he care for you? — 
 love you, in fact ? I don't see how he can have lived 
 with you all his life without doing so ! — mind you, I 
 am speaking by the light of the last three days." 
 
 Lady Laure's eyes seek the ground. "If — if I 
 
 could have cared for him, then — then " She is 
 
 covered with confusion. She looks up at him, plead- 
 ingly. " I tell you everything ; but — but "
 
 THE QUESTION. 115 
 
 " Well, well, don't go on, if it distresses you," says 
 Lorraine, laughing. " You've not told me much ; but 
 never mind, I can guess the rest." Then he stops for 
 a moment, before he says, " He's a regular beau now, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " He reads, you know ; he took the highest degree 
 at Oxford." 
 
 " Ah ! a double first ! Six feet four, and ugly in 
 proportion ! " and Lorraine gives himself a stretch. 
 
 Allowing for exaggeration, it was Aboyne to the life. 
 
 Lady Laure's involuntary silence and a half in- 
 voluntary smile give no denial to the unflattering 
 portrait. 
 
 Lorraine turns round short. '' You women," says 
 he, " only care for outside show ! " After which 
 remark, he looks moodily out of the window. 
 
 To Lady Laure it seems an age that he stands thus. 
 When he does break silence, he speaks with his back 
 still towards her — 
 
 " What's the use of putting it off ? I must go to 
 your father ! " Then he faces her with rapid words, " I 
 swear to you, Laure," he cries — '• I swear to you I never 
 asked for a woman's hand in my life ; either of her or 
 
 of any one else ! I would have seen them all at 
 
 Well, I mean I would not have troubled any one with 
 the request." 
 
 There is no mistaking the state of annoyance he 
 is in. 
 
 Lady Laure watches him, with eyes full of the
 
 116 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 deepest sympathy. She puts it all down to the diffi- 
 culty of the situation, and to the diffidence of her lover. 
 She half begins to speak. She is on the point of again 
 assuring him of her father's regard ; but this she has 
 said before, and this he knows ; so she stops and sits 
 silently sharing his trouble. 
 
 " I tell you what it is ! It's unbearable. I'll go at 
 once, and get it over ! If I don't, I shall contract a 
 hang-dog look that will stick to me all my life ! " 
 
 But that climb to the mountain-top; those soft 
 confessions to the winds ! Lady Laure remembers all 
 this ; but he has forgotten it. This trouble, she thinks, 
 is too much for him. If she could but lighten it. She 
 looks truly distressed. 
 
 "I am so sorry — so sorry," says she. "I cannot 
 bear to be the cause of such — such pain to you. If I 
 could only do anything ! " 
 
 Lorraine starts up to her with a laugh. It seems 
 to him supremely ridiculous. "Upon my word, Laure, 
 this is most original. You'll be starting off to ask the 
 
 question yourself, to save me the trouble ! I am not 
 
 bashful, you know, nor doubtful ; — it's only my laziness." 
 
 Lady Laure cannot help it. The tears come into 
 her eyes. If this trouble is not too much for him, his 
 constant revulsions are too much for her. 
 
 '''•■ Good Heavens ! " is the next word. " Why, you are
 
 THE QUESTION. 117 
 
 crying ! How easily your tears flow ! Cure yourself of 
 this, Laure. I object to tears." Then he tries a better 
 method : he strokes her hair, and caresses her kindly. 
 **You mustn't mind this," he says; "it's only my 
 way." 
 
 And so she smiles again. 
 
 "That's right; that's right." He takes both her 
 hands in his ; he speaks earnestly, feelingly, entreat- 
 ingly. " Be happy, Laure ! be happy ! What on 
 earth is the use of this affair if you are not happy ? " 
 
 Lorraine has gone from Lady Laure. He crosses 
 the hall slowly ; still more slowly he mounts the steps 
 to his room ; he passes the door, and mounts again to 
 the upper floor ; then he turns down a small passage 
 to the room where he expects to find the earl. 
 
 " Confound it ! " he said to himself. " I don't half 
 like the game, for myself or for her either. It's all 
 his doings," and he nods at the door before him. 
 " Nobody in his senses can doubt that ! A deep-laid 
 plot ; and I, like a fool, have fallen into it. Poor little 
 dove ! I am not the mate for her ; but the mischief's 
 done. But even now, I wouldn't stir a step if she had 
 not taken so desperately to me, I swear ! Well, it's 
 all a lottery. And now for the ticket. What a prize a 
 blank would be ! No such luck ! " 
 
 And with that he turns the handle, and is face to 
 face with his father-in-law to be.
 
 118 PRIXCE FOETUNE AND TRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER Till. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 He asked for her love on a midsummer day ; 
 'Twas partly in idleness, partly in play, 
 And partly, perchance, for something to say. 
 
 The maiden lacks three of her twentieth year, 
 Blushes shy as his words fall sweet on her ear, 
 Drops down her blue eyes, but sees nothing to fear. 
 
 Sitting out of the sunshine, and into the shade, 
 
 Where the citron trees blossomed, and sea-ripples played. 
 
 And only the winds heard the vows that they made. 
 
 So fair speeds the wooing this midsummer day ; 
 For the maiden says, " Yes ! " and the father says, " Aye ! ** 
 But there's ever a moral that follows the play. 
 » 
 Of late, the earl had betaken himself in the mornings 
 to a small upstairs room at the east end of the house. 
 He said it was the rain and the wind driving irom the 
 south-west and beating upon the large loose window- 
 frames of the room they used as a drawing-room, that 
 had sent him away from it. There was too much noise 
 and too little light, with the vines trailing about out- 
 side, in these days of storms and clouds. These reasons 
 were very valid, no doubt. Anyhow, he was free to sit
 
 THE ANSWER. 119 
 
 where he pleased. Now he was stationed close to the 
 window, wliich was open. 
 
 *• I don't disturb yon, I hope," says Lorraine, by 
 way of a beginning. 
 
 " Nut in the least. I am very glad of your com- 
 pany. Mildew has not been up to-day. I suppose it's 
 the rain. Do you object to the open window ? This 
 room is too small to smoke in it, shut up. You know 
 my weakness. I must have my cheroot. \Vhat 
 weather still! And in these houses, built for line 
 weather only, of course there are no appliances such 
 as we have at home." 
 
 There was no denying the truth of this statement, 
 and Lorraine let it pass without comment. 
 
 *' The further north you go, the better the indoor 
 life, I fancy," continues the earl. " St. Petersburg is 
 perfect, they say." 
 
 " I am not so sure about Lapland," answers Lor- 
 raine, looking absently out of the window. 
 
 " Well, no ; the process of being smoked under 
 ground might be worse than being smoked above 
 ground in this small room, as I was saying." The 
 earl laughs at his witty notion; then he pushes 
 the cigars across. "Good Havanas; I dare not risk 
 the manufactures of this country." 
 
 " Thank you,'* says Lorraine ; " but I won't smoke 
 just now." He is not talkative, but stands still looking 
 out abroad. 
 
 " As you like ; but you are too hardened an offender
 
 120 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 for me to apologize for finishing this," and the earl 
 points to his cigar. " By-the-by, you'll like to see the 
 Times. I am sorry to say it's gone down to Mildew. 
 He'll bring it up himself in the afternoon. It was a 
 little stratagem of mine to get him up here for a game, 
 you see. I hope it will answer ; I must keep him u[> 
 to the mark." 
 
 Lorraine does not compliment the earl upon his 
 powers of stratagem, — though quite prepared to do him 
 justice on that head. He is somewhat dumb now ; 
 he has not lost his self-possession, but only his flow of 
 speech. He can think of nothing to say beyond the 
 plain question he has come to ask ; he feels as little 
 agitation as he does alarm. If his heart would beat 
 a little, it might carry him through ; but he is alto- 
 gether becalmed. However, he faces round at last, and 
 makes his request without more preface, and with a 
 briefness bordering upon the abrupt — 
 
 " My lord, I have come to ask of you the hand of 
 Lady Laure." 
 
 " Bless me ! have you got to that already ? " ex- 
 claims the earl, with a most transparent candour ; but 
 now the time has come for plain speaking, and the half- 
 finished cigar goes down. " You want to marry Laure ? 
 Why, how long has this been ? " 
 
 Lorraine tightens his lips, to repress some feeling or 
 other he does not care to reveal, and says, " A chance, 
 last evening. I mean a day or two since. I come, of 
 course, to you."
 
 THE ANSWER. 121 
 
 " Of course, of course," smiles the earl. " We must 
 keep to the prescribed rule in these matters. But 
 what does Laure say ? " 
 
 " Lady Laure loves me, my lord," is the frank reply. 
 
 " Loves you ! Has she said so ? " 
 
 " Beyond a doubt," was the downright word. 
 
 " You have acted honourably, Claude, as you were 
 certain to do ! " 
 
 Claude ! This address is more than encouraging, it 
 is aftectionate. Lorraine is not slow to see it ; he feels 
 he must follow it up with something ; so he begins, 
 ^' We have not met as strangers. Lady Laure and I 
 are such very old friends. We have known each other 
 so long." 
 
 "And seen each other so little," adds the earl, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " That is true ; — but if we had seen each other every 
 day for the last ten years, I might not have been here 
 now." Lorraine speaks honestly. 
 
 " Why not, why not ? " says the earl, quickly. 
 " It's the most reasonable affair possible, and the most 
 likely." 
 
 Lorraine longed to say a piece of his mind, but he 
 keeps it perforce to himself. 
 
 " Well, well," coutinues the earl. " I suppose 
 there's not much behind the scenes for either of you — 
 nothing but w^hat the lawyers can arrange very com- 
 fortably. And as to Laure, I can tell you she is a 
 sweet-tempered and sensible girl. But this you have
 
 122 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 found out fur yourself; and you are an honourable 
 amiable young fellow. Tired of knocking about ; like 
 to be settled, eh ? " 
 
 "Settled!" A terrible word to rini? in his ears. The 
 earl looks up in the aspirant's handsome face, which 
 positively changes colour ; but he is fully conscious of 
 the claims of this critical moment, and desperately 
 commits himself to his one speech of gallantry — 
 
 " I am here," he says, " because Lady Laure Lucie 
 is the only woman I have ever seen that I could or 
 would marry." There was a ring of truth in the words, 
 whatever he meant or felt. 
 
 "Honestly said, my dear boy!" was the paternal 
 reply. " It leaves no doubt in my mind as to your own 
 attachment. Lucie will soon be here. We shall see 
 what he says to it." 
 
 " If Lucie is still Lucie," answers Lorraine, some- 
 what haughtily, "obstacles will not come from him ; but 
 on the other hand, neither does consent rest with him . 
 My answer must come from you." 
 
 He stops, and then seeing the earl about to speak', 
 he anticipates him. "I ought to say something, my 
 lord, of my prospects." 
 
 Lorraine's voice gets colder with each word. "I 
 am as poor as a rat ; but, as of course you know, my 
 uncle Sir Loftus can't live for ever." Something like 
 sarcasm mingles with the tone of the next word. " You 
 will, perhaps, consider that I am not much of a match 
 for Lady Laure."
 
 THE ANSV\^ER. 123 
 
 "My good fellow," cries the earl, "there is no 
 occasion for this modesty. We old people, as you say, 
 can't live for ever ; " and he laughed pleasantly. Death, 
 and even its shadows, were still far enough off, amongst 
 the evil possibilities, for Lord Bellarmine to laugh at 
 them. He takes a short step up and down the room. 
 " That poor fellow Aboyne ! " says he, turning with a 
 face full of sympathy. " This will be a terrible cut to 
 him. You're doomed to supplant him, Lorraine ! This 
 puts me in mind of a little event when you were all 
 children together. No doubt you've forgotten it. He 
 felt it then ; he'll feel it more now ! " 
 
 " I have no desire to supplant any one," says Lor- 
 raine, as stifi&y as possible. 
 
 "No, no; of course not. The word's ill chosen. 
 You see, it vras extremely natural that Aboyne should 
 get attached to Laure." 
 
 " Oh ! extremely natural," echoes Lorraine, stiff as 
 ever. 
 
 "The fact is, however," adds the earl, in a confi- 
 dential tone, " Laure has never been anything beyond 
 friendly, and Lucie the same; good friends, nothing 
 more. It was not Laure's fault that Aboyne could not 
 withstand her charms. I have a high esteem for him ; 
 he takes my views in public matters much more, I 
 am sorry to say, than my son does. But as for Laure, I 
 would never force her choice, however desirable a suitor 
 might be. An imprudent choice," says the earl, with 
 emphasis, " she could not make. I have had no fears
 
 124 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 on that score. I left it all to Time ; and, you see, I was 
 right ! You have seen enough of Laure to judge how 
 sensible and prudent she is ! " 
 
 Sensible and prudent ! 
 
 Lorraine feels a cold shudder running all over him. 
 Has he, then, really been angled for as much by the 
 daughter as by the father? Has this woman been 
 simply looking out how to secure a good match in 
 him ? But before the thought fixes itself, he banishes 
 it; the memory of Lady Laure's blue-eyed innocence 
 comes with a rush into his mind, and disarms the 
 wrongful suspicion. But he has said and heard enough. 
 He is getting weary of the interview. "I have my 
 answer, then ? " he said. 
 
 " You have, Lorraine," cries the earl ; and he gives 
 a warm grasp of the hand. " I suppose it must come 
 to this ; there's no help for it. Don't think I don't 
 give her to you willingly ; but " — and here the father's 
 genuine feelings come up, and the voice quivers — 
 •*but take care of her!" Then, brushing something 
 like a tear away, he changes to a cheerful tone again. 
 " I must find my dear Laure. I must lose no more 
 time in giving her the assurance of my entire ap- 
 proval." 
 
 The earl has tact enough to see that, at any rate 
 for Lorraine, this conversation had lasted long enough. 
 At best it is an awkward ordeal for the person who 
 plays the part of pretender to the fair lady's hand. 
 He moves to the door, and Lorraine follows him.
 
 THE ANSWER. 125 
 
 " I am impatient," says the earl, giving a last word 
 and a look back — "lam impatient to see how my 
 little girl looks and feels in her new position. I 
 wonder how I shall find her ! " Then he waves his 
 hand, and they part company in the hall. 
 
 " And I wonder how I look in my new position ! " 
 mutters Lorraine, under his breath. "I know very 
 well how I feel, — and that's exactly like the fool that 
 
 135 
 am. 
 
 The wind had risen of a sudden, and raged like a 
 hurricane ; the weather as well as other things seemed 
 to be arriving at a crisis. The house shook, the 
 windows burst open, the doors slammed; abroad 
 the rain drove in torrents, the leaves flew in clouds, 
 the branches snapt short oif, — it was a regular war 
 of the elements. 
 
 In the midst of it all Lorraine takes his hat and 
 goes out. He passes through the citron grove; the 
 fruit is being wildly torn from the trees. Lorraine 
 smiles at the work of destruction. " An encouraging 
 omen, all this ! " thinks he. From the grove, he goes 
 down by the cliff to the shore. The sea is in an up- 
 roar; the waves are dashing furiously on the rocks 
 right and left ; the wind has shifted and catches the 
 coast-line. Lorraine half loses his footing. He plants 
 his back against a boulder, and there stands, looking 
 sulkily across the raging waters.
 
 126 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 So he remains, reviewing the three momentous 
 days now closing. Never before has he had any 
 momentous days, either to look forward or backward 
 to. A great black gulf seems to have opened between 
 that happy time and this. 
 
 " I have been mad," he cries, " madder than this 
 mad sea ! " In his desperate regret, he forgets all but 
 the folly he is deploring, and leaving his safe post, 
 catches the full fury of a wave and falls back, stagger- 
 ing under the drenching weight. 
 
 A comical self-contempt takes the place of his 
 angry self-reproach. As he shakes the wet out of his 
 eyes, and sees the white foaming water pouring off 
 him, he says to himself, **' Friend, I wish you'd taken 
 this shower bath three days ago ; it might have brought 
 you to your senses ! " 
 
 And then he beats a retreat. 
 
 When he gets up to the orange grove, he sees Mr. 
 3[ildew before him, going up the garden path between 
 the myrtle hedges. '* Old villain ! " mutters Lorraine. 
 " I wish he had been petrified with his bones, before 
 he came across me, with his sneers! I've to thank 
 him for leading up to all this ! " When he went into 
 the house, Mr. Mildew was still in the hall. 
 
 " You seem to like the rain to-day," says he. " As 
 I came along the hills, I believe I saw you on the 
 beach half an hour ago."
 
 THE ANSWEK. 127 
 
 " Yes," said Lorraine ; " I've been treating myself 
 to a variety of good things to-day." 
 
 "Doubtful good, I should say, to judge by this 
 last enjoyment," replies Mr. Mildew. 
 
 " Very doubtful," answers Lorraine, grimly. 
 
 " I should advise you to change everything," said 
 Mr. Mildew, pointing to the dripping pool that 
 Lorraine was making on the floor. 
 
 " You see," said Lorraine, " there are some things 
 }ou can't change ! " 
 
 "A singularly disagreeable young man," was Mr. 
 IMildew's mental remark, as Lorraine slowly dragged 
 himself and his heavy garments out of sight. — " I wish 
 other people thought as I do ! " 
 
 The man gave a sigh of such profound sorrow, a 
 look of such profound sadness, that if you had seen 
 them, you would have been sorry for him.
 
 128 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Stand still, Old Time ; rein in thy golden hours, 
 
 And stay their flight. 
 I am so blest ! ah ! wither not the flowers 
 
 Of my delight. 
 Enough of grieving hearts sigh here below ; 
 
 For them depart. 
 Speed with their days the burden of their woe ; 
 
 Leave my glad heart. 
 
 Does it not cry, " O day, shine on for ever ! 
 
 Go not away " ? 
 And to the night it sighs, " Ah ! leave me never ; 
 
 For ever stay ! " 
 They heed me not — they pass— they mount— they soar. 
 
 What do they say ? 
 " Life has no port ; Time has no resting shore ; 
 
 Love while you may ! " 
 
 "Genaro Patelaeo;" and Maddelena and Giause 
 and all the rest of them are saying gaily, "Genaro 
 Patelaro." 
 
 It is time that this chorus should be heard, for the 
 year is now nearly a month old, and this chorus would 
 say, " Here is calm January again ; now pick up shells 
 if you will." But it is come at last — this calm January. 
 And divine, indeed, is the calm ; in one short span of
 
 LOVE. 129 
 
 days, winter had departed, and the sun again was lord 
 of all. 
 
 Traces of the howling storms, so lately raging, 
 were to be seen, in the levelled vines, the scattered 
 lemons, the broken boughs; in the breaches in the 
 roads, and in the swollen streams. But the cloudy veil 
 had rolled back below the verge ; the wind stirred not ; 
 the air was calm as a dream of soft zephyrs ; the tawny 
 hills were turned to a tender purple, and their heights 
 beheld again the snowy range ; the flowers hid their 
 dead blooms beneath new budding blossoms ; the rock 
 swallow, shrill twittering, darted after his tiny prey ; 
 the honey bee worked and hummed — that bright yellow 
 bee, famous amongst its fellows; and on the balmy 
 breeze went the white butterflies in pairs, floating like 
 happy souls, mistaking this glad earth for paradise. 
 
 The houses were empty. The groves, the gardens, 
 the shores, the mountain-paths were all alive. The 
 people had got back to their light hearts. They 
 babbled, they chattered, they gesticulated, they sang, 
 they danced, they could even work. The beggars 
 came out; the children clamoured and crowded; all 
 things were themselves once more, — for the deluge was 
 come and gone. 
 
 Some day it will return. But till then, what skies ; 
 what suns ; what gorgeous days ; what golden nights ; 
 what lightly earned food ; what little care for shelter 
 or for raiment ! How small the wants ! — How large 
 kind Nature's hand ! 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 PEINCE FOKTUNE AND PRI^^CE FATAL. 
 
 Lorraine was as glad as any lazy peasant of the lot 
 to welcome sunshine back again. The deluge, as we 
 know, had tried his temper ; but even these sunbeams 
 brought him no perfect content. 
 
 " This is heat ! " he cries, as he stands lazily 
 smoking outside the drawing-room window. Lady Laure 
 sitting within. "Heat with a vengeance," says he. 
 " Here there's no rule for anything, either for summer 
 or winter. There's that beggar coming up to bother 
 us. He might be in Iceland for the rags he has piled 
 up on his shoulders. So it is with all of them ; they 
 don't distinguish ; — now in India you'll see the native 
 with a clean cloth wrapped round him ; — that looks cool, 
 at least." 
 
 " But that's impossible here," suggests Lady Laure. 
 " What's impossible ? — to be cool and clean ? Oh, I 
 see, you mean the garb of Eden. Well, — perhaps it is" — 
 and he throws away his cigar and walks into the room. 
 " Come and work in this corner, Laure ; your bright 
 eyes don't need the light your father finds so indis- 
 pensable." 
 
 Lorraine laughs ; but the joke is with himself 
 "Stay; let me move your table. There!" and he 
 sets it down. " Walking half a yard is enough to kill 
 one. 
 
 He drops indolently into a chair beside her, stretch- 
 ing out his long legs. " Now we'll make ourselves 
 as comfortable as we can under the circumstances." 
 He puts his arm round, and in simple fashion gives
 
 LOVE. 131 
 
 her a kiss. "With full permission of the paternal 
 authority, Lady Laure ; but it's not the first, if my 
 memory serves me, by many." 
 
 Lady Laure starts with inexpressible confusion. 
 What did he mean ? Surely at this moment he could 
 not boast of other women's kisses! But it is sport 
 to him. 
 
 " Of the very first," he says, " I have the most 
 distinct recollection ; subsequent favours I can't par- 
 ticularize." 
 
 " This is too much," and she rises, looking deeply 
 injured. 
 
 He, laughing always, detains her. 
 
 " Now listen to me, Laure. The very first kiss was- 
 on this wise : 'Tis about ten years ago since I first tasted 
 this cup of bliss. Now don't start and stare like a 
 frightened deer. We were young and innocent then, I 
 suppose you'll allow. It was upon a winter's night, 
 not just such a mock winter as we have here. Jack 
 Frost was king, and held high revel over wood and 
 moor. On that night, as the clock struck the magic 
 hour of twelve — it was New Year's Eve, which makes 
 it all the more memorable — a little lady, beautiful as 
 the day, or as the moonlit night, or as the stars, stood 
 on the terrace steps of an old English house " 
 
 Lady Laure, beaming with happy smiles, begins to 
 speak. 
 
 " Now don't interrupt my poetic flow, and make a 
 note of it for Lucie — her white robe was like gossamer.
 
 132 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 but, to shield her from the sharp night air, round her 
 shoulders was a boy's jacket, and round her waist a 
 boy's arm — just thus," says he ; " and on her cheek 
 a boy's bold lips — just thus, too;" and he suits the 
 action to the word. 
 
 Lady Laure is all blushes, pleasure, and emotion. 
 
 " So you remember it, do you ? " he says. " Well, ten 
 years hence, how do you think you and I will remem- 
 ber this day's rehearsal — of that ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " she cries, " I have never forgotten you, Mr. 
 Lorraine." 
 
 " Mr. Lorraine ! Well, I was Claude then, and since 
 things are, as they are, I may as well be Claude now. 
 Call me Claude. It's a curious thing, but the first 
 moment we met again, I felt inclined to call you Laure. 
 With you and Lucie mixed up in my head, you see, 
 I couldn't for the life of me forget our old gambols 
 together." 
 
 " I was not sure that you would like it," says she. 
 
 " Like what ? " 
 
 " Oh, like me to call you Claude, you know." 
 
 " Why, you are half afraid of the word now ! " he 
 cries, laughing at her timid shyness. " Am I such a 
 Bluebeard ? Why, I thought you took me for a nice 
 young man." 
 
 " I never know if you are joking or in earnest," says 
 she. 
 
 " Now you have just hit it, Laure, as you often do. 
 With all your simplicity, you have a knack of seeing a
 
 LOVE. 133 
 
 thing. Yes — the truth is just what you say, and nine 
 times out of ten I don't know myself." 
 
 It was a grave admission, and yet both Lady Laure 
 and Lorraine joined in a laugh ; but Youth and Love are 
 not Minos and Khadamanthus. 
 
 Lady Laure is plucking up her courage. " Lucie 
 has your ring still," says she. Now, from the beginning, 
 the original owner of the pearl locket has been longing 
 to ask after its welfare. This, of all moments, is the 
 most favourable to put this critical question, but even 
 now it can only come out indirectly. 
 
 " Has he ? " and Lorraine's face brightens. " Dear 
 old fellow ! Well, you'll be surprised to hear, after all 
 these years, and knocking about as I have, that I've 
 got that locket too, — somewhere with a lot of other old 
 rubbish." 
 
 " When you find it you shall give it back to me," 
 says she. 
 
 She may have taken it hard that this pledge should 
 be classed with nothing but " old rubbish ! " 
 
 " Not a bit of it," he answers. " I've got the locket 
 beyond mistake ; I haven't altogether got you. When 
 you're both legally mine, — we shall see about it."
 
 134 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 
 
 Love is helpless, so is Hate, 
 To destroy the web of fate ; 
 Hating little, loving less, 
 Better chance has of success. 
 
 Lorraine was as restless as a child with a new toy — 
 first it amused him, then it wearied him, and then it 
 worried him. From the outset, he gave but a half- 
 allegiance to the fair girl he was pledged to wed. If 
 she won upon him by her artless truth, by her beauty, 
 by her gentle ways, by the pure joy his presence gave 
 her, she lost again by the prospective chains and fetters, 
 that he could always hear the clank of. It was not 
 Lady Laure, it was marriage that affrighted him — that 
 "settling," dreadful word! which the earl had talked 
 about. 
 
 Lorraine and Lady Laure followed the general 
 stampede into the life under the sky. But they did 
 not go far. She would fain have emulated those early 
 walks with Mr. Mildew ; but Lorraine was content to 
 lie under the citron trees, watching the peasants at 
 their labours, or to sit in the shade of a rock, throwing
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 185 
 
 ducks and drakes across the sea. He voted climbing 
 little hills a waste of trouble, — no gain, no glory. 
 
 " Some day, Laure, we'll go up a real mountain ; 
 but we'll reserve this break-neck adventure for the 
 appropriate occasion of our wedding trip ! " 
 
 It had taken but a few returning suns to make the 
 shores and hills as dry as the atmosphere, and to render 
 this " life under the sky," daily more of a joy. 
 Lorraine enjoyed it after his fashion; but to Lady 
 Laure it was a glorified existence. Sorrow had been a 
 stranger to her life ; yet now, for the first time, she has 
 learnt the taste of perfect delight. Lorraine fills the 
 cup for her ; lazily enough, but it matters not ; if neither 
 tender nor devoted, if capricious and prosaic, he is still 
 himself — that very self which led her captive. It was 
 upon his presence that she fed, and found it enough ; 
 and if unconsciously she felt the need of a fuller 
 sympathy, she had but to look around and find it, in 
 the matchless beauty of the world about her — a fit 
 Eden for so fair an Eve. 
 
 By degrees Lorraine seemed to find his legs, or 
 rather, he grew tired of the sight of peasants and peach 
 orchards, and even ducks and drakes may lose their 
 charm. So one day he pointed eastward, and said, 
 " We will go there." 
 
 The limits of his wide stretch are the azure
 
 136 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 mountains of Italy. The white towns sleep in the laps 
 of the blue bays. The snowy surf fringes the long sea- 
 line, telling how rocks and waves measure their strength 
 together. On the margin hangs the terraced citron, 
 glistening in its dark foliage; higher rise the green 
 pine forests, and the dun olive woods, hiding in their 
 dee23 recesses full many a path by waterfall and hollow, 
 many a wilderness all untrod, many a sunny bank 
 spangled with spring flowers, fit for my lady's bodice ; — 
 and higher still rises the rocky range, Nature's gigantic 
 barrier, unveiled to-day, clear and cloudless ; its fan- 
 tastic peaks pierce the blue ether, its bare steeps shine 
 yellow and red and grey. Now it retires behind the 
 wooded summits, and now it plants its iron-hued feet 
 in the depths of this rainbow sea. An inviting land ; 
 but when all is said, its mastering charm — is colour 
 indescribable. 
 
 For one week they walked with spirit, but with the 
 next Lorraine begins to flag. 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Laure," says he, as they are 
 slowly setting out. " I allow these hills are what you 
 call charming ; but I am tired of the up and the 
 down of all of it. Let us depart." 
 
 Lady Laure stops short, with a look of unfeigned 
 regret. 
 
 " Oh, I see, you mean to say you are not tired of 
 it. May I ask how long you'll take to get sick of this 
 place ? I believe I have put the question before ; but 
 my few ideas are getting addled under this monotony.
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 137 
 
 Let me see ; you've been here since September, isn't it ? 
 And now it's January — no, February, I believe. The 
 month is not essential ; but if you're not tired of this 
 life by this time, you ought to be, — and that's what I 
 have to say about it. You are pretty nearly perfect. 
 I don't flatter ; I believe you know that ; but this sort 
 of inert contentment of yours, in any other person 
 would amount to a sin." 
 
 " A sin ! " says Lady Laure, laughing. 
 
 " It's no laughing matter, I can tell you — to me at 
 least. I am not in a laughing mood. I have felt 
 something hanging over me all day." 
 
 Lady Laure is not much given to laughter — a smile 
 at most is her usual expression of gay feelings ; but 
 whenever her spirits are lightest, it always happens to 
 be at the wrong time for Lorraine. "Let us turn 
 back," says she ; " you are not well, Claude." Even 
 now the name comes out with an effort. 
 
 " Not well ! Now, isn't that the way to make a man 
 ill — to tell him he's not well ? And just as if you 
 thought it too. It's downright poison to a man to 
 be always pitied." 
 
 Lady Laure looks meekly contrite. 
 
 " You've an angelic temper, Laure," says he, cheer- 
 ing up. " Now, why don't you rate me soundly, a& 
 another woman would? Why don't you call me 
 * Monster,' ' Graceless brute,' and all that sort of thing ? " 
 
 This sudden turn in his mood almost brings her to 
 another transgression, in the way of a smile at least.
 
 138 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 "I am very much afraid," says she, shaking her 
 head, with the smile behind the scenes, " that I shall 
 never be able to do that ! " 
 
 " It would be very much better for both of us if you 
 •could," says he. " It comes of that contented mind of 
 yours, for one thing. But I expect in time I shall 
 wear it out; you'll get tired of me — at least, some 
 <lay." 
 
 Lady Laure plucks up her spirit, "Do you think 
 I am less constant than you ? " says she. 
 
 " Less constant than I am, Laiu-e ! Why, who ever 
 told you to come to me to learn constancy ? Why, I 
 am not even a tyro in the virtue. No, you must go to 
 a better tutor than I am. In fact, it's a thing I don't 
 approve of — it leads people far more into mischief, than 
 the other thing." 
 
 Lady Laure is silent. This is his jest and earnest 
 again. She hopes it is the one, but it sounds like the 
 other. 
 
 "If you want a proof," he begins, renewing the 
 subject — " a proof of what I say, look at that old 
 fungus." 
 
 Lady Laure did not pretend to misdoubt the per- 
 sonality of the old fungus. She looks upon the ground 
 before her, and maintains her silence. 
 
 " You don't like him to be called a fungus, 
 then?" 
 
 She raises her eyes gravely. " Why do you ask 
 me ? " says she.
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 139 
 
 " Why, indeed ? " is the quick rejoinder. " Why, 
 indeed, since I have every cause to remember your 
 sensitiveness in this matter. No wonder you look 
 grave. I'd look grave too if it would do any good." 
 
 " You have been under such mistakes about him 
 from the first," cries she. 
 
 " My dear Laure. Granted ; — but mistakes rule 
 the world, and therefore they rule me. I don't go in 
 for Fate, and all that sort of nonsense ; I go in for 
 mistakes, — and I hold myself to be the greatest mistake 
 of all." 
 
 " I do not see that you have anything to do with 
 mistakes." She speaks pensively, whilst he plays at this 
 cat and mouse game. 
 
 " Well, let's take the most recent one. Why, with 
 my growing aversion to this place, do I remain in it ? 
 My stopping here is nothing more or less than an 
 infatuated mistake. I suppose I'm a free agent still ; 
 yet here I stay, in spite of everything that I feel. I 
 am not superstitious ; but it's a fact that I'm becoming 
 positively uncomfortable. I wonder, since we seem to 
 be under a spell, if we're any of us going to commit 
 suicide or murder or any amusement of that sort. I 
 should advise you to keep a strict watch over yourself. 
 It will be your own fault now, whatever happens ; for 
 I've opened your eyes — Don't forget that ! " 
 
 " How dreadful ! " cries Lady Laure, with a shudder. 
 '' What can make you have such thoughts in this 
 beautiful place ? "
 
 140 PEINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " What has the beautiful place to do with it ? Or, if 
 it has, it's all the other way. For my part, I think 
 there's something tragic in the very air. You're always 
 in a cloud, or above it ; — it's all so unreal. You might 
 be walking about in Goblin Land. It's all like a picture ; 
 the rocks and all the things set about for a fine effect. 
 You don't know whether you're not walking upon your 
 head, — or what you mayn't be going to do next. There's 
 nothing about you, to keep you back from any amount 
 of tomfoolery or worse." 
 
 " Oh, you make me so unhappy ! " she cries. 
 
 " Unhappy ! Are you becoming unreasonable at 
 last ? Why on earth should this make you unhappy ? "" 
 
 " Is it not enough ? " and she looks at him with 
 distress in every feature. " Is it unreasonable to dread 
 murder and suicide ? " 
 
 " Now you are going back to that, — though you very 
 well know it's merely a way of saying the place is 
 becoming insupportable. I'm sure I'm not the only 
 person who feels it so. There's your father; I can see 
 he's heartily tired of his life ; he yawns dreadfully." 
 
 "He's a good deal alone," says she, with a quick 
 blush. 
 
 " He's a good deal with old Mildew, you might say, 
 which no doubt contributes to the yawning." 
 
 " He does not come to us — to the villa as he used 
 to do ; he has not been here for two days, and he has 
 become silent and absent. He is not what he was." 
 " Well, what he was, and what he is, is not lost upon
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 141 
 
 you ; the * he ' being, I suppose — friend Mildew. It's 
 clear what's the matter with him; he's getting tired 
 too — tired of our faces, tired of the walk up the hill, 
 tired of that everlasting chess." 
 
 Lady Laure sighs. " Perhaps it's true," says she. 
 " When we came here, we talked of going on to Kome 
 when Lucie joined us. When he comes we can go ;" and 
 then follows another sigh. 
 
 " That's not a very likely road to take," says Lor- 
 raine. " But you don't read the newspapers, Laure, and 
 you're right ; women can do without politics, and with 
 a very moderate amount of reading of any sort. As for 
 Lucie, it's my opinion that he and Doomsday will arrive 
 together." 
 
 " His friends in Paris have kept him," says she, 
 excusing the laggard. 
 
 " And what about his friends here ? " asks Lorraine, 
 sharply. " I tell you what it is, Laure. Though it's a 
 miraculous turn for him to have taken, I believe Lucie 
 has a taste for rows." 
 
 " Rows ! " exclaims Lady Laure. 
 
 " Yes, rows ; and he has a chance of gratifying his 
 taste nowadays. He need not wait in Paris for that. 
 They say there'll soon be a precious row hereabouts ; 
 it's been brewing this long while." 
 
 " But it won't be serious ; they are such quiet 
 country people here," says she. 
 
 " Well, quiet country people won't bear everything, 
 you know. You remember the proverb about the
 
 142 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 crushed worm ; and I am with them here, if anywhere^ 
 They have a right to kick up a disturbance from what 
 I've observed myself." 
 
 " But what sort of disturbance ? Do you think it 
 will be serious, then ? " and Lady Laure's eyes are 
 earnestly fixed upon his. 
 
 " A strike for change of masters," says Lorraine, 
 " which, you must see, may turn up serious. Everything 
 of the sort must have its ugly points. You see there's 
 good reason for us to get away." 
 
 " Oh yes," she answers. " Of course, of course, we 
 shall go ! " Then she clasps her hands anxiously. " I 
 am so sorry for this," she says. 
 
 " Sorry ! Oh, it's all for the best for the people, if 
 they only stick to it. And as for us, we have only to get 
 clear off before it begins." Lorraine was making capital 
 out of these political prospects for his private ends. 
 
 " I am not afraid for myself," says Lady Laure. " I 
 should feel safe everywhere with you." 
 
 " Well, that's a real compliment, Laure, and I accept 
 it. And now, forget your fears, for I am not likely, as 
 far as I can see, to leave you behind here." 
 
 But Lady Laure's face is still sad, and though she 
 says no more, she sighs. She is not sighing for herself, 
 or for Lorraine, or for any one in the row, or out of 
 it, — except for her friend Mr. Mildew. She sees his 
 quiet retreat broken up, and himself a wanderer from 
 his dear mountains and shores ; and she is full of a sor- 
 rowful sympathy. But she dares not impart her kindly
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 145 
 
 concern to Lorraine ; she feels too certain that, as likely 
 as not, he may laugh it to scorn, or at best treat her 
 friend's chances as trifles not worth a thous^ht from 
 either of them ; so she curbs her gentle impulses, con- 
 trols her sweet open nature to the conditions under 
 which she lives and loves. 
 
 Such ever is the lonely law of human affection ; thus, 
 from the beginning, whether for an hour, or whether 
 for a life-time, heart with heart travels side by side,, 
 yet ever apart. 
 
 Lorraine sees no further into this, than a woman's 
 timid dread of she knows not what ; but he counts upon 
 the result he means to draw from it, and, letting the 
 matter drop, leaves it for a while to work in silence. 
 They are crossing the vast olive grove, full itself of an 
 harmonious sadness. Here there is the abiding gloom of 
 a nether world ; all is still and soundless as the sleep 
 of death; the gnarled and knotted trees, hoary and 
 cramped with ancient growth, and tortured by the ages 
 into strange spectral shapes, stand like grim sentinels 
 of Time, each ih his dark circle. A solitary crowd. 
 Something checks the words in these mysterious shades ; 
 liere even the laughter of a child has a ribald sound ; 
 the mind is held in bondage to vague and silent 
 thought. 
 
 The open road leading to the low-lying houses 
 beyond comes with a sense of relief. 
 
 " I hate dark places," says Lorraine, with a shudder. 
 " We'll go back another way."
 
 144 PEINOE FOKTUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 " We must go up the valley, then," and she points 
 to a fragrant wilderness, thick with the citron and the 
 orange. 
 
 So they go forward, mounting always higher and 
 yet higher, till the valley narrows to a wild ravine. 
 Orange and citron are left behind; only a tuft of 
 myrtle, or a single pine tree, here and there has found 
 earth to take root in ; the way grows more and more 
 desolate, more and more precipitous. Now they cross a 
 rude bridge that spans the chasm. There is a sound 
 of rushing water, but its black depths are impene- 
 trable. Again, they skirt the rugged steep, following 
 the winding mule-track, till, of a sudden, they can mount 
 no higher. They are on the brow of the first mountain. 
 Here rise new ranges, summit beyond summit, — new 
 horizons greet their eyes, new capes and cliffs come 
 into the far-stretching coast-line ; the sea spreads into 
 indefinable distance — they stand amidst the clear, fresh 
 air, the level world below them. 
 
 " You walk well, Laure," says Lorraine ; " and it is 
 worth some trouble. I give in ; it flfapetter up here 
 than down there ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " she cries ; " how much better ! But this 
 is nothing. Along there," and she points to the far 
 summits, "you must cross four mountains, and then 
 you will come to the real Alpine heights, wild and 
 beautiful. Stay ! You can see the white tips." She 
 lays her hand on his arm. " Ah ! if we were only 
 there!"
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 145 
 
 Lorraine smiles. "Do you propose to go there 
 to-day?" 
 
 "To-day! No." 
 
 " Well," says he, " for my part I'm content to defer 
 it, too. ^lountains, I agree, are all very well ; but to 
 me, enough is as good as a feast. But as for you, 
 Laure, this is the place for you ; it takes you out of 
 your still life, and makes a human being of you ! " 
 
 Lady Laure laughs. " But surely I am a human 
 being?" 
 
 " Scarcely," he says ; " something between a statue 
 and an angel, with very little of the ordinary woman 
 about you. But tell me where you have got all your 
 geography from? If you'd give me five pounds I 
 couldn't tell you where we are." 
 
 Lady Laure looks round. "I have been here 
 before, or near here ; but it is months ago, when we 
 first came." 
 
 Lorraine frowns. " With your friend, the fungus, 
 I see." 
 
 This time lAdy Laure remonstrates in words. 
 " Don't call hifei' such a name. You know it grieves 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, and me too ! As I said just now, it's a cala- 
 mitous word ; no mistake about that, at any rate ! " 
 His voice is cold, and he turns and goes forward before 
 her along the sloping ridge, leaving her to follow. At 
 last he stops short, and looks back. 
 
 She comes eagerly up to him. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " he cries. " You'll be over, 
 running in that way ! " 
 
 " You are angry with me ; " and she looks at him 
 with entreating eyes. 
 
 "Angry! little fool! I shall be something more 
 than angry, if you go on in this way. There — go on 
 before me, that I may keep you in order. Now I'll 
 say what I was about to do when you gave me that 
 scare. If you know this place, so much the better; 
 use your wits to make it out. We must get down 
 somewhere, and get into the town ; we can drive back 
 from there. There's some sort of conveyance we can 
 find, of course." 
 
 Lady Laure puts aside her troubled air. " I am 
 quite sure," says she, " that we are somewhere behind 
 the red rocks. But you know it may be a long way 
 behind, perhaps." 
 
 " The red rocks ! That's where the caves of your 
 
 fungus " He breaks short off, and throws his 
 
 arm round her. "I swear, Laure, it came out by 
 chance." j^ 
 
 She lifts her face to his, in loving coiifidence. "Ah ! 
 you will never be cured ! " But she smiles as she 
 speaks. 
 
 " I am afraid that's true," says he, with a laugh. 
 ** I shall go on transgressing, and you will go on for- 
 giving. That comes of my being human, and you 
 being angelic." 
 
 He turns her to him, a hand on each shoulder, and
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 147 
 
 looks long and earnestly into her eyes. " I am not 
 sure," says he, " that it is a good quality for a woman ; 
 but, Laure, this, if any, will be our bond of union to 
 the end." 
 
 Then he drops his hands ; but Lady Laure detains 
 one gently between her own. Something takes the 
 eolour this arduous walk had given to her fair cheeks, 
 suddenly away, leaving her paler than the lily. 
 Lorraine is not over head and ears in love, but he 
 feels his responsibility. He sees in a moment this 
 ominous change. 
 
 " You are ill ! " he cries. " I knew it. What's the 
 use of your trying to walk like a trooper? Women 
 are so foolhardy ; and now you look as if you were 
 going to faint." He looks round. " What on earth is 
 to be done if you fall ill at the top of this horrible 
 spot ? I dare say there's water somewhere near ; but 
 how am I to get it? Do you mind drinking out of 
 my hat?" 
 
 He draws her to him, and supports her in his arms. 
 There is no need of water to bring the colour back, 
 and the smiles too! This ready sacrifice of his hat 
 leads her almost to a laugh. 
 
 " I am not ill," she says ; " not the least ill ; so you 
 will not have to spoil your hat for my sake ! It was 
 what you said — only what you said ! " 
 
 " What I said ! What did I say ? I am always 
 saying something to bother you. Why do you take 
 such heed of every sentence I utter ? Words are only
 
 148 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRES'CE FATAL. 
 
 spoken to be forgotten. Kemember tbat, Laure. We 
 shall never have any peace if you don't." 
 
 And that " bond of union," which was to last to 
 the end ; — those words which had sent the blood back 
 to her heart with such a sudden rush, — were they only 
 spoken to be forgotten ? 
 
 Lady Laure forbears to put this perilous question. 
 She is fain to think that there are words and wordsy 
 and that Ihese precious ones are to be amongst those 
 that are indeed " to endure to the end." 
 
 Lorraine gives her a scrutinizing glance. He sees 
 the rising blushes, the gay smile, the returning lustre 
 of her blue eyes. " Incomprehensible creatures," cries 
 he, " all of you ! But thank Heaven you've come to 
 yourself, Laure. And now let's get down as fast as 
 we can." 
 
 It was severe work, this descent, by crag and 
 boulder, scrambling always downwards; even worsa 
 as they go lower, where trees and brushwood begin. 
 Lady Laure's skirts catch below, Lorraine's head above, 
 until she loses strength, and he patience. 
 
 Then comes the sound of falling water with a cool, 
 musical rush, delicious in their ears. They follow after 
 it, but only to find themselves at the high edge of an 
 impassable ravine, down which the foaming torrent is- 
 tossing along between the rocks in angry fury. Once 
 more they go back to the direct descent, down the 
 straight steep, beneath a close-growing line of pine 
 trees, rooted in the rock, with scarce an inch of soil for
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 149 
 
 nourishment ; — yet they stand firm as the cliff itself, — 
 winter and summer, the sea winds chanting an endless 
 song in their ever-green branches. 
 
 This coming down is so unlike the going up, — 
 with its sharp angles and narrow track, like the spiral 
 of a tower ; now in the sun, now out of it, thinking 
 that each projecting bluff will be the last, yet always 
 mounting higher and further, with the sense of re- 
 moteness growing with every step. 
 
 This sheer descent is a very different affair. 
 But at last their toil down hill is over. With this 
 fringe of fir trees the mountainous cliff ends, and they 
 come out upon an open plateau. But they are still 
 among the rocks, a bare and jagged ledge, face to face 
 with the sea. 
 
 After all this labour, and these deep shades, the 
 sunlit air and the fresh sea breeze come to Lady 
 Laure with a feeling of infinite enjoyment. 
 
 " This is delightful ! " cries she. 
 
 Lorraine looks to the right and to the left, behind 
 and before. He is tired, and half sulky. " When are 
 you going to leave off calling every nuisance delight- 
 ful? It's lucky you like this one. You'll have to 
 send for Jenkins and your night-cap, or dispense with 
 them for once. We are in a pretty fix, I can tell you. 
 You had better look out for a sleeping apartment." 
 
 It was an impasse, certainly. Before them stretched 
 the sea. Eastward, a huge rock plunged far into the 
 wave ; westward, the torrent drove its white rage into
 
 150 PEINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 the blue depths, sending back the glassy surface, 
 marked with a thousand circling lines. 
 
 "Delightful! isn't it?" and Lorraine gives an 
 expressive shrug. 
 
 "But, at least, I know where we are," says she, 
 still cheerful. " Kound that great rock are the caves. 
 "We were to have gone to them by water. What a pity 
 we can't get round ! " 
 
 " Don't talk like an idiot ! " says he, in angry dif- 
 ficulty. "The pity is that we ever came near the 
 place." 
 
 " But we have only to walk back ! " 
 
 " For you to expire on the road ! No, we have had 
 enough walking for one day." 
 
 " We shall be able to get across the river some- 
 where." 
 
 " Come and see ! " He takes her hand, and guides 
 her cautiously over the jagged ledge, till they stand 
 on the brink of the gorge. It bristled with sharp 
 rocks and broken fir tops. The roaring stream coursed 
 along its wild bed at lightning speed; — they could 
 feel the cold blast, borne down upon it with wondrous 
 swiftness, straight from that calm and lonely lake, up 
 in the great ice-world, where this restless torrent found 
 its birth. 
 
 " What do you think of this ? " says he. "Are you 
 satisfied ? Better come now and take a seat under the 
 cliff, Laure, — for the night, probably." 
 
 " You are not in earnest."
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 151 
 
 " How do you propose to leave this delightful spot ? '* 
 
 "I am sure I don't know," cries Lady Laure, 
 roused at last to a corresponding state of uneasiness. 
 
 " There, sit down," says he. " I am tired out 
 myself." And he throws himself down on the rocks 
 beside her. 
 
 So they remain in silent perplexity, Lady Laure 
 taking her full share of it at last. 
 
 Lorraine looks gloomily about him, and then at 
 his companion. " If you were not here," says he, " it 
 would be a trifle — nothing. Taking women about in 
 these places is downright insanity ! " 
 
 " For your sake, I am sorry I came with you," is 
 Lady Laure's rejoinder. 
 
 Lorraine was in a mood to be aggravated by a very 
 light offence. " You had better be sorry at once that 
 there is anything between us." 
 
 If Lady Laure had spoken frankly, she would have 
 said " She — was tired out also " — and when the body 
 is overtaxed, the nerves are unstrung. In vain she 
 struggles to be composed; the tears will rise. She 
 knows the displeasure they will call forth, but she 
 cannot keep them down. 
 
 " If it would make you happier," she begins, in a 
 broken voice. 
 
 Then he breaks in, " It's no question of my happi- 
 ness, but of yours. Listen to what I say. If it had not 
 been for you, Laure, I should never have wooed or 
 wedded. It may be cold comfort to you ; but it is truth.
 
 152 PKIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 I have done for you what I would have done for no one 
 else. And with no other woman should I have got into 
 such a dead-lock as this. What a fool I was to bring 
 you here ! " 
 
 He speaks in the high key of mental irritation ; 
 but with his next word his voice falls into that 
 gravity of tone which belongs to the utterance of all 
 feelings of sinister meaning. " I knew some mischief 
 was brewing, though I couldn't have told you what. 
 Didn't I say it this morning as we started ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " cries she — she fearing likewise she knows 
 not what — " that murder and suicide ! Then you 
 meant it ? " 
 
 " Of course I meant it. I have meant it for weeks. 
 Haven't I asked you to get away from here ? " And he 
 turns moodily from her. 
 
 Yes, Lorraine had meant it, — if his meaning might 
 be interpreted by an indefinable sense of evil, of mis- 
 fortune brooding in the air, somewhere and to some one 
 — too vague to be called presentiment ; a sort of mental 
 malaise, without assignable cause, motive, or object ; 
 inexplicable associations ; mysteries as insolvable, as 
 inexorable; enigmas bound up with that greatest of 
 all enigmas — material death and spiritual life. 
 
 Things there are about us, of which it is as vain to 
 profess a doubt of, as it is vain to profess to explain
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 153 
 
 them. They are not articles of faith, but matters of 
 fact ; and among these keyless facts must be reckoned 
 those organizations endowed with an involuntary fore- 
 cast of trouble, — human beings who, like the blood- 
 hound, have an unerring scent for deeds of doom and 
 death ; persons not otherwise remarkable, who may 
 possibly live and die without realizing to themselves 
 the ominous sense they are possessed of, though it may 
 well be known and made a note of by some one else, 
 and who may even, according to circumstances and 
 opportunity, from time to time, be on the look-out for 
 it. It is a narrow prescience, too indistinct to become 
 B. warning — the when, the how, the where, the whom, are 
 all dark, — a foreboding that comes and goes, like any 
 other gloomy thought ; yet there it is, and has been, 
 and there, too, is the evil thing — there in the future ; 
 some day it will be a thing present, some day a thing 
 past. 
 
 Lorraine knew nothing, thought nothing of all this; 
 he had even forgotten the tales told in his childish 
 hearing, of a Celtic grandmother of his race, who would 
 sit by the fire and watch the peat burn, just after the 
 fashion of Sir Loftus. The times were bloody, and 
 when her sons and grandsons saw her shiver and shake 
 — though the peat blazed high — and when she moaned 
 with the terror of an unspoken dread, then they were 
 merry, and sent up a shout of triumph, for they knew 
 that a foe of Loughmore was marked for death.
 
 154 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Whatever the tide may be, when it gets to the 
 lowest ebb it has a tendency to turn. Lorraine made a 
 similar remark, first to himself and then to his com- 
 panion in misfortune. 
 
 " It's time our luck should change," says he. " Next 
 to getting altogether drowned, I don't see that we can 
 be much worse off than we are." 
 
 It was no affected dilemma, exaggerated as a vent 
 for a fit of captiousness. Sitting upon this rocky ledge 
 in this sea-girt prison-house, staring across into the 
 dreamy distance, with the sun's slanting light telling 
 of the day's decline, and turning over in his mind one 
 possibility after another, each more unfeasible than the 
 last — was not a position to be chosen even by way of 
 a penance. 
 
 "Well, standing still won't help us. I tell you 
 what it is. I must swim for it, and that's the long and 
 the short of it ; " and with that Lorraine begins to move 
 with a practical air. " I shall get you away some time 
 to-night, and that's something. It's no great distance, 
 and I'll bring a boat for you from the town." 
 
 " I can't let you go ! " cries Lady Laure. " Oh, you 
 will get drowned ! You don't know the shore or the 
 rocks." 
 
 " You see, Laure, I am not asking your leave to go ; 
 and I am certainly going to do what I propose. You'll 
 excuse my taking off my boots and my coat. I'll leave 
 them in your care. And listen, don't go to sleep, and 
 don't move about, or you'll fall over some of these 
 places to a certainty."
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 155- 
 
 "0 Claude, don't go, don't leave me! Oh, dear 
 Claude!" 
 
 " Dear Claude, is it ? Well, that's affectionate at 
 parting ; " and Lorraine begins to laugh. 
 
 In fact, his spirits are rising with the prospect 
 before him, though it was a cold and rather wet one. 
 
 The boots are off, and so is the coat. " I shall get 
 down to that point, and jump off there," he says. " Now 
 don't scream like the rest of the foolish creatures when 
 you hear the splash." 
 
 He waits for no reply ; he has an instinct perhaps 
 that it is kinder to her to go without more words, 
 since go he must. 
 
 Lady Laure is as motionless as the rock she sits on, 
 only her eyes move, following him with a look of deadly 
 alarm. But she does not — " scream like the rest of the 
 foolish creatures ; " — the dread she has of his sarcasm 
 masters even her fears ; yet she feels that when she hears 
 that splash, she must either give voice to her distress 
 or die ! She has lost sight of his figure, but she listens 
 intently, with clasped hands and face bent forward — 
 listens and listens, but hears nothing. How she longs 
 to go forward to look after him ! But his words are her 
 law ; so there she remains, a fit model for Patience upon 
 her monument. 
 
 It might have been half an hour or an hour — to 
 Lady Laure it seemed a year, that she was sitting 
 thus. She is borne down with fatigue and fear and 
 the loneliness of it ; her mind is fast falling into a
 
 156 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 dreamy maze, when out of it she rouses with a cry that 
 the rocks echo back, double and treble — a good honest 
 scream. But how could she help it ? for there just above 
 the ledge is Lorraine's handsome face, that face she 
 has been picturing washed with the salt waves, buffeted 
 and blinded by them ; there it is before her, the colour 
 heightened, the hair dry and blown, the eyes sparkling ; 
 — in a minute he is on his feet beside her. 
 
 He is in the gayest good humour ; he neither scolds 
 nor sneers. The boots and coat are restored to their 
 proper position ; he takes her hands. " And come 
 along," says he, cheerily. " There's a boat down there. 
 I'll tell you all about it when we are out of this hole." 
 
 There was not much to tell. When Lorraine got 
 down, the water looked extremely wet and cold ; he was 
 prepared for his bath, but he would not be sorry to 
 escape it. Why not clamber over the reefs to the 
 point of the rock? Some one may be on the other 
 side. At least there was the chance of a boat in 
 sight. This alternative was not without risk ; it was a 
 pointed and perilous pathway, and slimy withal. There 
 was still a probability of the cold bath. But Lor- 
 raine's luck has taken the hint, it is coming back — 
 coming back, in fact, post-haste and all in a lump ; 
 but there is yet one more bring-up for him. With the 
 foremost part of the rock the reefs end ; it is deep 
 water round the point, up to the sheer precipice. But 
 Lorraine hurrahs and laughs at this last arrow of ill 
 Pate — for beyond the rock, in the hollow of the sandy
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 157 
 
 creek, he sees Hope, in the shape of a boat and two 
 men ; they are evidently taking stone from the quarry 
 above. The men look rough and dirty, the boat is 
 heavy and flat-bottomed, but these are light matters. 
 Hope, in her most celestial robes, never came in a more 
 welcome guise. 
 
 "The man must carry you through the rocks and 
 this surf, Laure," says Lorraine. " You don't object, do 
 
 you? If you do " and he looks down at the so 
 
 lately reinstated boots. " Of course, I'll carry you over 
 myself, if you prefer it, though I'll not promise you 
 I won't make a slip of it. You're safer in their grimy 
 hands, I can tell you." 
 
 For the present she is in Lorraine's hands. He has 
 taken her to the base of the rocks, and they are making 
 their way slowly and cautiously, step by step, over the 
 ledge ; sometimes it must be a jump, sometimes a long 
 step ; it must be done warily. But Lady Laure follows 
 him firmly, hand in hand ; all her smiles are returned, 
 fear and dread have vanished. 
 
 *' Much safer," she says, gaily. 
 
 " Take care what you say ! " he answers, in the same 
 spirit. " If you are ungrateful, I shall leave you in 
 the lurch after all." 
 
 The boatmen require no very heavy bribe to leave 
 their lading for a lighter cargo. Both of them, 
 Venetians — on this coast men gather from every 
 port — they are voluble in their lively tongue ; more 
 intelligible than the heavy ;patois of the peasants of
 
 158 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 the soil ; their black eyes and small features light up 
 with trusty good nature and native courtesy. But the 
 embarking is no easy task. It is deep water — fathoms 
 deep, where the reefs are not — these rocks run as 
 much below as above ; it takes time and judgment to 
 choose the favourable spot. But at last it is done, and 
 they are off ! 
 
 Not yet can they steer, however, direct for their 
 port. They must tack and tack to give way to the 
 current, and catch the wind, running out to sea. 
 The purple mountains appear in the west; they are 
 fading into gloom. The sun has already gone down 
 behind them, but the towering peaks of the red rocks 
 they are leaving, still catch the golden glare. 
 
 Black as night at their base, their heights streaked 
 as with a fiery scath, the great cliffs have a] terrible 
 and menacing look. 
 
 " I never saw a place better fitted for the infernal 
 jegions," says Lorraine, looking back. " I've paid my 
 last visit, Laure, to your delightful spot to a certainty ! " 
 
 Wind and current against them, with this flat craft, 
 little better than a barge, they don't make way ; the 
 moments become hours, and sea and land grow dusky 
 together. 
 
 " We ought to be off the village," says Lorraine. 
 " Why don't these fellows put in ? " 
 
 " We must go on to the quay," says Lady Laure. 
 " There is no landing at the village." 
 
 " flow can you tell ? " he asks, impatiently.
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 159 
 
 " Oh, you know, I used to sail about in the bay with 
 Mr. Mildew. Nothing can be pleasanter." 
 
 "Nothing can be pleasanter! eh?" and Lorraine 
 collapses into silence. 
 
 At last the quay is reached. The boat is made 
 tight, and they step on to the raft which acts as a land- 
 ing-stage. The lights round the small harbour, and in 
 the little city high above them, glimmer like stars — 
 the only ones to be seen, and like lamps they glimmer 
 beneath the water. 
 
 It was twilight, or rather no light. Here, under 
 this semi-tropical sky, the twilight was sable, rayless, 
 and shadowless. 
 
 " Are you up to walking ? " asks Lorraine, as they 
 go along together. 
 
 " That sail has quite refreshed me. I enjoyed it 
 immensely." 
 
 " Ah ! " says he, " I remember you used to find 
 nothing pleasanter ! " 
 
 The half-angry smile that went with the words was 
 spared to Lady Laure. On her side, in this cheerful 
 ending of a long day's chequered doings, she remits 
 her timid guard — forgets all troublous things — even 
 Lorraine's antipathy to Mr. Mildew. 
 
 " Here is his house," says she, as they skirt along 
 by a long bit of sea-wall, — the house built, as it were, 
 into it — right upon the shore. 
 
 " Whose house ? " asks he. The surly tone betrays 
 the uselessness of the question.
 
 160 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Oh, you won't care to know ! " She speaks 
 tremulously ; she remembers it all again. 
 
 "I tell you what it is, Laure. Why is that old 
 Mildew for ever in your head? If you can find 
 nothing else to think about, don't force me into it. 
 I hate the sound of his name, as you very well know." 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered, when they came 
 right upon the man, and upon the earl too. They were 
 face to face before they saw each other. 
 
 " Laure ! Lorraine ! " cries the earl. " This is a 
 mercy ! You have given us a grand alarm. Are you 
 all right? Where have you been playing truant all 
 day ? Half the village is out searching for you." 
 
 "Dear father, I am so sorry — so vexed; but it 
 was impossible to prevent it," says Lady Laure, in 
 regretful excuse. 
 
 " It \vas utterly inexcusable on my part," says 
 Lorraine, slipping up to the side of the earl, and 
 turning back with him. " But, in fact, owing to my 
 stupidity, we missed the way, and were delayed over 
 there by the rocks for a length of time, and at last 
 we were obliged to come off in a stone-lading lug. I 
 hope Lady Laure has taken no harm, but I feel terribly 
 guilty of your natural anxiety." 
 
 "My dear Lorraine, I knew she couldn't be in 
 safer hands, as I told 3Iildew, though he was slow to 
 take comfort — and, in fact, one never knows what may 
 be happening. We have been walking since six — now 
 this way, now that ; but all's well that ends well."
 
 AXTAGOXISMS. 161 
 
 Lady Laure and Mr. Mildew followed behind. In 
 this darkness-visible, faces and forms were but faintly 
 discerned; and yet the night is a great medium for 
 unspoken feelings. Lady Laure felt, rather than saw, 
 that Mr. Mildew was full of something more than 
 concern, something more than glad relief — a quiver- 
 ing emotion, mingled with displeasure ; — she felt it all. 
 
 " Dear friend," says she, " you have been uneasy. 
 I know it so well." 
 
 *•' Thank God, you are safe — safe for to-night ! " 
 is the husky reply. Then comes, as if half aside, not 
 meant for her ears wholly, "I am never easy — never 
 easy." 
 
 " But why ? " she asks. 
 
 "I am full of fears." 
 
 '• But why — why are you full of fears ? " 
 
 He hesitates to reply. " You must pardon me. Let 
 it be imsaid. I have no right." And again he hesi- 
 tates. 
 
 '• But you have every right. You are my father's 
 oldest friend, and my dear friend — wise and kind and 
 good. Tell me what is wrong." 
 
 " Not now, Lady Laure, not now." 
 
 He speaks hastily. Then with an effort, as if the 
 words cost him dear, he turns to her abruptly with, 
 " Where have you been with that young man ? " 
 
 Lady Laure blushes crimson, though no eye can 
 see it. Up to this moment, between her and Mr. 
 Mildew not a word had passed, either as to Lorraine 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 or about her engagement, neither of praise nor blame, 
 neither of confidence nor encouragement. She could 
 not recall that his name had been so much as men- 
 tioned between them. This reserve had not struck 
 her as half so strange, as this sudden remark in which 
 he figured ; — and yet it was the most natural question 
 in the world. All this comes with a rush into her 
 mind, and stops her words. 
 
 " Let it pass," says he, answering her silence ; 
 " what good can it do ? It was rashly asked. I 
 intrude on your confidence." 
 
 " But it is nothing — nothing," cries Lady Laure, 
 gathering up, not her courage, so much as her scattered 
 convictions. — "It was only a long walk, and we lost 
 the way, and came at last down near to your wonder- 
 ful caves, though we could not visit them. How 
 much I Avish you had been there ! " In all these 
 words there is a careful avoidance of Lorraine. 
 
 " Ah ! " he says. " Yes ; I must go there once 
 again, for the last time ; " and a sigh follows this 
 speech. 
 
 " I feared as much," says Lady Laure, " this up- 
 setting they expect here. How grieved I am that it 
 should break up your happy home ! " 
 
 " Say peaceful. Peace I have coveted ; happiness 
 I have nothing to do with." 
 
 " Oh, but you used to be so cheerful ! " cries she. 
 
 " Did you not deem it an unseemly garb for me 
 — for my grey hairs ? "
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 163 
 
 "I!" says she. "But you know what pleasant 
 days we passed together ! You are not well. I have 
 thought so for many days. Something makes you 
 sad." 
 
 He answers, in a low and hurried way, "Think 
 nothing of it ; it is my natural self. God only knows 
 why you have ever seen me otherwise." 
 
 Mr. Mildew was fast becoming another enigma to 
 Lady Laure. Up till these latter days, his words had 
 been plain and pleasant, full of kindly friendship and 
 wise instruction; but now, — Lorraine's darkest moods 
 and speeches had never been harder to read, or, indeed, 
 more harassing to hear. But she takes it quite dif- 
 ferently from Mr. Mildew. Lorraine is always half 
 in jest or mockery; but Mr. Mildew, she knows, she 
 feels, speaks in sad and sober earnest. To lead him 
 from this gloom, she seeks in her mind for some 
 hopeful, possible thing. 
 
 " You will not go away altogether? " says she. " You 
 will come back when all is quiet ? " 
 
 " When the sight is gone, why say, * Look and be 
 glad ' ? For neither quiet nor unquiet do I come or go. 
 I should have rejoiced to stand by my people here ; but 
 no ; I go sooner than that. My life has grown dark of 
 late ; it is in myself alone. These hills are still 
 crowned with their everlasting beauty, but the joy is 
 gone out of them for me. And I, a solitary man, 
 move off easily, and am not missed." 
 
 " But you will be missed," she cries ; " missed by
 
 164 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 every one — by me. Oh, by me, so much ; and by my 
 father ; by these poor people, who will mourn for you 
 all their lives, and never find such another friend. 
 But as for us, we shall soon follow you. It is not so 
 bad after all. We shall all meet in England. When 
 ■we say good-bye, we shall have this hope, at least." 
 
 " No, no," he murmurs, speaking again as to him- 
 self. " Where I go, you will not follows God forbid ! 
 We must be wide apart — wide apart ; to you, sunshine, 
 flowers, and friends ; to me a dark corner — a peaceful 
 home. Lady Laure." 
 
 *' Ah ! you will be less sad some day. Some day 
 we shall meet in England. You will come to us. 
 What pleasure ! " 
 
 " England and I shook hands for ever, long, long 
 ago. You were not born, and I was young. It is a 
 strange thought that I was ever young ; that you can 
 ever be old. Ah ! fear not ; beautiful souls are always 
 young ! " And then he falls, with sighs, into silence. 
 
 Lady Laure is too simple for weird fancies. This 
 melancholy voice, these desponding words breathed 
 with such heavy sighs, this dark, featureless figure 
 moving beside her, is still Mr. Mildew ; but the 
 mystery of the change from what he has been, to 
 what he is, fills her with helpless sympathy and awe. 
 She loses her grasp of the past. She cannot bring up 
 before her now, that calm, wise man, following Nature's, 
 ways, with loving steps, happy and contented there- 
 with. She only sees the half-crazed soul, with its
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 165 
 
 strange despair. If she knew but what to say, and 
 which way comfort was to be found ! 
 
 Then she cries aloud, " Ah ! if Lucie were only 
 here ! " 
 
 " I shall never see him," says Mr. Mildew ; " and 
 yet I have wished that I might do so." His voice is 
 out of the pathetic key. It becomes stern in the effort 
 to be firm. " Yes, I have wished to see him — your 
 father's son — your brother. He must be different — 
 different indeed, to that other ! " All the condemna- 
 tion that words could utter, the voice expressed. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Lady Laure, her heart beating 
 quickly with intuitive pain. " Ah ! You do not like 
 him ; and yet — and yet he is my betrothed ! " 
 
 "And yet he is your betrothed," falls cold and 
 clear from Mr. Mildew's lips, like stones dropt into a 
 watery depth. " Would to God he were not ! " 
 
 " You wound me to the heart," murmurs Lady 
 Laure, faltering, and trembling in every nerve. 
 
 " I am silenced." It is the same icy tone. " I am 
 an old man — an over-bold old man." 
 
 " Be kind, be kind ! " she cries. " Don't speak to 
 me so coldly, so formally. You are not old — not 
 bold; but try — try to like him! Say you will try, 
 dear, kind friend. You are wise and good ; you know 
 so much; but you do not know him well. Speak to 
 me. Promise me to be his friend. He is so dear 
 to me ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " breaks from Mr. IVlildew. It is a sigh and
 
 166 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 a groan, both in one. But again he steadies his voice. 
 His utterance is slow, as if reluctant, yet compelled. 
 " You will have me speak. Then, I say, I know him 
 only too well. It seems to me that I am the only one 
 who does know him. And yet, what I know is so clear, 
 that, having the right use of his senses, it would seem 
 to be impossible for a father to be so blinded ! Though 
 
 your innocent heart But I am presuming again 
 
 with my unwelcome truths ; and all in vain. This I 
 know also : I am worse than useless ; therefore I desired 
 to have quitted you before these rash words were spoken. 
 All my concern for you gives me no warrant to utter 
 them. But blame your own gracious indulgence : you 
 have called me friend. You have spoilt the old man ; 
 but his last offence has been committed. Let him 
 be forgiven ; his voice will soon be beyond your 
 hearing." 
 
 " There is no offence — no forgiving " The 
 
 words come with a sob, and so break off. 
 
 Lady Laure is in a sore strait. Her faith in her 
 lover, and her faith in her friend are strong as her 
 desire, to vindicate the one and console the other. But 
 no more is to be said to-night on either side, for they 
 have reached the road close to the villa, and they 
 hear the earl's voice chiding their delay — 
 
 " Is that you, Laure ? Where are you lingering, 
 little runaway ? Tired, eh ? after your day's truanting. 
 Couldn't get on, eh? No wonder. You must feel 
 quite starved too, and Lorraine also. Well, we'll soon
 
 ANTAGONISMS. 167 
 
 give you some dinner. And you, Mildew, you'll come 
 in and join us ? " 
 
 But Mr. Mildew stood in the background, and 
 waved a silent good night, and so went. 
 
 " What's Mildew off so quick for ? " says the earl. 
 
 " Oh, he's not in good spirits," sighs Lady Laure. 
 " He's going away." 
 
 " Going away ! Why, he said nothing to me about 
 it, though I did remark that he was silent. He's been 
 silent of late ; I've thought so. But going away ! Are 
 you quite sure, Laure ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, and at once," she sighs again. 
 
 " Bless me ! You surprise me ! Why, I thought 
 he was a fixture here for life! But where is he 
 going ? " 
 
 " He doesn't know himself, I think. It's too dread- 
 ful, dear father. Try and stop him ! " 
 
 " God bless me ! " says the earl. " But now, Laure, 
 make haste and put yourself ready for dinner, and I 
 must do the same." 
 
 Lorraine looks in at the window, and, seeing Lady 
 Laure, comes up to her. "We thought you'd gone to 
 sea with your wise man of Gotham," says he, with 
 one of his sneers. He goes half away, then turns sharp 
 upon her with, "What in Heaven's name could you 
 find to be saying to him all that time ? We've been 
 here this half-hour, just as if we weren't all dead tired 
 and half starved." 
 
 " I am very sorry," says she.
 
 168 PIUNCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 "But what were you talking about? — we heard you 
 behind us in full parley. Mystery?" says he, with 
 another sneer. 
 
 " Oh, no mystery ; he is going away for ever." 
 
 " Well, so are we ; at least, I hope so. If we were 
 not, I should call this the best bit of news I've heard 
 this long while. I hope he'll go to-morrow. He hates 
 me, and I don't love him ! " He turns to leave the 
 room, as the earl comes into it again. 
 
 "Papa," says Lady Laure, "I believe I am 
 knocked up. I think you shall excuse me from 
 dinner." 
 
 " Much better, my darling. Go and get a good rest; 
 but make Jenkins bring you up something to your 
 room." 
 
 Lorraine is standing in ambush at the foot of the 
 stairs. "I overheard you," says he, angrily. "It's 
 not that you're tired ; it's that old 3Iildew ! " 
 
 " Perhaps it is," says she. " And you, you are so 
 hard-hearted to him ! " 
 
 " Hard-hearted ! " and Lorraine laughs. " Shall I 
 tell you what it is ? He's going off to get out of the 
 row. So don't go wasting your pity upon him, whilst 
 he's sleeping, as sound as a top. Take my word for it, 
 he's quite old enough to look after himself ! "
 
 ( 169 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Pure as sweet childhood's bloom some perfumes are, 
 As hautboys soft, and fresh as meads in spring ; 
 Corrupt and luscious others — stronger far, 
 That long endure, and wide their odours fling, 
 Like incense, musk, benzoin, which control, 
 With strange harmonious transports, sense and soul. 
 
 After C. BaudeLaiee. 
 
 In the charmed circle in which Lady Laure had grown 
 to womanhood, the only element that was missing was 
 the "mother;" but this left her little to lack, save 
 the wisdom of the serpent. The innocence of the dove 
 was hers, blended with an intuitive discretion. The 
 spirit of love dwelt in her with a crowning repose. She 
 walked the earth in the halo of purity, with a dignity 
 that came by nature, with a heart as fair as her face, 
 with a soul as earnest as her voice, with a charity 
 scarcely less than divine. 
 
 Gracious gifts; yet not those that command the 
 positive in human happiness, — it was the wisdom of 
 the serpent that was missing : that discerning power 
 which detects the safe from the unsafe ; that inspira- 
 tion which can avert and avoid misfortune : that
 
 170 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 fascinating influence which masters the minds of 
 men. 
 
 In that sublimated sphere where the angels sing 
 and fold their wings — there, without a metaphor, you 
 might well have placed her ; but in this lower planet, 
 where imperfection is the key-note of life, her per- 
 fections were more hazardous, than many faults. In 
 more ways than one has the ligne droite quelque chose 
 d'e fray ante. 
 
 The next day dawned with a rare beauty that 
 shamed sorrow and ill humour. It was a day to catch 
 in the camera and fix it there for ever. All sunshine, 
 flowers, odours, and breezes ; fresh, fragrant, balmy ; 
 nothing unquiet, nothing in repose. Earth, sea, and 
 air vibrating to each other with a subdued rapture. 
 It was a day that made of mere existence an incom- 
 parable pleasure. 
 
 Lorraine was bestir early — earlier than usual ; but 
 Lady Laure was more than after time. 
 
 She appears at last, with something of a weary step, 
 and a weary look in her fair face. 
 
 " You are tired ! " says Lorraine. " Well, no wonder. 
 And you went off in such a mope, without your dinner 
 too ! I have been thinking about you," says he, " all 
 the morning." 
 
 Lady Laure smiles and cheers up at this affectionate 
 speech.
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 171 
 
 " While you've been sleeping off your troubles, I've 
 been doing Guess what ! " 
 
 Lady Laure shakes her head. 
 
 "No, you'll never guess; unless you are, indeed, 
 the witch your father calls you. It's the most unlikely 
 thing in the world. But there's nothing that a woman 
 won't inspire. Imagine ! to please you, I've turned 
 poet." 
 
 " Poet ! " says Lady Laure. 
 
 " Your poet, Laure. Who'll say that I shan't rival 
 Petrarch in time? I'll match you to cut out his 
 Laure, at any rate. I suspect, she was rather a dowdy 
 prude." 
 
 Lady Laure blushes up to the eyes. Lorraine a 
 poet ! inspired by her. Ah ! let the verses be what 
 they may, how welcome, how sweet they will be to 
 her ears ! The blue eyes brighten ; the look of 
 lassitude is gone, the heaviness of a night of distressful 
 thoughts passes away like a shadow. After the first 
 moment of surprise, she becomes all impatience, yet 
 too nervous to say, "What is it?" She could weep 
 for joy. She murmurs, " Dear Claude ! " 
 
 " Are you curious ? " he asks. 
 
 " Tell me the subject, at least." And then the 
 blue eyes drop down, too bashful to meet his reply. 
 
 " The subject, Laure ? Well, that you may know 
 at once. The subject, or rather the chief personage, 
 is a whale." 
 
 " A whale ! " echoes Lady Laure ; and with the
 
 172 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 name of this monstrous fish, all her trembling train of 
 tender sentiments float away. 
 
 " Yes, a whale. It's an original idea, I flatter 
 myself," says he, with a smile. " I see you're dying 
 of suspense ; and, I dare say, you've eaten as little 
 breakfast as dinner, and have no stamina in you to 
 bear up ; so I won't be too hard upon you. Here is 
 my eff'usion," and he takes out the torn back of a 
 letter. " You see, it's short. I'm not going to wear 
 you out, as some poets do. It's but three triplets. 
 Let me see. Now, listen ; I begin with the whale. 
 
 " Did a whale come sailing here, 
 I would say to him, ' My dear, 
 Just effect a landing near. 
 
 " • There's a nice old tender gent, 
 Who these shores does much frequent. 
 Eat him up. I'll not prevent.' 
 
 " Then, too late, this gent will see 
 What has come of worrying me. 
 On the borders of thirf sea ! 
 
 ' Sea ' and * see ' — defective rhymes ; but, however, it's 
 allowable." 
 
 Lady Laure sits stunned with the sense of a great 
 blow, with the feeling of a stab in the heart from a 
 dearest friend. The tears that love's gentle chord had 
 stirred, swell larger and larger to this bitter appeal, 
 until the great drops blind the loving blue eyes, and 
 hide from this injured one, her unblushing, saucy, 
 frivolous, /a/i/aroTi, and too fondly adored lover.
 
 FEIENDSHIP. 173^ 
 
 " AYell, Laure, it has a smooth run, hasn't it ? It's 
 not so bad for a first attempt. There's some hope for 
 our joint fame ; eh ? " — 
 
 " But what's this ? In tears again ! He's not eaten 
 up yet ! " Then Lorraine looks black. " You make 
 one downright savage ! " cries he. " Can't you take 
 a joke ? " 
 
 " Say no more about it. Please, say no more 
 about it." 
 
 " But why on earth cry ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me. I am hurt — disappointed." 
 
 " Hurt ! Disappointed ! Well, that's grateful,, 
 when I devoted two hours, whilst you were sleeping 
 this morning, to composing these lines to please you."^ 
 Lorraine puts on a serio-comical injured air. 
 
 It produces a convulsive sensation, half a laugh,, 
 half a sob. Then she wipes her grieved eyes, and 
 looks up at him with an effort to make him serious. 
 " To please yourself. You enjoy nothing so much as 
 these unkind jokes about him." 
 
 " Oh, then, you recognize the gent ? " and Lorraine 
 begins to laugh at the association of ideas. "Well, 
 Laure, let it be to please myself, if you like. Then 
 what pleases me should please you." 
 
 " You know," says she, " you don't expect me to 
 be pleased with this. I believe you'd be the first to 
 see it, if I was. And when he's so depressed, too ! " 
 
 '• Depressed fiddlesticks ! Do you expect an old 
 fellow like Mildew to be always cutting capers for joy ?
 
 174 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 If we live long enough, you'll see me depressed after 
 the same fashion. Old men ossify or drivel. Life, 
 take my word for it, after middle age, is a sorry affair. 
 Till then, Vogue la galere ! as they say in France." 
 
 " You see Mr. Mildew," says Lady Laure, " always 
 in wrong lights. He is younger than my father." 
 
 " Well, truth to speak, your father is not a juvenile ; 
 and these old moles turn to stone sooner than a man 
 like the earl, who has lived for life." 
 
 "Mr. Mildew," cries she, "has lived for the best 
 life. He is so learned ; he knows everything, under- 
 stands everything." 
 
 "And is he any the happier than the next jolly 
 toper you'll meet in an inn tap-room ? " 
 
 " I am sure I don't know," and she answers mourn- 
 fully enough ; the scene so afflicting of last night 
 coming vividly before her eyes. 
 
 " But I do know. However, cheer up. There he 
 is in the flesh, talking to your father ; " and Lorraine 
 points down the path to the gate at the end of it. 
 
 " Oh, pray burn — tear up those lines ! " cries Lady 
 Laure, with agitated entreaty. 
 
 " On the contrary, I shall send them, with a portrait, 
 to the next Punch." 
 
 " Oh, you won't ! I am sure you won't ! " and she 
 clasps her hands. " Oh, don't send them ; they are 
 not at all good! You'll get laughed at. Whales 
 don't come here and eat men." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " laughs Lorraine, fairly in fits. "Bravo !
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 175 
 
 That's good. One word for me, and two for Mildew. 
 Isn't that it, Laure ? " 
 
 But Lady Laure makes no reply; her eyes are 
 fixed on the proceedings at the garden gate. Mr. 
 Mildew is leaning forward on the long stick he carries. 
 The earl suddenly leaves him, and goes into the house 
 by a side door, then quickly reappears, followed by 
 Burton, bearing a glass, apparently, of water. 
 
 " He is ill ! he is ill ! " she exclaims. " What can 
 be done ? " 
 
 Lorraine, too, is watching the dumb action. 
 " Folly ! " he cries. " The man is thirsty," and he 
 sings, sotto voce — 
 
 " Of his glass is the old man thinking, 
 
 As he leans on his oaken staff; 
 See his eyes all drowsily blinking, 
 
 As he swallows his half-and-half. 
 
 That's what's the matter with your friend, Laure." 
 
 With an " Oh ! " a start, and a flush, and a mute 
 protest in every feature. Lady Laure is up and gone — 
 gone with outstretched hands, down between the myrtle 
 hedges, to meet Mr. Mildew. 
 
 Lorraine, in his turn, starts, flushes, and frowns. 
 " By Heaven ! " he mutters, " I believe I'm jealous of 
 that old mummy ! "
 
 176 nUXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 
 
 What though fortune seem to hate, 
 Neither hope nor heart abate ; 
 For if thou but watch and wait, 
 If thou early strive and late, 
 Thou shalt win or conquer fate. 
 Of thy foe a friend create, 
 Turn to love all former hate. 
 Time and chance, or soon or late, 
 Come to all who work and wait. 
 
 " Thou shalt win or conquer fate." But how ? What 
 manner of victory will it be ? AVill the all, the end 
 brings, be the all hoped for ? 
 
 Some way or other life settles down ; some way or 
 other we bend our backs to our burdens ; some way or 
 other we accept our good days or our bad, our adversity 
 or our prosperity, and mainly with the unalterable at 
 the back of our acceptance ; some way or other great 
 souls reap the harvest of their sowing ; and some way 
 or other those who have sown but little, and that little 
 rubbish, reap their harvest, — often a profitable one. 
 
 But why do we say " rubbish " ? Are we able rela- 
 tively to weigh the value of human performance?
 
 WATCH AXD WAIT. 177 
 
 Can we fathom the agencies at work in human nature ? 
 We talk of great souls and of small souls, as we see 
 them, not as we know them. As some philosophers 
 admit only the idea of matter, so we view good and 
 evil — we see their existence, not their proof; all those 
 conditions which are at the root of each individual 
 will — motives, temptations, hereditary organization — 
 we have no acquaintance whatever with. 
 
 Into this consideration neither relisiion nor educa- 
 tion can broadly enter ; for, as far as we can judge, 
 education controls the conduct, but leaves the con- 
 science where it was, and religion, if genuine, is the 
 fruit of a congenial soil, not a plant of indiscriminate 
 groAvth. To our apprehension, there are souls made of 
 clay, — hearts made of stones or feathers, — brains that 
 do not get beyond animal instincts. Yet a moment may 
 come — long delayed — when the clay becomes spirit, 
 the heart fire, the brain intellect. After all, between 
 them and us it has been only a question of time. 
 Onl)^ the Infinite measures beforehand the limits of 
 the possible ; therefore, charity, which believeth all 
 things, reaches nearest to the Mind Divine. 
 
 A few words are due to Mr. Mildew, for, in spite of 
 
 our hero's low estimate of him, he deserves them. 
 
 This man had lived and suffered, and yet out of the 
 
 desert of his life, had made a great flower garden. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 PKINCE FORTUXE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 What higher merit exists than this ? But his history- 
 must speak for him. 
 
 Personally, his portrait is not hard to draw, for 
 it has marked points. Something gaunt, tall, and 
 weather-beaten ; the long hair, sparsely grizzled, fall- 
 ing from the broad head far back on to the shoulders ; 
 keen blue eyes ; straight, overhanging brows ; much- 
 lined forehead; nose, direct and developed; mouth, 
 full and square. If you had met him upon the Cum- 
 berland hills, dressed in his long, shapeless coat ; loose 
 neck-tie, limp and washed out, beaten by many stones ; 
 grey leggings, and long staff, you would have looked 
 round for sheep and dog. But if you had taken a 
 nearer note, you would have found a type of man 
 differing from the pastoral shepherd's, in the noble in- 
 telligence of the thin, high nose; in the breadth of 
 thought of the wide-lined brow ; in the quiet force of 
 the well-cut mouth, — a mouth that told of sympathy 
 and serene reproof, a merciful mouth to pass sentence 
 upon you, and a stern one to set your sin before you. 
 In Mr. Mildew you would have beheld an honest man, 
 yet of many sides ; a man of intense humanity, yet a 
 severe recluse ; a man of many sciences, yet shunning 
 the world of letters ; a man of cold exterior, yet of 
 imperious impulses. This was Mr. Mildew of the 
 present. 
 
 Mr. Mildew of a distant past was quite a different 
 person. There was no information in this little bay 
 why Mr. Mildew came to live upon its shores. The
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 179 
 
 spot had clearly suited him ; for winter and summer, 
 for twenty years, he had rarely wandered twenty miles 
 east or west. These mountains and shores had taken 
 the place with him of country and kindred. He spent 
 his solitary days in beholding their beauties, in study- 
 ing their treasures, and in befriending the peasant folk 
 who lived about in them. 
 
 Unto the other half of Mr. Mildew's life, which had 
 gone before this one, there belonged a history, pathetic 
 enough for those who can be moved without a grand 
 sensation. 
 
 The only son of a wealthy banker, in his youth he 
 lacked nothing that money and position and intellect 
 and good looks could secure for him. xit twenty the 
 handsome Horace Mildew was also the happy, in the 
 most light-hearted sense of that variously interpreted 
 word. In those days his manly face was bright 
 enough. Foremost in every academic race, whether of 
 sport or study, few men of his University were his 
 match in either. 
 
 No youth can be all this, without cherishing high 
 hopes of future distinction, and Mildew w^as as am- 
 bitious as the rest ; but two things were against him : 
 Fate was too hard, and his heart was too soft. First, 
 he fell in love. The object of his affections was his 
 superior in rank; but this proved no bar to his pre- 
 tensions — his fair promise was held to be equal to 
 lier position ; to this, perhaps, should be added his fair 
 purse.
 
 180 PEDsTE FOETUXE AXD PEDsCE FATAL. 
 
 The Fellowship he had won was yaiued, not for its 
 pecuniary advantage, but as a University honour, 
 to be relinquished again almost as soon as secured. 
 Up to this period his life had flown on as smoothly 
 as a summer sea ; but from the moment of his engage- 
 ment the breakers appeared. 
 
 The first coup was the sudden failure of his father's 
 firm. The elder ^lildew had been that anomalous 
 thing, a sleeping partner ; but his share in the losses 
 was active enough. It was a complete smash ; everything 
 was gone. Everything went to the hammer — town house 
 and country ; stables, wine, land, even the very trinkets 
 of his wife's dressing-table, and the knitting-pins out 
 of her workbasket, — all was remorselessly swept away. 
 There was nothing now for the petted son of this un- 
 fortunate house but to take up his cross and bear it. 
 
 And what became of his marriage ? His marriage ! 
 He had nothing to marry upon. But the lady took 
 the initiative, and withdrew from the engagement on 
 the plea of not being a burden to him in his diffi- 
 culties. His College pressed upon him the Fellowship 
 he had but just resigned; but he was too proud to 
 accept it in an irregular way, and went up to the 
 University to work as a private tutor. 
 
 His father died mysteriously, some said by his own 
 hand. His mother, poor lady, followed her husband 
 speedily; both dying within a year of the great 
 catastrophe. 
 
 With his mother's death, the small fortune settled
 
 WATCH AXD WAIT. 181 
 
 on herself deyolved upon her son. Thus it came to 
 pass that, when all was done that could be done, when 
 he had followed both parents to the tomb, and before 
 the grass had grown green on their grayes, Horace 
 Mildew broke up his life at the University, and, bidding 
 farewell to the few fi-iends that stood by him, quitted 
 England for ever. 
 
 It is an old, duU, and too common story, which 
 needs no comment; and Horace 3Iildew suftered no 
 more than other men have suftered who, starting with 
 all the world has to give, come to be broken up and 
 banished from it in their prime, and condemned for 
 life to exist poor and obscure. But he made his trial 
 heroic by the way he bore it. Some may say that 
 it would have been a better thing, with his talents, to 
 have kept ambition still as his goal, and worked his 
 way up to fame. But this was not in the man. Fame 
 and ambition he put behind him ; but his talents he 
 kept always to the fore, letting neither head nor heart 
 run to seed. 
 
 Lord Bellarmine and Mr. Mildew were cotempo- 
 raries of the same year, and members of the same 
 College, the difterence between them being that one 
 got a double first, and the other wore a silk gown. 
 Yet they were close friends. It was, in fact, with a 
 cousin of the earl that ^It. Mildew fell in love. Lord 
 Bellarmine took an ordinary degree, and then went 
 abroad ; and on his return to England, after a two years'
 
 182 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 absence, he found bis cousin married to anotber, and 
 bis friend vanisbed no one knew wbere. 
 
 Wben it was talked about in tbe little neigbbour- 
 hood tbat an English " milord " bad taken tbe Villa 
 Grimaldi, and that his name was Earl Bellarmine, 
 Mr. Mildew at once knew who was coming. 
 
 But be gave a cold ear to tbe report ; be bad alto- 
 gether done with the time in which this man had been 
 bis friend. Nor bad be even so much as a passing 
 wish to break through his rule of refusing all English 
 acquaintance, amongst the few stragglers from the 
 British Isles who, in those days, found their way to 
 these shores. 
 
 When the family arrived at the villa, he did not 
 even inquire of what it consisted. His sole precaution 
 was tbat, of taking many a wide circuit to avoid a 
 meeting. 
 
 " Ma che sark sara." 
 
 And Lady Laure, from tbe moment she fell in love 
 with this enchanting spot, was marked out to be the 
 fair Fate that ruled jMr. Mildew's latter destinies. 
 
 The earl had given in to her fancy of remaining 
 hereabouts with a fatherly grace. A certain amount 
 of dulness, and a certain amount of sun, he made up 
 bis mind to; but he was ready with tbe sacrifice to 
 please bis daughter.
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 183 
 
 As for Lady Laure, her heart beat high with the 
 concession she had won. She was not made up of 
 fancies and caprices. It was more her way to like all 
 things a little, than one thing very much ; but in 
 this case her heart was set upon it, and she felt like 
 a fortunate princess, whose fairy godmother had created 
 for her enjoyment, a garden of delights, and placed 
 her in the midst of it ; with free permission to wander 
 alone in it from morning to evening. Of this free 
 permission she availed herself without stint. She 
 found all she wanted close under her eyes. The hills 
 and the woods rose above and about the villa; the 
 wild flowers grew under her feet; the sea murmured 
 day and night in her ears. 
 
 Thus it came about, that, like Flora, full handed 
 with sweet blossoms, she encountered Mr. Mildew one 
 morning in her rambles, and, with her charming smile, 
 asked him the way. 
 
 Instinct told the anchorite that this was Bellar- 
 mine's daughter. Mr. Mildew succumbed at once. 
 The sweet Madonna face smiling upon him in all the 
 charm of its youth and beauty ; the graceful motion, 
 the well-bred manner, the voice soft and low; — it 
 conquered the poor man. It was an Angel of light 
 that crossed his path. Whichever way she went, he 
 could not choose bat follow.
 
 184 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 So words gathered up between them. He carried 
 her flowers, and added to her store, and told her where 
 others grew. And then he told her further, that once, 
 on a long-forgotten time till now, her father had been 
 bis close friend, and that he had loved him well. 
 
 Lady Laure accepted this welcome adventure as 
 the natural production of this happy soil. It inspired 
 her with pleasure, not surprise. She laid her com- 
 mands upon him with a sweet and easy insistance, as 
 if the kind chance had come of recent expectation, 
 and carried him off to breakfast as treasure-trove. 
 
 The earl met his old friend with the heartiness of 
 unmistakable satisfaction. He commended Lady Laure 
 for her discovery, chided Mr. Mildew for concealing 
 himself, congratulated him warmly upon being alive. 
 But the chief thing was, that he showed himself 
 beyond measure cordial. 
 
 Mr. Mildew fell into his place again, as if he had 
 never left it. The husk that had been hardening so 
 long round this kindly, ill-used heart, broke away 
 all at once. The cheer of a lightened spirit came 
 into his honest eyes; his voice, that index of the 
 mind, lost its undertone and grew into a ring ; and, 
 as the heart grew brighter and the step lighter, 
 an observant eye might have noticed that the shape- 
 less coat gave way to something sprucer, and the 
 battered hat and the washed-out neck-tie were not to 
 be recognized in their comely replacements. In this 
 renewal of the magic light of other days, all things
 
 WATCH AST) WAIT. 185 
 
 changed for Mr. Mildew into " something rich and 
 strange." 
 
 It was a third Heaven, yet not to be reached, but 
 through a corresponding Purgatory. Starve a good 
 man's heart for twenty years, and then suddenly set 
 before it the grateful fare of genial brotherhood, and 
 woman's lovely face and gracious presence, and the 
 chances are that the starved heart becomes full to 
 overflowing. So the old ruts of Mr. Mildew's ways 
 of life and feeling were altogether obliterated. 
 
 It is no use disguising it ; — it was all Lady Laure's 
 doing. No fair saint in cloistered shrine ever worked 
 more miracles on mortal behalf, than she in favour of 
 i\[r. Mildew. Her artless, womanly words; her in- 
 genuous thoughts ; her absorbing interest, as in glowing 
 sentences he imparted to her the rich gleanings of his 
 own mind ; her girlish pleasure in following him as 
 her guide far and near in these lovely scenes; — all 
 this crowned his seared life with roses, even at fifty 
 years ! 
 
 In the long early mornings of the fresh arrival, 
 before the sun was full and high, Lady Laure and her 
 grey Squire might be seen taking their way betimes 
 by terraces and groves, by shore and rocks, by arduous 
 heights, up to a lofty world of purple hills and waviug 
 summits, of crags, and streams, and barren steeps. 
 He took her to monastic dwellings, far back in the 
 deep mountainous recesses. They stopped before 
 Sanctuaries, each with its sacied legend or tragic tale.
 
 186 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 He led her to where the dizzy path, cut in the living 
 rock, hung over the sheer descent into sea-depths 
 below. He showed her the patriarchs of the olive 
 woods, and bade her picture the soldier of imperial 
 Kome, walking beneath these self-same shades. He 
 took her up by tangled wildernesses to the old olive- 
 mills, where the noisy torrents come dashing down the 
 gorges, filling the ducts and turning the rude wheels. 
 He taught her the mystery of extracts and perfumes, 
 till her heart was bent upon making her own jieur 
 d'orange without delay. 
 
 In the warm, dusk evenings he answered for all 
 safety, and sailed with her across the bay, to where 
 the fishermen, their fire-baskets at the prow, pushed 
 through the clear shallows, and speared the great 
 cuttlefish in their soft sea-bed. He gave her a lively 
 horror when the briny monster was displayed, ink-bag 
 and hairy arms, all intact. 
 
 He taught lier why the sea was blue, and why the 
 rocks were hard. He lectured upon rainless tracts, and 
 extinct species, and bone caves, and boulder drifts, till 
 Lady Laure grew wise apace. He told her the names 
 of all manner of plants and stones. He showed her 
 where the winter swallow nestles in the glowing 
 rock, and moved her to compassion as he pointed 
 to the hovering falcon darting across the sun's eye 
 to seize his quivering prey. All creatures were his 
 friends: the mountain cattle, the goats, the birds; 
 even the green tree-frog, with its shrill croak, and the
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 187 
 
 great night-moth, with its whirring wings, and the shy- 
 spider in its wondrous trap. 
 
 It was a new world for Lady Laure — a world of 
 wonders, of which Mr. Mildew had the key. Nothing 
 in her pleasant life had ever been so pleasant, as these 
 rambling days with her new friend. 
 
 When the earl talked of moving. Lady Laiire would 
 say, " Why should we go on ? Are we not happy 
 here ? " 
 
 It was upon the thirteenth day of the month. But 
 why be particular, except that dates will stick in the 
 mind ? Upon this day the earl received a letter. 
 
 " It is from your aunt, Laure. She wishes us to join 
 them, at least for a week or two. We cannot refuse." 
 
 Lady Laure sighed. 
 
 " But we can return again in a little time, if you 
 are so wedded to this quiet spot." 
 
 Lady Laure begins to smile. 
 
 So the carriage is packed — baggage, Burton, 
 Jenkins, and all; and a few mornings after, they 
 depart. 
 
 Lady Laure and the earl take their seats. 
 
 "We must stop in the town for letters," says the 
 earl. " I may have one to answer." 
 
 "Farewell ! We shall soon return," cries Lady Laure 
 to Mr. Mildew.
 
 188 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Crack! crack! The vetturino shouts, and away 
 they speed. But not too fast, after all. 
 
 Mr. Mildew starts off too, — into the citron grove, 
 through the pine trees, by the olive wood, and then 
 up that sudden steep. It is the very path Lady 
 Laure and Lorraine had followed when they came to 
 foe belated on that memorable day — then, — still in that 
 Future — which held so much of grief for Mr. Mildew. 
 
 Mr. Mildew knows it better than they did ; and he 
 is a better mountaineer too, by many degrees. What 
 a vigorous frame for fifty years I Steadily he takes 
 the ascent, and soon he is crossing the ridges. It is a 
 full east wind. How his hair blows back, like the soft, 
 grey mountain grass ! There is a short cut he means 
 to take ; he will scale the red rocks to their eastern- 
 most summits. It is a perilous climb ; but he neither 
 flags nor falters till the post is won. 
 
 What a scene it is ! From the bare height of this 
 awful cliff, whose base is in the waves, before him lie, 
 in vast length and breadth, this incomparable sea and 
 this incomparable coast. The sea below and the sky 
 above are rivals in their boundless blue; but in the 
 infinite distance they simulate the law of love, though 
 no line marks the point of this celestial union. Far 
 as sight can span, retires the long coast-line, bay after 
 bay, headland after headland. The clustering towns 
 dip their white feet into the blue water. Green woods 
 and grey, cliffs verdant and barren, follow each other 
 in lovely contrast ; and on that distant jutting promon-
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 18^ 
 
 toiy, those branching palms, barely discernible to the 
 naked eye, carry the mind still further Eastward to a 
 truer Orient. 
 
 But Mr. Mildew's heart is sad. The knell of his 
 delight in these much-loved scenes already rings with 
 a prophetic stroke upon his ears. He stretches himself 
 upon the rock in a hopeless attitude. The close, wild 
 thyme that crops about, makes him a soft couch ; but 
 he heeds not the sweet perfume. He picks the tiny 
 blooms and flings them over the brink, heedless of 
 what he does. His heart is sad ; it sinks within him 
 with an inexpressible despondency. 
 
 What is that faint rumble, like a smothered earth- 
 quake, that brings Mr. Mildew to his feet? How 
 recklessly he leans over the giddy parapet ! It would 
 make your head reel to see him. 
 
 Mr. Mildew has found that which he has come for — 
 a small, black mass. It emerges from the rock ; it 
 glides along; it scales the opposing cliff; now it sink&,. 
 now it rises ; now it is lost, now it appears again ; it 
 turns inward with the curving shore ; long it remains in 
 sight. 
 
 Mr. Mildew strains his eyes; he draws his hand 
 across his forehead ; he leans forward further — further 
 still ; — it is gone ! — there is no black spot, no moving 
 speck. All is still as the stone cliffs themselves.
 
 190 PKINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Why do his arms fall so listlessly to his sides ? What 
 glistens in those shaded, weary eyes? Is it the 
 strained sight, or is it a tear ? There is none but kind 
 Heaven for a witness, and tears will gather in the driest 
 
 eyes, and hearts will throb — though old and cold ; 
 
 and Mr. Mildew, at fifty years, has, with all this despe- 
 rate effort, climbed the mountain's crest to take a long, 
 last look of Lady Laure. 
 
 " Palm Sunday," says the Italian proverb, " is very 
 near to Holy Friday." 
 
 Lady Laure drove off from the Villa Grimaldi full 
 of the fair hope of a quick return. She was in the 
 gayest good spirits ; all she left behind — all she went 
 to meet — filled her with soft pleasure. There she sat, 
 all smiles and affluent ease ; and as the roomy caUche 
 wound slowly in and out by the tortuous road, it was 
 little that she dreamt of Mr. 31ildew, wan and tearful, 
 posted on that bleak look-out, waiting and watching 
 for her. 
 
 If dreams she had, they were of the rosiest hue. 
 Her heart could not have been young and innocent, 
 as it was, if it had been otherwise ; for the land is 
 Italy, the day divine. No fairer heaven, no lovelier 
 earth, no more celestial sea can be conceived of. All 
 joyous things to-day meet in Lady Laure's breast: 
 the beauty of the journey, the meeting with her
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 191 
 
 friends; the friend she leaves behind, the promised 
 return to the dear village on the rock, the expectant 
 charms of the proud city they are bound for. 
 
 Two days en route. The third brings them to their 
 last stage, a small fishing hamlet, a few miles short of 
 the great city. It was here they were to meet their 
 friends. 
 
 The arrival of an English carriage was an event, 
 then, at the small alhergo of the place. It brought 
 out the host, and a train of inquisitive followers. 
 
 " Is there an English family here of this name ? " 
 asks the earl, handing a card with the name of his 
 expected relatives written on it in pencil. 
 
 A waiter at the back is pushed forward to interpret 
 the earl's doubtful French. 
 
 " Ou done est Luigi ? " cries the host. 
 
 It is not the etiquette for the host to take a 
 personal part in the parley. But Luigi is not forth- 
 coming. His substitute, though his linguistic powers 
 may be superior, is not a great card as to appearance. 
 He hastily arranges his dishevelled hair by desperately 
 brushing his arm across the lank black locks. 
 
 " Una famiglia Inglese ? No " 
 
 The host brings him up with a nudge, to the sense 
 of present requirements. 
 
 " Pardon ; nous avons eu dernierement une miladi ; 
 pas jeune, et trois demoiselles, mais " 
 
 " That's it ! " cries the earl, breaking into the mother 
 tongue.
 
 192 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 The man also relapses into pure Italian. But the 
 end of it all is, that the earl makes out quite clearly 
 that the old miladi, and the demoiselles were the party 
 they had come to meet, and that they were come, and 
 were gone. 
 
 At this critical moment, Luigi, the head waiter, 
 advances. Probably the toilet which his subordinate 
 attempted in public he has been making in private ; 
 for he is attired in snow-white pantaloons, with a 
 heavy gold chain across his waistcoat. 
 
 He comes forward with the characteristic, inimit- 
 able, and affably superior air, peculiar to the class of 
 Continental head waiters generally. 
 
 " Vossignoria." Then a bow, and after that he 
 converses in very fair English. '' The signer is seek- 
 ing an English gentleman as well ? " 
 
 " Your cousin Algernon is with them probably,'^ 
 says the earl, addressing Lady Laure. 
 
 Lady Laure shakes her head. *' I am sure not ; 
 Clara's postscript said so." 
 
 " Ah !" said the earl; " I never read these postcripts- 
 of Clara's." 
 
 " Si, Si ? " nods Luigi, inquiringly. 
 
 " Non, non," answers Lady Laure, decidedly. 
 
 But Luigi will take no denial ; evidently not con- 
 vinced by Lady Laure's " Non, non," he waves his hand 
 and vanishes. In a short space he returns, turning at 
 quick intervals to look behind him, and beckoning with 
 encouraging vivacity some one to follow him.
 
 .■■7-1 
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 193 
 
 " Eccolo ! here, then, he is ! " cries Luigi. 
 
 " Mais j 'attends personne," says a voice from the 
 interior — " personne je vous dis." This last " personne 
 je vous dis " is addressed to the silent and staring host, 
 and with an accent unmistakably British. 
 
 The only reply which the host vouchsafes is an 
 intelligent wink to Luigi, and a shower of gesticula- 
 tions in the direction of the unseen one. 
 
 All this dumb-show was not without a serious 
 meaning. Granted that the milord had failed to find 
 his own friends, the bodily presence of another English- 
 man, might induce him to patronize the house. 
 
 Finally, the recalcitrant Briton is beaten. He is 
 brought reluctantly to the fore, as fair game. 
 
 He is more than good-looking, with more than a 
 sulky air ; he has plenty of height and to spare ; dark- 
 haired, dark-eyed, with a dash of insuperable pride and 
 disgust in every feature. 
 
 *• Yedremo ! Yedremo ! " says Luigi aside to 
 
 the host. 
 
 The earl at once comprehends the situation. He 
 gets down from the carriage, and, with the admirable 
 courtesy natural to him, says, with a smile — 
 
 "I should make a thousand apologies to you for 
 this interruption. I fear I am answerable for this 
 mistake. I came here to meet some friends, whom I 
 find have just left the hotel. Will you let me give you 
 my card ? " 
 
 The young man starts with a momentary loss of 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 self-possession; then he looks hard at the earl; then 
 disgust and pride take flight; and then he lifts his 
 hat, — to the lady first. 
 
 " It is for me to make excuses," he says, " and also 
 to express my pleasure at this occurrence." Then he 
 becomes slightly embarrassed as he goes on to say, 
 " I hope your son. Lord Lucie, is well ; he was an old 
 Eton friend of mine. My name is Lorraine." 
 
 And this was the way that Chance, or Doom, or 
 Nemesis brought Mr. Mildew's lete noire and Lady 
 Laure's heau fiance to the Villa Grimaldi. 
 
 All things considered, if there is such a thing as 
 presentiment, it is not to be wondered at, that Mr. 
 Mildew felt such an inexpressible despondency as he 
 watched that departing caUclie from his look-out on the 
 top of the red rocks.
 
 ( 195 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 
 
 A housewife, going out very early in the morning, met a wise 
 woman, and she said, "What can I do? When I go to the meadow, 
 the cock cries, ' Mistress, Mistress ! ' and when I go to the hen-roost, 
 the cow calls, ' Mother, Mother ! ' What can I do ? " Then the wise 
 woman replied, " Let the cock crow, and the cow low. Go you into 
 the house, and spin yourself a shroud ; for that is the end of all." 
 
 " It is not a part of the human understanding, my dear 
 Laure," said Lorraine, " to know one's self. You want 
 to leave this place, and at once. With all my heart ; 
 but whence, constant fair one, this change in the 
 wind?" 
 
 If Lady Laure had taken courage, she would 
 have said, "Because of the ill will between you and 
 Mr. Mildew." Her position in regard to the two was 
 becoming every day more trying. When they were 
 together, she sat on thorns, expecting some outbreak or 
 other ; and when she was alone with either of them, she 
 was in constant dread of their mutual evil-speaking 
 and slandering. It would have been hard to say which 
 wounded her more acutely — Lorraine's ridicule and 
 levity, or Mr. Mildew's censures and forebodings.
 
 196 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 There was but one way out of these growing 
 troubles, and that was to part the combatants. There- 
 fore Lady Laure said to Lorraine, " Let us go away, if 
 you like, Claude, at once." 
 
 It was not that the natural charms of the spot 
 grew less — for now, indeed, reigned the true spring of 
 the poet's lay, decked in summer's glow and flowers, 
 with all its own fragrance and freshness. Again Lady 
 Laure and Lorraine sat under the citron boughs ; again 
 they played at ball with the yellow fruit ; again they 
 watched the blue sea ripple under the sun; but the 
 airy spirit of joy had gone out of the game ; the dream 
 of enchantment out of the bower ; the soothing melody 
 out of the wave. Their eyes beheld the sunshine still, 
 but in their hearts lay the shadows. 
 
 " Look at those young rascals, Laure ! " says- 
 Lorraine. " Sec how they roast in the sun ! What 
 would we not give to be as happy as they are, rags and 
 bare legs not excepted ? " 
 
 The "young rascals" were a group of lads and 
 children of various ages, down in the creek below 
 them. They were out of bounds, and that made their 
 pleasure the sweeter ; and they sang and danced on the 
 small strip of sand betwixt sea and rocks, with all the 
 incipient passion of their inherited natures . 
 
 " I'll call one of them up," says Lorraine. " You're 
 awfully down, Laure, to-day; and I am what's called 
 dull. Let's see if we can't extract half an hour's 
 amusement out of this rustic human nature. And they
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 197 
 
 don't sing amiss ; it's wonderful how the people do sing 
 here. As I came over the hill the other day, I could 
 have sworn that one of them was singing, ' La donna e 
 mobile.' " 
 
 " I dare say," says Lady Laure, absently ; and then 
 she adds, " But their own songs are the best, if one 
 could only understand them;" and then she sighs. 
 
 Now, Lady Laure had begun with Mr. Mildew a 
 very serious study of the poetry of these parts, none 
 the less interesting that it could only be gathered up 
 orally. 
 
 "Command me, Laure; so don't sigh over it," 
 answers Lorraine, in a lively voice. " Waiting for you 
 this morning, I learnt a whole vocabulary by heart of 
 their patois; the book's lying about in the drawing- 
 room. I'll try it on those children." So he raises him- 
 self up, and cries, looking over the broken bit of rock, 
 " Vena achi ! Vena achi ! " 
 
 His first attempt merely makes a break in the 
 games ; the second produces a concentrated stare ; but 
 at the third " Vena achi ! " the whole juvenile force 
 come scrambling up the crags, striving who shall be 
 foremost, tumbling back over each other, head over 
 heels, till they stand at last, bruised and breathless, on 
 the green level in front of the citron grove, like a 
 relief of Luca della Kobbia's. A row of bare-clad 
 imps, grouped thick and close, each child with its 
 brown, thin hand held out for coins. 
 
 " Ah ! " says Lorraine, " something must be done
 
 198 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 before we come to that. They shall sing, Laure. 
 Canta ! canta ! " 
 
 " Est ben Ahe ! " cry the children. 
 
 " ^NTow for a complex sentence," says Lorraine. 
 
 But there was no need for him just then to tax his 
 powers. The children break out of their line, and 
 ibrm into a double circle, threading in and out ; 
 and as they dance they say — 
 
 " Maja, Maja, beni venga, 
 Cun totu sole e amore, 
 Cuii s'arma e cun su fiore 
 E cun sa Margaritana." 
 
 " Bravo ! " cries Lorraine. 
 
 Then the children begin an encore. He shakes his 
 head. "Altro ! altro!" This was not very good patois; 
 but they understood it. 
 
 The next exhibition was of a more ambitious 
 character. In this, one child stood silent and single, 
 whilst the others, hand-in-hand, danced to and fro 
 before him. The song was both plaintive and lively, 
 with an occasional long-drawn-out note, to which went 
 the accompaniment of inexpressible contortions and 
 grimaces of mock respect. 
 
 " Capital ! " and Lorraine claps his hands. 
 
 The exciting action carries the young artists away. 
 They are not to be stopped this time, and each child 
 lias a right to his turn of homage from the rest. So 
 the song comes over and over — 
 
 *' Barba Garibo, 
 E gioruo levevo,
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 199 
 
 Porte de Zenzibo, 
 Dame, do a tre merio, 
 Barba Garibo, Barba Garibo ! 
 
 " Barba Garibo, 
 Un ome coma vo, 
 Ch' ha vist tante cause, 
 Eben giiist cbe se repanse, 
 Che vos par d'aisso, 
 Barba Garibo, Barba Garibo ! " 
 
 "It is one of their favourite songs," says Lady 
 Laure. 
 
 " What's it about, I wonder ? They repeat that 
 *■ Garibo ' so often. Has it any sense ? " asks Lorraine. 
 
 *' Oh, not much sense," says she, smiling ; " but 
 they don't care for sense in their songs. It means 
 something of this sort : * Father Garibo ' — ^ uncle,' it 
 should be — * it is daylight. Get up. Bring us some 
 raisins, with two or three apples. A man like you, 
 who has seen so many things, it is quite right that 
 he should rest himself. What do you think ? ' — 
 
 " That is all of it. There's very little meaning in 
 it," she adds. 
 
 Lorraine sits with a oratherins^ frown. " I see a 
 considerable meaning in it ; and 1 believe it was that 
 old Garibo down there who taught it to you. For 
 the future, let's call him your dear L'ncle Garibo ! " 
 
 "No, no," answers Lady Laure, with a quick look 
 of vexation. " Why not call people by their own 
 names ? " 
 
 " If their names were reasonable, by all means. 
 But supposing your name happened to be Dry Kot, or
 
 200 PKIXCE rORTUXE AXD PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 ^loulcly, or Mildew ; in that case, I think you would 
 take it as an obligation if a friend dubbed you 
 Garibo." 
 
 " Ask the children to sing again," says Lady Laure, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Ah ! I see ; you are anxious to change the subject, 
 — to get rid of Uncle Garibo ! " 
 
 " I am, indeed, Claude." A weary look comes into 
 her face. Trouble, of whatever kind, begins to tire 
 by persistence. 
 
 The next song has nothing of the plaintive in it. 
 It is sung at a great pace ; the accompanying pantomime 
 being the clapping of each other's hands and shoulders 
 after the last line with tremendous vivacity. 
 
 Lorraine makes a sign to them to moderate their 
 speed ; but they go quicker and quicker. 
 
 The tallest youth of the party, a picturesque 
 fellow, with long legs and a lovely oval in his face, 
 perceives that they are not giving satisfaction. He 
 touches his red cap with an air and a grace, and, 
 with a stamp of his foot, brings them all to a stop. 
 
 " No stasema a una aixi vito ! " he cries, in a voice 
 of command. 
 
 Then come two or three rebellious murmurs in 
 the shape of " Cociora ! cociora ! " which was simply 
 " Get on ! " 
 
 The tall lad had his way, however, and the song 
 was repeated with a drawl, worthy of the psalm-sing- 
 ing: north of the Tweed —
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 201 
 
 *' Son stat' a Eoma et al Papa j' ho parlato, 
 L'ho dit' se fe' I'amnre I'e peccatu ? 
 Kispond 'un Cardinal de li piu vecchi. 
 Fate ramnr che siate benedetti ! " 
 
 " That's as clear as daylight," says Lorraine. '* And 
 the authority of the ]parti pretre upon this important 
 subject is encouraging. What do you say, Laure ? " 
 
 Lady Laure shakes her head. "I do not under- 
 stand it," says she. " I never heard it before." 
 
 Lorraine srives her a look as much as to sav. *' And 
 you, too, caught fibbing, fair angel ! " 
 
 Then he tosses some coins to the chorus. 
 
 More scrambling and tumbling, hustling and push- 
 ing, some scratching and kicking, some in triumph, 
 some in despair. So the fierce little crowd disperses. 
 
 Lorraine is silent. He sits looking at the sea, 
 playing a sort of tattoo on the ground with the indis- 
 pensable white umbrella. " You don't understand it. 
 then ? " says he at last, with a singular smile. " Well, 
 here's a free translation for you — 
 
 " To Kome I've been ; the Pope I saw. 
 I asked if making love was wrong ? 
 The oldest Cardinal said, ' Psha ! 
 
 Love — if the saints you'd be among ! ' '* 
 
 " Ah ! " says Ladv Laure, lookinsj steadily away 
 from him ; " you don't know Eome. You must go 
 there some day." 
 
 " Eome ! Xo ; and IVe no desire to know it. AVhy 
 do you talk of my going to Kome ? " It was too hanl 
 upon her innocent equivoque, but possibly, in his turn.
 
 202 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 Lorraine did not understand. Then he adds, tartly, 
 " I tell you what it is. Poetry is thrown away upon 
 you. Doesn't Lucie say so ? " 
 
 "Lucie is so indulgent to me." 
 
 "That means that I am not! Are you growing 
 tired of your bargain, Laure ? " 
 
 " What can you mean, Claude ? " cries she. 
 
 " I mean what I say," he answers, " as I generally 
 do. Beating about the bush, or giving a false scent, 
 are not in my way, as you might know by this time. 
 Listen to me. Marriages, they say, are made in 
 Heaven. Now, I declare to you, .shocking as it may 
 sound in your pious ears, that I have very strong mis- 
 givings as to the celestial origin of ours, if it ever 
 comes to pass." 
 
 " Oh, Claude ! oh ! " It was all that she could say. 
 
 He sits with his eyes upon her, viewing the full 
 effect of his words. She, all the time, gathering up 
 what pride and courage nature had given her, growing 
 pale and red by turns, speaks at last — 
 
 " If you do not think we shall be happy." 
 
 "How on earth can I tell how a thing will turn 
 out before it's tried ? You, I'll be bound, will turn out 
 a model under every circumstance. But I have the 
 modesty to distrust myself;" and then he laughs. 
 " As to Kome, when I go there, I suppose it will be 
 to do penance for my Protestant alliance ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " cries she, " if we were only of the same 
 religion ! "
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 203 
 
 " So we are, practically," says he. " I was only 
 joking." 
 
 " But you are a Catholic," argues she. 
 
 " If I'm anything. But it's all one, you know." 
 
 " It is better to be something," answers Lady 
 Laure, gravely. 
 
 " That depends," he says, with a shrug. " You'll 
 have to take me as I am, if you take me at all ! I 
 can't promise reformations of any kind ; and I never 
 was brought up to say many prayers, my dear Laure. 
 Uncle Loftus doesn't trouble Mass and chapel much ; 
 and his hopeful nephew takes after him. My only 
 acquaintance with Father Doghlan at Loughmore, 
 was to kick the unhappy fellow's shins under the 
 table over the Latin grammar. I have had more 
 compunction, since I came to years of understanding, 
 for what I made that meek animal suffer, than for all 
 my other sins put together ! " 
 
 " You were but a child," says she. 
 
 " Has smiling infancy a right to break a peaceable 
 man's shins, then, Laure ? You've got confused notions 
 of right and wrong, I fear. You take the part of 
 young tyrants, and love the high places of old ones." 
 
 "I? Old tyrants?" 
 
 " Yes, you ! — I see, you plead guilty to the first 
 count. As to the second, didn't you say you liked 
 Kome ? " 
 
 " Of course I did. Every one — almost every one — 
 does. Easter is just the time."
 
 204 PRINCE FOETUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 "Oh, I know all about it ! Starved all day in 
 St. Peter's; stifled all night in pitch darkness, in a 
 narrow place, with men and women of all nations, to 
 the tune of * Adeste fideles.' " 
 
 " Don't be profane ! You know it's the * Miserere.' " 
 
 " Well, I suppose * Fideles ' fits the case." 
 
 " It is divinely beautiful — like an angelic choir." 
 
 " I'd rather sit at my ease at the opera," says he. 
 
 " But there are other things in Rome." 
 
 " Nothing for me. I don't like dead cities. I 
 don't by preference choose to live among the tombs. 
 It's not my way of making merry." 
 
 " Tombs ! But you don't live in the catacombs ! " 
 Lady Laure smiles in wonder. 
 
 Then he goes suddenly back to the religious 
 question. " Believe me, once for all, there's nothing 
 of the hon Catholiqtie in me ! Get rid of your Foreigners 
 and your Despotisms, and then Italy's the place for 
 me!'' 
 
 " Ah ! so says Lucie." 
 
 " Not exactly Lucie, if I may believe your father ; 
 but just Claude Lorraine, a very moderate ^'evolution- 
 naire indeed ! " 
 
 " Still, he thinks and acts as you would," says she ; 
 " for he went straight away from Rome one year, when 
 we were there. He does go off in that sort of way, 
 you know, suddenly." 
 
 " Does he ? " rejoins Lorraine. " And very right 
 too, if he doesn't like where he is. He's a commend-
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 205 
 
 able example ; " and he tightens his lips expressively. 
 " But as to you, Laure, there's but one place that you 
 should turn your steps to just now ; and I was saying 
 so to your father yesterday. This year — is not last year,, 
 and the safest place for you is British territory." 
 
 " Are you serious now ? " says she. 
 
 "Perfectly serious. There's nothing in the wind 
 but wars and rumours of wars, red revolutions, bar- 
 ricades, and the like. Heigho ! A man may do worse 
 than go in for it, as I suspect your brother is doing. 
 I wish I'd a good excuse to do the same. I'm sick of 
 a quiet life." 
 
 "But you don't wish to go into a revolution, 
 Claude ? " 
 
 " I wish for anything to stir the blood, and drive 
 the lazy devil out of a man," says he. 
 
 " Check to the king," says the earl. 
 
 Mr. Mildew hurriedly removes his majesty. 
 
 " You know you leave the castle undefended.'* 
 
 Mr. Mildew brings down the queen. 
 
 " My dear fellow, there it is ! " and the earl takes 
 the queen. " The game is up ; it is not to be resisted. 
 In fact, it's strange, but I play a stronger game than 
 you do now, though you beat me hollow at the 
 beginning." 
 
 Mr. Mildew pushes the board slightly away from
 
 206 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 him. "Time and Chance, Bellarmine, happen to 
 us all." 
 
 " Come, you shall not rob me of my laurels," says 
 the earl, laughing. " Chess is too much of a game of 
 skill for chance to enter into it." 
 
 " But time does ; and time — is chance," says Mr. 
 Mildew. 
 
 " Will you have your revenge. Mildew ? " 
 
 Mr. Mildew shakes his head. " Not with Time and 
 Chance against me. A man's last refuge — it may be 
 a forlorn one — is to know when he is beaten." 
 
 The earl was in high spirits at his victory. 
 "Well, you'll take it some day, when you're in the 
 cue. I'm not altogether satisfied about my strength. 
 You play carelessly, to say the least. No doubt, 
 though, I've got up my game surprisingly since we 
 first played last year. Last year! Bless me! what 
 an anchorage we have made here, to be sure ! Months 
 — months ; and we only came for one. But latterly, 
 I have been in no haste ; for my little Laure has found 
 a woman's pearl of great price here — a good husband. 
 Little witch ! it's quite mysterious the way she took 
 to the place from the first." 
 
 Mr. Mildew's sunburnt face was not the mirror to 
 catch each shade of thought, nor were his features 
 formed to express each sudden emotion ; yet, at the 
 words of the earl, the lips quivered, and a pallor, as 
 of the dead overspread his cheeks, and he sat as one 
 transfixed.
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 207 
 
 " You are not well, Mildew ! " cries the earl. " You 
 have one of those attacks coming on, that took you 
 the other day in the garden ; " and he jumps up and 
 rings the bell. " Water, Burton, at once ! " 
 
 But Mr. Mildew is determined to master himself. 
 His voice is steady, and his eye too. " Bellarmine," 
 he says, " will you add wine to that order ? I have 
 something I must say to you." 
 
 " To be sure — to be sure," replies the earl, with a 
 nod to Burton. Then he looks anxiously at Mr. 
 Mildew. " Don't exert yourself to speak now. Mildew ; 
 you're not fit for it. Another time will do. But drink 
 down the wine, man ; it's just what you want." 
 
 " What I have to say is brief " — then Mr. Mildew 
 stops — " but it is painful." 
 
 "Good God, Mildew!" cries the earl, thoroughly 
 alarmed. " What has happened ? I might have seen 
 all the morning that you were not yourself." 
 
 Mr. Mildew makes no instant reply ; he is gathering 
 up his forces. The moment had come at last, — ushered 
 in by so many sleepless nights and distressful days, 
 when, at all costs, he must speak the grievous truth, 
 as he takes it to be. 
 
 Mr. Mildew lifts his eyes bravely, and looks at the 
 earl. The pallor is gone now ; the lips are firm ; the 
 wine, or the will has done its work. The earl's eyes 
 meet his friend's, full of fear and uncertainty. They 
 have changed places for this one moment. Then 
 Mr. Mildew speaks. He says what he has to say 
 calmly enough.
 
 208 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Bellarmine, you are mistaken. That man is not 
 worthy of your daughter. He will break her heart." 
 
 " Is this it ? " exclaims the earl, and he draws a 
 long breath, and a look of relieved surprise chases 
 away all the doubt and alarm. "Why, bless me, 
 Mildew ; he's the man of all others I would pick out 
 for Laure. An honourable, well-living young fellow 
 as can be ; and so domesticated, too. See how he has 
 stayed on here with us. I assure you, if he were thrown 
 over, I don't know where I could look for his equal. 
 You have lived so long out of the world, my dear 
 friend, you don't know what the young men of the 
 present generation are." 
 
 "Not all frivolous puppies, it is to be hoped," 
 returns Mr. Mildew, and the worn, blue eyes flash 
 absolute fire from under the shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 " Come, come. Mildew, keep to terms. Kemember, 
 if Mr. Lorraine is not now my son-in-law, he will be." 
 There was a haughty tone in the voice. 
 
 Mr. Mildew rose with equal pride. " I have done 
 my duty, Bellarmine, and so I take my leave." 
 
 The earl made no movement to detain him. The 
 door opened and closed again. And thus these two 
 friends parted. 
 
 Mr. Mildew did not leave the house. On the con- 
 trary, he sought Lady Laure, and found her sitting
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 209 
 
 alone in the drawing-room. Lorraine, after the talk 
 in the citron grove, had gone off by himself, to quiet 
 his warlike sensations by the smoke of a cigar. When 
 she saw who it was, Lady Laure rose at once, and ran 
 towards her friend with affectionate effusion. 
 
 " xih ! I am so glad you have come. We have now 
 so few days together. And how well you look ! How 
 rejoiced I am ! If, when we say good-bye, you look as 
 you do now, it will give me such comfort. Try and 
 be well ! Try and be happy, dear, dear Mr. Mildew ! " 
 
 So Lady Laure opened her whole heart. Only to 
 her brother, " who spoiled her," had she the same 
 instinct of fearless confidence — the same certainty of 
 risking no wrong judgment, calling up no blame or 
 lack of sympathy. 
 
 The pallor was again creeping over the flushed 
 cheek ; the fire was fading out of the excited eyes. 
 Mi. Mildew, fresh from angry indignation, had indeed 
 entered the room with something of the inspired 
 Prophet in his face and step. 
 
 But it was momentary. It was the last flicker of 
 expiring effort. As the wrath subsided, the woe set 
 in. But how more and more unutterable that woe 
 became, — with each of these tender words that fell 
 with such free bounty from Lady Laure's lovely lips ! 
 — that, indeed, were hard to tell. 
 
 In happy ignorance. Lady Laure sees nothing of this 
 wan change. She is again seated, again at her pretty 
 labour of needlework. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Mr. Mildew sits down beside her. He draws his 
 chair near — nearer. It is the last, the very last time 
 he shall sit in her sweet presence. What is not 
 permitted to supreme moments such as this ? 
 
 " You are out of breath," she says, as she looks up 
 at him, and sees him shaken with agitation. " And you 
 are pale again. Ah ! you have been walking too far. 
 I wish I had been with you to make you more 
 prudent." And then she colours with a quick remorse. 
 How long — how long it was since she had taken even 
 one walk with her old friend ! 
 
 "You have another companion now," he says, 
 smiling with the sad forgiveness of a martyred saint. 
 
 Lady Laure sighs, and sighs deeply. She puts her 
 work aside. She turns with a piteous eye to him. 
 She takes his large, brown hand in hers. She carries 
 it to her lips, and she cries, " Oh, dearest and kindest 
 friend, I love him so much, so much ! What can I do ? " 
 
 At this Mr. Mildew's strength is gone. He is no 
 longer the man ; he is a soul in pain — past controlling. 
 His tears fall fast — the first shower shed by these poor 
 eyes since they fell upon a mother's grave. Her 
 hands are wet with salt drops ; for she joins her tears 
 to his. 
 
 " God knows," he murmurs — " God knows ; there 
 is no help now but in Him. He who careth for the 
 sparrows will not leave His lambs destitute ! " There- 
 upon he gets up, and so does she ; and as a good father 
 embraces a dutiful daughter, he takes her in his arms,
 
 GOD BLESS YOU ALL. 211 
 
 and plants one kiss upon that spotless brow, — and 
 goes. 
 
 But again he comes back to the door. " God bless 
 you, and be with you for ever and ever ! " Then he 
 goes again, — not to return. 
 
 She, the innocent cause of all this anguish, sits lost 
 as in a maze. To her Lorraine comes quickly in — 
 
 " Laure ! what's the matter with your friend ? 
 He's crying like an infant; and as he met me, he 
 seizes my hand and says, * God bless you ! Don't 
 break her heart ! ' — The man is mad, hopelessly insane.'* 
 
 " Oh, speak kindly — speak kindly ! " cries Lady 
 Laure. " It is his heart — his heart that is broken, — 
 quite broken ! " And then she falls to weeping again.
 
 212 PRINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME A SINNER!" 
 
 He plucked three blooms of the myrtle tree, 
 And thrice he wept as he spake to me 
 The grievous lore of the sorrows three. 
 
 " Tell now tbe remedy," then I said, 
 
 " For the sorrows three. Priest, lend thine aid 
 
 To lighten the load thy words have laid." 
 
 " No ; learn to suflfer ! " the stern reply. 
 " Bloom of the body is doomed to die ; 
 Bloom of the mind soon passes by ! 
 
 ♦' Banish all hopes that do fade away ; 
 Thy heart on the heart spear-wounded stay ; 
 His flower, thy soul, shall ne'er decay ! " 
 
 Me. Mildew went westward up the hills, avoiding the 
 road that led to his house. He went rapidly, and yet 
 halting — staggering like a man in a dream. He looked 
 down upon the kind earth, as his feet brushed through 
 the bright red blooming carpet that covered it. 
 
 "0 flowers," he cries — "flowers of earth! ye are 
 dust; all dust!" 
 
 Then he stops and turns his eyes up to his 
 beloved mountains, and then back upon the rainbow 
 waves ; and stands bewildered.
 
 *'GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME A SINNER!" 213 
 
 Alas ! can no magic wand give him back his lonely 
 days of peace? Will no merciful power restore to 
 him his dumb delights: his birds, his flowers, his 
 herbs, his fossil beasts, his solitary joys from dawn to 
 dusk? Will not kind Nature enshroud him with a 
 veil, and hide from his senses — all the pleasure, all the 
 pain, all the human actors of these latter days, — and 
 leave him to himself once more ? 
 
 There, crowning that green hill, rises a votive 
 shrine, and, sheltered beneath that frowning crest, 
 stands another. To them many a pious pilgrimage is 
 paid — the maiden for her lover, who tempts the treacher- 
 ous deep ; the mothers for their ailing little ones ; and 
 to that rude fresco daub of holy Bethlehem's manger, 
 the cowherd leads the weakly heifer, in full confidence 
 of remedy and cure. Is there no Sanctuary up there 
 aloft, where miracles are worked for broken peace, for 
 souls sick to death, for hearts that bleed with woe ? 
 
 Such might be Mr. Mildew's pitiful appeal, so dis- 
 consolately his eyes look upward. 
 
 "0 my soul," he cries aloud, "why art thou so 
 disquieted within me? Is to-day worse than yester- 
 day ? Why am I so dejected and cast down ? " 
 
 There are no answers to such questions as these. 
 Like the rest of the weariful-hearted, Mr. Mildew must 
 fain bear his burden and go on his way. 
 
 He follows the hill-side ; he turns to the right and 
 on again ; he breaks away from track and shrines, and 
 dives into a copse of bright-leaved shade. Then down
 
 214 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 a broken gorge, between the close, rising, jagged rock 
 — lie follows it like a blind man, who feels but does 
 not see. 
 
 There is the low sea-wall; and there is the house 
 that stands upon it — the house with the snow-white 
 front and sides, the painted eaves, the dark-green 
 jalousies and gay-coloured arabesques, quaintly wreath- 
 ing all about it. 
 
 There is the pink-blossoming oleander, in double 
 row, shading the garden path ; and there is the tiny 
 orange grove that flanks it to the right ; there are 
 tlie snow-laden fruit trees, — the young vine tendrils 
 gathering about them; and there is the well-kept 
 potager, telling of savoury dishes. What a haven of 
 peace and calm content it looks, smiling in the sun, so 
 silently and serenely welcoming his return ! 
 
 Mr. Mildew has no haste in his sad feet to reach 
 this haven to-day. He stops short, folds his arms 
 upon the ledge of stone that bounds the waves, and 
 leaning over it, looks, with no apprehension of things 
 present, into the indistinguishable distance of sea and 
 sky. He neither sees nor hears, nor is sensible of any 
 presence but his own woe-worn heart. And yet he is 
 not alone. 
 
 A man in the prime of life, in the garb of the 
 Church, is standing at his side. He is neither monk 
 nor friar. He is an abbate from the city above, and 
 virtually the cure of the village on the rock.
 
 "GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME A SINNER!" 215 
 
 His figure is not ungainly ; liis air is not slouching ; 
 his complexion is not swarthy nor ill-shaven ; his 
 featui'es are not coarse ; his eye is not uncertain ; his 
 mouth is not sensual, nor does the under lip drop into 
 the chin, nor does the chin recede ; even the hands are 
 not unclean ; the triple-cornered hat is not greasy ; 
 the cassock not ill-fitting. But to speak of him aright 
 the negative must be dropt. 
 
 This man, cast in the image of his Maker, bears 
 written upon his brow, the divine impress; a large 
 and lofty compassion dwells in his eyes ; the mission 
 of the comforter sits upon his lips; his voice is as 
 the voice of one coming from God; his hands seem 
 made to bless and to sustain. 
 
 This man also, like Horace Mildew, stood in the 
 glorious strength of first manhood, possessor of all that 
 fortune had to bestow, gifted in mind, great in soul, 
 favoured in family, in friends, — of exalted birth. He 
 made his choice,- — and left all to follow his Lord. 
 
 suffering, struggling, faltering, freezing Chris- 
 tendom ! when the ministering servants round thine 
 altars match, as this man did, thy gorgeous shrines, 
 thy fittings of gold and silver, thy velvet and fine 
 linen, thy marble glories, thy masterpieces of art, then 
 will the blood-red banner wave victoriously, — then will 
 be the Millennium. 
 
 The priest stood watching Mr. Mildew, with his 
 compassionate eyes, piercing as it were, into the very 
 heart. He forbears to break in upon this melancholy
 
 216 PEINCE FORTUNE AKD P^tI^'CE FATAL. 
 
 reverie. He stands, himself silently communing with 
 his own thoughts, seeking the cause of the man's wrapt 
 abstraction. At last, he lays a light hand upon his 
 shoulder. There might have been something electric 
 in the touch ; for Mr. Mildew started as a man 
 awakening out of sleep. But, though his senses are 
 scattered, he meets the priest's greeting, not with 
 shrinking, but rather with a rueful welcome. Mr. 
 Mildew's guardian angel, no doubt, was there likewise, 
 or it stood, for the moment, in the corporeal presence 
 of the priest. 
 
 Tlie priest speaks in the rich Italian tongue. On 
 these shores there are all languages to be heard ; — the 
 speech is as mixed as the nationalities. But this is no 
 bastard mixture; it is that Lingua Tuscana, which 
 thrills with its sweet strength even hardened ears, and 
 it well became the voice that spoke it now. 
 
 " Forgive ! We are so long acquainted as friends. 
 You have a burden on your mind. Share it with me." 
 
 Mr. Mildew's long dream across sea and sky has 
 quieted his troubled breast, though the grievous face 
 tells of little comfort. 
 
 " It is nothing, Signor Abbate ; but I am glad to 
 meet you. I am going to my house. Do you go the 
 same way ? " 
 
 So the two men turned together. They walked 
 without more words till they stood in the narrow shade 
 <jf the oleanders. Then the priest stood still. 
 
 Again he lays one hand upon Mr. Mildew. " My 
 office you know," says he.
 
 "GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME A SIXXER ! " 217 
 
 Mr. Mildew fetches a deep sigh. " I do," he 
 answers. 
 
 " My work," says the priest, " is to minister to all 
 who need my services. These services are to lead the 
 heart to heaven, and to console it for its sufferings 
 upon earth. My work is to give to all souls the 
 seamless garment of Faith, to be a shield in time of 
 trouble." 
 
 " Abbate," answers Mr. Mildew, " your office is one 
 that is the consolation of those that minister and of 
 those that are ministered unto. You are happy in 
 going to and fro between God and man. You say, 
 "* This I will believe, and this I will teach ; ' and so 
 you believe and teach. You have nothing to do with 
 anything beyond this. You keep far from you all 
 images that can disturb the single duty of your life. 
 You may be said to exist in an adamantine tomb ; you 
 bear it about with you ; it is at once an altar and a 
 fortress, — a fortress in which you shelter your soul, an 
 altar on which you sacrifice your heart. I should be 
 glad, very glad," says he, " of such a tomb, or of any 
 tomb." And then there comes one of his deep sighs 
 again. 
 
 " What has gone so wrong with you of late ? " says 
 the priest, leading the poor man back to himself. 
 
 Mr. Mildew looks wistfully at him. 
 
 " What is your burden, my friend ? " 
 
 " My good abbate, you cannot remove my burden." 
 
 " True," whispers the priest, in his melodious sotto
 
 218 PKIXCE FOKTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 voce ; " but it is given to me to lighten it. My mission 
 is to read the sore secrets of the soul, to open the 
 suffering heart that seeks to close itself against God 
 and man." 
 
 Mr. Mildew starts with a suspicious glance. 
 
 " AVhy fear me ? " urges the priest. " You have 
 said that I am not one of the world ; therefore I judge 
 not as the world. Sin and sorrow are no strangers to 
 me. I bear about with me always much grievous 
 wrong, the sufferings and evil deeds of many poor 
 souls. But these do not sicken my spirit ; they are 
 only a dolorous weight, only a disquieting trial, until 
 I can bring to penitence, imtil I can absolve and con- 
 sole. But what is given must be asked for. I hold the 
 remedy ; but it must be sought. The tongue must utter, 
 what the heart bas felt — and the soul knows." 
 
 "Abbate"— and then Mr. Mildew stops to take 
 breath and courage — "Abbate," cries he, "I do not 
 fear you more than I fear my God. He sees my heart 
 and my weakness; He knOws how my soul confesses 
 it and despises it ! " 
 
 " Man despises man, but God regards him." 
 
 " He knows," cries Mr. Mildew, " that all I am, and 
 have, — that all things are valueless to me." 
 
 " Our treasure is not of this world," says the priest. 
 
 " I have no hope," sighs Mr. Mildew. 
 
 " Earthly hope is naught," says the priest. 
 
 " I have no faith," moans Mr. Mildew. 
 
 " Faith is a gift from God," says the priest.
 
 " GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME A SINNER ! " 219 
 
 So speaking, by single footfalls, like a march to the 
 grave, they reach at last the steps of the white-fronted 
 house, with the gay frescoes, and the green jalousies 
 all smiling in the blessed sunshine, and the open door, 
 showing a cheery picture of the life within. 
 
 " For to-day, farewell," says Mr. Mildew. And he 
 gives his hand, with a tremble in it still. 
 
 The priest takes the offered hand in a grasp of 
 speaking sympathy. By his presence alone he can 
 persuade. 
 
 " Not so," whispers again this harmonious voice ; 
 " we will go in together, and lay this sore burden on 
 the Cross." 
 
 Mr. Mildew does not resist. 
 
 The face of the priest is erect; it is lit up, like 
 that of a mighty warrior on the eve of victory. Mr. 
 Mildew goes in like a broken reed, hanging down his 
 head. 
 
 Two hours after, the Abbate Faa di Bruno goes out 
 from this afflicted man. The priest's step is slow, his 
 eye is on the ground, his face is full of care ; he has 
 come out a conqueror ; his work is done. But there are 
 trampled laurels in every victory, which cost even the 
 victor a heart-pang. The priest's spirit is heavy, a 
 tear glistens on the lashes of the lowered eyes. He 
 has fathomed all the weakness of the sufferer's heart ;
 
 220 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 but his own soul has bowed down before the greatness 
 of the soul, cast low in the dust of a sorrowing self- 
 reproach. 
 
 That night Mr. Mildew slept the sleep of a man 
 who has made his peace with himself and with his 
 God, and who has resigned all the desires and despairs 
 of this life, into the hands of a merciful Father.
 
 ( 221 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 DEMAIN, IL FERA NUIT ENCORE. 
 
 This is the hour when, waving to and fro, 
 The incease-bearing flowers waft odours sweet ; 
 When magic tones in mystic measures meet — 
 
 A mournful waltz— a dreamy vertigo. 
 
 The incense-bearing flowers waft odours sweet ; 
 
 The rebeck shivers like a heart in woe ; 
 
 A mournful waltz — a dreamy vertigo ; 
 The sky is sad and fair— a lustrous winding-sheet. 
 
 The rebeck shivers like a heart in woe ; 
 
 The tender heart fears the great void to meet ; 
 
 The sky is sad and fair— a lustrous winding-sheet ; 
 The drowning sun congeals its bloodstained glow. 
 
 The tender heart fears the great void to meet, — 
 None but the happy Past it cares to know ; 
 The drowning sun congeals its bloodstained glow ; 
 
 And thou,— within my soul, thy memory I greet. 
 
 After Baudelaire. 
 
 " Come, Laure, come," says our hero ; " dry your tears. 
 Enough's as good as a feast ! I'm sorry for the poor 
 old fellow myself ; he did look so cut down. Shall I 
 go after him and cheer him up, or shall I stay here 
 and cheer you up? Here I am, at your command." 
 Lorraine is standing, watching Lady Laure's fast-
 
 222 PRIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 falling tears. His heart is not of stone — it is only 
 that bag of feathers. He takes her hand, he smoothes 
 her auburn head. " That's right," says he ; " you're 
 nervous; Mildew's nervous; we're all nervous some- 
 times. It's the weather. There's a storm brewing 
 somewhere or other." 
 
 The intention is everything; otherwise — Heaven 
 save the mark ! — there was not much amiss with the 
 weather ; nor was nervousness a complaint that Lorraine 
 could correctly lay claim to for himself. 
 
 The end of the day found Lady Laure still " ner- 
 vous," though not in tears, and with a headache or 
 something akin to it. 
 
 " Go, rest yourself, poor child ! " says Lorraine, after 
 dinner. " And don't come down again. Try and go to 
 sleep and forget it." 
 
 There was something so sad and weary in her face, 
 that he felt the concern he showed, and was thoroughly 
 in earnest. In fact, he had been in earnest all the 
 day. The sight of Mr. Mildew's streaming eyes and 
 agony of emotion had surprised him into an amount 
 of sympathy that it would have taken a great many 
 of Lady Laure's pearly tears to produce in him; — 
 into an amount of sympathy for the time being, it 
 must be understood. For this day, a bit of his better 
 nature is uppermost ; he is ready for any self-sacrificing 
 act, — open to any generous feeling that may come in 
 the way. He offers himself as a companion in a walk 
 to the earl, and he even volunteers a wish that they
 
 DEMAIN, IL FEKA NUIT ENCORE. 223 
 
 might come across Mr. Mildew, who, as he remarks, 
 " had seemed upset in the morning." 
 
 The earl's reply was anything or nothing ; but he 
 said to himself, " What a good-hearted young fellow it 
 is, to be sure ! As for Mildew, he's grown crabbed and 
 prejudiced." 
 
 Lady Laure did not go to rest; rest at present 
 was far from her. She sat dreamily by her open 
 windows ; just the windows for such a season and such 
 a scene — large and wide, the opening from floor to 
 ceiling of the low room. 
 
 The evening was brilliant ; overhead a sky of paler 
 blue in this declining hour; round the horizon the 
 gorgeous yellow light slanting everywhere, and the 
 sea dyed red and black. 
 
 In a moment, all is changed ; and, brief as thought, 
 a grey veil drops over the effulgent glare, and the 
 earth stands on Nature's bridge of gloom. 
 
 Lady Laure shivers — shivers and sighs. It seems 
 to her that her sigh is echoed. She turns with a timid 
 glance ; it is but the drapery moved by the breeze. 
 
 Of infinite recurrence, which yet takes nothing 
 from its power ; as the day dies, and as it begins to 
 live, the mysterious transmutation brings the passions 
 of the soul under its resistless influence. Fear and joy, 
 love and hate, crime and anguish, catch for the 
 moment, a deeper colouring from the skies. The poet 
 alone at these moments is borne aloft, out of his own
 
 224 PKIXCE FOKTUXE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 existence, out of himself ; and, in supreme sympathy 
 with his great Mother, at every morn and eve, cries, 
 " Once more ; once more ! " 
 
 Lady Laure's eyes watch the scene, but her 
 thoughts behold nothing but Mr. Mildew's pitiful face. 
 
 "Why did he weep so woefully?" Why did he 
 embrace her in such an agony ? W^hy did he say, 
 " God bless Lorraine " ? Was he gone for ever ? W^as 
 this indeed the anguish of a last farewell? "Alas! 
 poor, poor Mr. Mildew!" So she murmurs many times; 
 and the while, the look-out grows darker and darker. It 
 will be a moonless night, and the stars are not up yet. 
 
 Looking into the growing darkness. Lady Laure 
 sits with fixed eyes, seeing always the pitiful face, 
 seeing nothing else. 
 
 Perhaps she has fallen asleep, for she starts with a 
 sudden cry, shrill and piercing. It is ghostly, heavy- 
 eyed work, in this owl's light, watching alone. 
 
 Jenkins, who has been waiting to be set free, 
 requires no second cry to bring her to her mistress. 
 As far as the composed senses of the waiting-maid 
 could make out, something had come in through the 
 window, and past Lady Laure as she sat. But she 
 speaks faintly, chiefly desiring a lamp, and that the 
 windows should be closed. 
 
 Jenkins's courage and composed senses are oozing 
 out. She brings back with her, Margherita the cook, 
 and French Sabine the housemaid, and the lamp. But 
 Lady Laure says that she only wants Jenkins ; so that
 
 DEMAIN, IL FERA NUIT ENCOKE. 225 
 
 unfortunate is left to do battle with the ghosts single- 
 handed, for, as she said at supper afterwards, " Of what 
 use was that poor, frightened hare ? " 
 
 " Something did come in," says she to Burton, 
 sitting opposite. " You may be sure of that ; and it 
 came for no good." 
 
 But Sabine is above the supernatural. She was born 
 at Marseilles, and has been six years in Paris; she 
 knows all about life and its realities. " Ce doit etre 
 une de ces vilaines betes de chauve-souris." 
 
 No doubt it was, if it was anything ; but still the 
 " vilaine bete " was never found. 
 
 Now the thin curtains are drawn, they but imper- 
 fectly shut out the black night. The wind is rising ; 
 its moans and sighs seem to be in the very room. 
 
 Jenkins's permitted chatter flags; it is not her 
 tongue, but her teeth, that take to chattering now. 
 *' How cold it is to-night, my lady ! " says she. " Shall 
 I put on the coverlid ?" 
 
 " As you like, Jenkins." 
 
 " Shall I leave the lamp burning ? " 
 
 " Ah ! yes," answers Lady Laure, quickly. " Is there 
 plenty of oil ? It won't go out, will it ? " 
 
 "Plenty, my lady. Burton filled it before I 
 brought it up ; " and with this assurance Jenkins 
 retires from the ghostly chamber. 
 
 "Come and sleep with me to-night," says she 
 to Sabine, who, amongst other accomplishments ac- 
 quired from her betters in her vicarious experiences, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 could speak a little of what she called "ver fine 
 English." 
 
 Before slumber has come to calm her nerves, 
 Jenkins confides to Sabine, that she wouldn't pass the 
 night in Lady Laure's room, "not if she'd pay me 
 for it." 
 
 But Sabine feels remorse of conscience. "Mais, 
 c'etait tres mal de la laisser toute seule la nuit ! et elle 
 une si charmante jeune dame ! " 
 
 But Jenkins is no longer responsible ; she is giving 
 audible proof that her ears are as dull as her under- 
 standing and her conscience. 
 
 Lady Laure would fain follow Lorraine's last charge 
 to her — " Go to sleep and forget it." But her golden 
 slumbers forsake her ; she turns from side to side ; she 
 tosses her white arms; grim fancies of fast-pursuing 
 terrors float through her brain; and always in the 
 bad dream, a pitiful face, white as a sheet, in the black 
 depths of a pitchy darkness, coming up before her. 
 
 So, betwixt sleeping and waking, the uneasy night 
 goes on, until, with the warm, half-light of dawn, Lady 
 Laure falls into a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Jenkins, stirred up by Sabine's larger heart, is 
 awake betimes, and, with a stealthy step, creeps in to 
 look after her mistress. Looking at her, Jenkins does 
 not envy her this night with the ghosts. 
 
 The drapery is tossed into disorder. Lady Laure 
 lies in an attitude of utter exhaustion ; one arm thrown 
 over the fair head with its loosened tresses, the other
 
 DEMAIN, IL FERA NUIT ENCORE. 227 
 
 hanging dependent from the couch. The cautious 
 vvaitiug-maid sees all her suspicions more than con- 
 firmed ; she covers up the pale sleeper, and creeps off 
 again. 
 
 " Jeunesse qui veille, viellesse qui dort, signes de 
 mort;" and, as far as feeling half-dead went, Lady 
 Laure, on waking, justified the proverb. But she has 
 done with this feverish night at last. She is again 
 in the living world, dressed and sitting at breakfast, 
 though she eats nothing. 
 
 The earl is off for his constitutional walk, up and 
 down about forty feet of level road ; he has still his 
 objection to hilly courses. 
 
 Lorraine is standing by the window, from time to 
 time seriously considering the pale face of his lady- 
 love. The idea of illness is Lorraine's greatest bug- 
 bear. As long as high health is secured to the body, 
 mental malaise may take care of itself. 
 
 " Why, Laure," he says, " where are the late roses 
 gone, upon which I complimented you so seriously? 
 I should have asked you this question before, when 
 you first came down, only I waited for your father 
 to go." 
 
 Tacitly youth and age change places. Once upon a 
 time, the father would have waited, in his turn, to make 
 some private communication. Childhood and second 
 childhood modified; but there is the inevitable see- 
 saw at the bottom of it. 
 
 Lady Laure glances cautiously at the window.
 
 228 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Then, in an undertone, she says wearily, " Oh ! Claude, 
 I had such a restless night ! " 
 
 " So I see," he answers, with all the gravity of the 
 medical man in ordinary. " How is the pulse ? " and 
 he takes his watch and her hand. 
 
 A faint smile on the fair patient's face only makes 
 the weariness look wearier. 
 
 " Hold your hand still ! Jump, jump, stop ! Yes, it 
 stops. By Heavens ! we must have a doctor at once ! " 
 and Lorraine drops the hand, and puts himself into an 
 attitude of action. 
 
 " Oh no, no doctor ! " cries she. " It's only Mr. 
 Mildew." 
 
 " Mildew ! " exclaims Lorraine, furious. " What, 
 in the name of all that's aggravating, has he been 
 doing now ? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing ! " cries she again. " How could 
 he do any harm ? Poor Mr Mildew ! " 
 
 " Poor, dear Mr. Mildew ! Better say it out. I tell 
 you what it is, Laure. This poor, dear old fool is mad 
 himself, and will drive me mad too ! " Lorraine's 
 better nature is taking to flight. " Do you hear what 
 I say ? " he adds. " We shall all end in a mad-house 
 if we don't get clear of him ! " 
 
 "Oh," moans she, "do go down and see where 
 he is!" 
 
 " Where he is ! Eating his breakfast — raw tomatoes, 
 salted sardines, and an omelette, perhaps." Lorraine 
 begins to laugh. "Throw in half a bottle of vin du 
 pays."
 
 DEMAIN, IL FERA NUIT ENCORE. 229 
 
 " Oh, do go, Claude ! " So she entreats, with the 
 unshed tears glistening in her eyes. 
 
 " If I do go, I'll call him out. What business have 
 you to cry about any fellow, young or old, but myself, 
 I should like to know ? " 
 
 " Claude, you were so kind yesterday." 
 
 ''Is it a proof of kindness to let you sit there, 
 making your eyes red about a man who is at this 
 moment — well, let's say, eating a mutton cutlet, if 
 that will give you more consolation ? " 
 
 Lady Laure shakes her head. 
 
 " Does the man look starved ? Take my word for 
 it, he lives well, as the servants say, and takes his 
 meals regular.'' 
 
 " Not to-day," she sighs. 
 
 Then Lorraine breaks out again. " Upon my word, 
 it's too bad ! What have you eaten to-day ? Suppos- 
 ing he has fasted, as you have, where's the harm of it 
 to a strong old fellow like that ? I tell you what it is. 
 You are giving me, who have been breakfasting off 
 that veal, a regular fit of indigestion by all this worry. 
 And as to Mildew, the man deserves to be shot ! " 
 
 Lady Laure is very brave to-day in the cause of the 
 absent. " He has never done you or any one else any 
 harm in all his life. Of that I am quite sure." 
 
 " Any harm ! And I am quite sure that he has done 
 me more harm than any one else has ever done me 
 good in all my life! So you see how we differ. In 
 every way he has been doing me harm for the last
 
 230 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 but I've lost my count of time, or else I'd tell you 
 how long it was." 
 
 Lady Laura gives no reply. Soon she gets up and 
 walks slowly across the room. 
 
 "Where are you going now?" asks he. "Why 
 don't you keep quiet ? What you want is to keep 
 yourself, mind and body, out of a fuss." 
 
 Lady Laure looks round, with her hand upon the 
 door. "I am going down to Mr. Mildew." 
 
 "Down to Mildew!" Lorraine is staggered by 
 the desperate insubordination of the step. 
 
 " Yes," says she, " since you won't go, Claude." 
 
 " Come back here, and sit down again. If you 
 want it, I'll go to the devil for you. I beg your 
 pardon ; but, on my word, to-day I don't know what ta 
 make of you, Laure." 
 
 " Do you mean it ? " she asks, hesitating. 
 
 Lorraine begins to laugh. " Well, perhaps I shall 
 go there, whether I mean it or not. As to old Mildew, 
 what am I to say to him ? " 
 
 " I don't know," says she, looking bewildered. 
 
 " Women are a trial ! " mutters Lorraine. Then 
 aloud, " Shall I say, * Lady Laure Lucie has sent me 
 down to ask you if you are alive this morning, and 
 if you have made a good breakfast ' ? Shall I ask for 
 particulars ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't go ! don't go ! " and she takes her fore- 
 head between her two hands, and leans her head 
 against the wall.
 
 DEMAIN, IL FEEA NUIT ENCORE. 231 
 
 Lorraine is suddenly smitten. He goes up to her, 
 takes her in his arms, puts the poor head upon his 
 shoulder. " My poor Laure ! does it ache ? " 
 
 But she gives no reply beyond a moan of weary 
 trouble. 
 
 " Now, Laure, speak ! I'll do what you want. 
 Look up now. I'll say everything you wish to Mildew, 
 and I'll be as civil as if he was the great Turk, or the 
 Commander-in-Chief, or both rolled into one. Stop! 
 I'll do more. I'll bring him back bodily. And did 
 I ever say I'd do a thing and not do it ? " says he. 
 " Come, give me a kiss, and I'm off." 
 
 But, before he goes, he sends for the waiting-maid. 
 "Jenkins," says he, "take care of your mistress. 
 She is not well to-day." 
 
 Jenkins promises to do all : " To the best of my 
 powers, sir." Then she follows him across the hall. 
 " Her ladyship had a bad night," says she, in a con- 
 fidential tone. "My lady sat so long by the window. 
 She took cold, I'll be bound, sir ; and she saw some- 
 thing as well " 
 
 Lorraine cuts her short with a muttered word that 
 bordered on the impolite. But as he walks away at 
 full speed, he says to himself, " She's in for a fever or 
 something of the sort. My next errand will be for a 
 doctor. I was a fool to give in to her. I ought to 
 have gone off for one two hours ago."
 
 232 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 
 
 " In veni requiem, Spes fortuna, valete ! 
 Nil mihi vobiscum est ; ludite nunc alios." 
 
 Arqua, 1374. 
 
 Lorraine starts on his fool's errand, as lie calls it, at 
 a striding step. He takes precisely the same path 
 which Mr. Mildew had followed the day before. The 
 earl may still be pursuing his constitutional walk upon 
 the road, for what he knows, and he has no desire to 
 come in for him. 
 
 He goes straight up the hill, though higher than 
 he need. He has not yet mastered as he should the 
 geography of the place. He has got to where the 
 broken lines begin to shoot upward in bold spurs to 
 the jagged summits. Then he finds his mistake, and 
 strikes straight across the incurving slopes. He has 
 missed the euphorbia clump, and must cut through 
 the rise of pine trees that grows above it. 
 
 The day has a tropical heat. Lorraine sniffs the 
 resinous odours, treads deep into the noiseless spines, 
 looks up at the cool canopy branching overhead, and 
 feels refreshed. The mountain air and exercise has
 
 "FOR SO HE GlVEXn HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 233 
 
 warmed his blood and cooled his temper. He pushes 
 through a thicket of arbutus, hands forward, and gets 
 severely scratched upon a A^eritable British bramble. 
 " Welcome, old friend ! " says he, with a laugh, " though 
 your shake of the hand is something of the roughest." 
 His next welcome is to a lovely mass of white-blossom- 
 ing heath ; he gathers a bunch of its tall spikes, to be 
 carried along, with Mr. Mildew, back to Lady Laure. 
 
 He is on the road at last. Five minutes after, he 
 meets Dominique, the boatman. Lorraine has a speak- 
 ing acquaintance with this good fellow. The man has 
 been a mariner as well, and has plied his trade in 
 every harbour, east, west, north, and south of the 
 ♦Straits. He has a polygot of tongues, which makes 
 conversation all the more easy. His sentences are 
 something of a mixture, based upon his experience 
 that, if one language won't answer, another will. 
 
 " Good morning, Dominique ! " says Lorraine. 
 
 " Servitor suo ; " and Dominique gives a tug to his 
 red cap. 
 
 " Have you seen Mr. Mildew this morning ? " 
 
 No person so likely to have done so as this very 
 Dominique. 
 
 " Sicuro ; mais oui." Yes, certainly, Dominique 
 had not only seen the padrone — now, J\[r. i\rildew was 
 simply the " padrone " in the mouths of the peasant 
 folk about — he had not only seen the padrone, but he 
 had had the honour of taking him a long course in the 
 Eondinella — the Rondinella being Dominique's bread-
 
 234 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 winner, the dearest thing to him in earth, or air, or 
 sea. And the Bondinella was always at the padrone's 
 call and service, being drawn up on the shore imme- 
 diately below Mr. Mildew's house. 
 
 " Do you know if Mr. Mildew is returned ? " 
 
 Dominique shakes his head. He has no certain 
 information ; but he is pretty sure that he must be, 
 because he had taken the padrone the course before 
 six o'clock, and it was now getting on for midday. 
 
 Lorraine looks at his watcli. " So it is," says he^ 
 " What a time I've been coming down here ! " 
 
 "The padrone had not taken his caffe latte before 
 he set out." Of this Dominique is sure, because 
 Caterina, the housekeeper, followed him down the path, 
 with the caffe latte in her hand, and he shook his head 
 at her. " He wouldn't have it ! " says Dominique,, 
 with a gesture of concern. 
 
 " Where did you take Mr. Mildew ? " 
 
 " Cospetto ! Where should I take him but to his 
 caves ? — he spends the half of his life there." 
 
 "The caves are by those rocks on the other side 
 of the bay ? " says Lorraine, looking that way. 
 
 " Sicuro." 
 
 " You did not stop to bring him back ? " 
 
 " ]\Iais, non ! " Dominique represents that he has 
 been back some hours; that he has put out the nets 
 since then ; and that at this moment he is speaking to 
 his excellency. The fisherman's reasoning is logical. 
 
 Lorraine says, " Very well," and at the next turn
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 235 
 
 they come in sight of the white-fronted house. "There's 
 the house." Lorraine addresses this remark to no one 
 in particular, but he begins to walk again at his striding 
 pace. 
 
 " Cammina vito, vito," says Dominique, sotto voce. 
 ' " What did you say ? " asks Lorraine. 
 
 " Monsieur marche vite." 
 
 " You get out the boat," is Lorraine's reply. " We 
 will go as far as the point below the village in it. If 
 we wet our feet something, it will be better than that 
 walk up the hill." 
 
 We — that is, Mr. Mildew and Mr. Lorraine. 
 Lorraine means to be all that is civil, as he has- 
 promised. Moreover, he has vowed to bring Mr. 
 Mildew back with him. To do this, he will have to put 
 his ill manners in his pocket. 
 
 Dominique touches his cap and hunches up his 
 sash, as if preparing to get under way, and says,. 
 "a votre service" with unmistakable satisfaction. He 
 is glad of such a fare, for Lorraine has got the cha- 
 racter of parting with his money pretty freely. 
 
 They are at the gate now, and Lorraine and the 
 fisherman part company for the present. 
 
 " Don't lose any time," and as he speaks Lorraine 
 enters the avenue of oleanders. He goes quickly 
 through it to the house, and rings the door-bell 
 loudly. 
 
 It is answered by Mr. Mildew's man, Tito. 
 
 "Can I speak to Mr. Mildew?" Lorraine takes
 
 :236 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 for granted, in a natural way, that all the household 
 understand their master's language. 
 
 The man shakes his head. 
 
 " Monsieur Mildew est il chez lui ? " is Lorraine's 
 next attempt. 
 
 Another shake of the head and silence is still the 
 reply. 
 
 Tito is true Italian of his peculiar type. His face 
 thin and dark, and much hollowed under the eyes ; his 
 hands small and bronzed ; his limbs flexible and well 
 shaped ; his expression keen and stolid ; his eyes long 
 and half closed — no doubt, they open wide enough in 
 pleasure or in passion. 
 
 Lorraine is at a loss to interpret this second shake 
 of the head. The man seems to comprehend his diffi- 
 culty. He suddenly retires, and as suddenly returns 
 with Caterina the housekeeper, who has also the honour 
 of being his wife. 
 
 Now, Caterina has none of her husband's taci- 
 turnity ;j she has no objection to converse in any 
 language, whether she understands it or not. She, 
 too, has something of a polyglot at her fingers' ends ; 
 but chiefly she prides herself upon her English ac- 
 complishments. She can boil potatoes au naturel, 
 make dry toast, and even buttered; and can under- 
 stand an English sentence if it does not go beyond 
 three words. 
 
 Foreign servants in those days, whatever they may 
 be now, were pleasant, friendly creatures to deal with.
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 237 
 
 They served you with a good will, and with an eye to 
 your interest as well as their own. They did not think 
 the less of you if you didn't understand their language, 
 and it was a glory and a joy to them if they were able^ 
 to address a sentence to you in your own. 
 
 Caterina is a comely woman, not young — at leasts 
 not young for the South ; her face is fresh and fat and 
 round, and a cap of fluted muslin encloses it ; her 
 complexion is olive, and her hair scanty. She has 
 good living and little to do, and she does that little 
 sheltered from the mid-day sun. Hence the advantage 
 of a smooth skin which she has over her friends and 
 neighbours. 
 
 " The padrone not yet come," she says ; and the 
 little face assumes an anxious look. " And he go so 
 soon away in the day. No caffe latte ! " and she 
 shakes her head sadly. 
 
 Lorraine's looks display more vexation than sym« 
 pathy. 
 
 "Me ne displace eccellenza! The signer come 
 in ? " and she opens the door back at its widest. 
 
 Lorraine does not see much else to be done but to 
 go into the house and wait. So, for the first time 
 since here he has been, he crosses Mr. Mildew'& 
 threshold. 
 
 All this time Tito is lurking in the background. 
 At the first symptoms of this move on Lorraine's 
 part, he springs forward, and pushes Caterina aside, 
 with a broad hint not to interfere with his part of the- 
 reception.
 
 238 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " S'accomodi, signer, s'accomodi ; " and he pulls 
 out an easy-chair when they get into the room. 
 
 But Caterina is not to be cut out. She makes a 
 flank movement, and slips sideways to the front. 
 ^' Che bella giornata ! " and she throws open the 
 windows, and points to the sea. 
 
 Tito, poor fellow, is accustomed to be beaten — that 
 is the difference between him and Caterina ; and, as 
 usual, he retreats, with a scowl of weak protest. 
 Caterina, left mistress of the field, continues to do the 
 honours. She points again to the beauty of the view ; 
 then she pushes open the jalousie of a third window, 
 which looks towards the mountains. 
 
 " Bella veduta ! " she says. 
 
 But Lorraine looks very unresponsive. Perhaps 
 the stranger prefers works of art to the beauties of 
 nature. Caterina displays the charms of an alabaster 
 vase. 
 
 Lorraine says, " Grazia " and " Grazia," and affects 
 to plunge himself into the profound contemplation of 
 a book-case. 
 
 " Ah ! " cries Caterina, " it is the books of the 
 padrone to amuse the signer." 
 
 Lorraine makes no reply, more especially as the 
 book-case is locked, and his amusement can go no 
 further than the outside covers. 
 
 " The padrone come now very quick. The padrone 
 is contentissimo to see sua eccellenza ; " and with this 
 terrible misstatement upon her lips, Caterina with- 
 draws.
 
 "FOE SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 239 
 
 ' Mr. Mildew's parlour was all that a bachelor could 
 desire. A pretty-sized oblong room, with windows 
 south and east. The floor is neither of marble nor of 
 concrete plum-pudding, but of polished vrood, with 
 comfortable-looking rugs spread about it. The walls 
 are thick, with glass cases, holding books, and stones, 
 and bones, and bottled snakes. Over each case is a 
 bust; Dante's melancholy profile, and Shakespeare's 
 bold forehead are not to be mistaken. The Dante is 
 grandly cut ; it is not white, but of a deep waxy hue 
 which adds to the expression. A lovely marble fawn 
 is a pendant, to a dying gladiator in bronze; and a 
 plaster model of the Temple of Fortune occupies a 
 fapade over the doorway. In a recess stands a buffet 
 of black marble, with a rough-coloured fresco of 
 Leonardo's " Last Supper " above it. An open grate 
 with lately charred pine logs, betrays that the master 
 of the mansion is insular still in his taste for the 
 bachelor's best companion. On the green-covered table 
 a few books and papers lie scattered carelessly, and in 
 the centre, in Parian, are Pliny's doves. 
 
 Most things are represented in this room — Christian 
 and Pagan art, Nature in past and present, man's genius 
 and his works, and the mute creation. Woman alone 
 finds no place ; — neither in stone nor on canvas is there 
 any trace of her ; and, but for the comely Caterina, you 
 might have imagined yourself in that planet, wherever 
 it may be, which has the happy secret of getting 
 on without her. This room would have suited that
 
 240 PRINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 ancient Greek who exclaimed, "Hated sex! neither 
 in fortune nor in misfortune shall you come within 
 these walls ! " 
 
 But why does Lorraine so quickly change his- 
 lounging attitude? What is this which has caught 
 his eye of a sudden, hid in the depths of that snowy 
 vase, with the four white doves for guardians over it ? 
 Lorraine knows it at a glance. His lip curls. AVhat 
 does it do here, this small single yellow glove ? 
 
 Lorraine holds it up to view, between finger and 
 thumb, and then jerks it deliberately out of the open 
 window. 
 
 It was not well done. Yet why is Lady Laure's 
 small yellow glove lying perdu in Pliny's vase ? 
 
 Alas ! poor Mr. IMildew ! here was woman after alL 
 
 Now the amiable Caterina again makes her appear- 
 ance. " Oime ! Where, then, is the padrone ? Has hi& 
 excellency taken breakfast ? " 
 
 Lorraine nods his head, and goes back to his 
 *' Grazia, Grazia." 
 
 But Caterina is not satisfied. She is under the 
 fixed impression that the stranger is come to breakfast 
 with her master, and she is in despair at the delay on
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 241 
 
 this account, as well as from her concern at the long 
 fast of the padrone. 
 
 " Will the signor not take a glass of good wine ? 
 It might pass the time away, and she could accom- 
 pany it with even an excellent costoletta — a cutlet of 
 mutton ! " 
 
 Lorraine's negative becomes animated now; but 
 Caterina is unwilling to give him up. Sitting there 
 all alone, she feels that she ought to contribute some- 
 thing either to his amusement or to his nourishment. 
 She strains her wits in vain to find something to do 
 or to say, till at last it strikes her that she will put 
 the bunch of white heath blooms out of the sun, which 
 is shining full upon them, beside Lorraine's hat. 
 '•' Fior di primavera," she says, smiling. 
 Lorraine divides the pretty sprigs, and presents 
 her gallantly with the half, in the devout hope that 
 she will take the flowers and go. But Caterina only 
 sees in this polite attention an encouragement to stay. 
 Suddenly a bright idea comes into her head. The 
 "giornale Inglese," where is it? She rummages up 
 and down ; but it is nowhere to be found. 
 
 Now it is Lorraine's turn for a bright idea. He will 
 read, never mind what the book is. Anyhow, he will get 
 quit of her this way. At the furthermost corner from 
 his too friendly tormentor stands a reading-desk, with 
 a large quarto volume upon it, and the pages are 
 open; it is close to the eastern window. Lorraine 
 makes for the book at once. He draws a stool up to 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 the desk, and sits down. With his back well in 
 Caterina's face, he begins to turn over the pages 
 haphazard, but with his eyes riveted upon them. 
 
 Caterina sees now only a pair of broad shoulders 
 and the back of a head. But she is not quite played 
 out; the big book gives her another chance. She 
 comes nearer ; she even lays a hand upon the desk. 
 "Yes, why did she not think of it before? In this 
 * gran' libro,' the padrone writes down words every day. 
 They must be beautiful ; but, as for Caterina, she does 
 not know ; for * Dio lo sa ' she cannot read ; no, nor 
 write. But the signor can. He will find much to 
 please him, for the padrone is 'un savio,' as all the 
 world knows, and this book is full of the padrone's 
 w^ords. Only this very morning he sat at this desk, 
 just as the signor is sitting, with his pen in his hand ; 
 but that was very early, very early ; and then he went 
 away without his caffe latte, and *che cosa lacrimevolel' 
 he is not yet returned ! " 
 
 So she prattles on, in her pretty Tuscan chiefly ; 
 for Tito and Caterina are not natives of these hills. 
 But the musical tongue does not move Lorraine even 
 by a hair's breadth. Caterina's last chance fails her ; 
 there is nothing left for her but to retire. Had Tito 
 been a witness of the scene, it would have done his 
 enslaved soul much good. 
 
 Lorraine turns the leaves of the big book back- 
 wards and forwards, and arrives by degrees at the 
 conclusion that he has come upon 3Ir. Mildew's
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 243 
 
 commonplace book. He finds no scruples about look- 
 ing into it. There it lies wide open ; nobody sets down 
 secrets in an open book! If there had been, Mr. 
 Mildew might have inscribed them safely enough, for, 
 as Caterina had declared, God knows, she and Tito 
 were no scholars. 
 
 " Musty stuff! " says Lorraine, as he looks into one 
 page after another. Scientific data, genealogical 
 trees, philological roots, geological facts, classical 
 extracts, songs in an unknown tongue — probably the 
 folk-songs of the peasants ; these occupy half the 
 volume or more. 
 
 Then follow a dozen or so of blank sheets, and 
 then the writing becomes* closer and smaller. It is in 
 Mr. Mildew's mother tongue, and takes the character 
 of original thought. 
 
 Lorraine looks through it all, now with a laugh, 
 and now with a shrug, and now with a look of 
 supreme disdain. 
 
 If the absent man could but have known — what 
 this man present was about ! 
 
 Lorraine comes upon a sentence that fits the case 
 
 well— 
 
 " If we only think about it long enough, we shall be 
 ready to own that perhaps the strangest, and certainly 
 the happiest thing in life, is our total ignorance of things 
 pertaining to ourselves, when beyond the reach of our 
 finite senses. Happy, indeed 1 What a curse would be in- 
 finite knowledge, joined to finite powers I " 
 
 Let us look with Lorraine a little further, since
 
 244 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PEIXCE FATAL. 
 
 we have the chance, into this poor absent man's mind. 
 For the most part grave and sad, and not without a 
 touch of cynicism; and yet with what unstinting 
 sympathy are the thoughts set down! Something 
 formal, perhaps, like an echo from an older age, taking 
 the colour of his life, and reflecting its trials and con- 
 solations. What a chord of his lonely existence this 
 sentence strikes ! — 
 
 " How good to have done with the world ; to have 
 passed the limits of the harassing exigencies which belong 
 to it ; to have shut the door on those importunate guests 
 which besiege the soul — the fears, the hopes, the decep- 
 tions, the glamour of social intercourse, of w^orldl}'- 
 interests, the struggle with fortune, the agony of failure ! 
 How great the good to live alone, humble, unfettered, un- 
 known, face to face with conscience ! How tranquillizing 
 to have no communion but self-communion ! How great 
 the calm of the man who expects nothing but a grave ! " 
 
 How the man's melancholy humanity breaks out 
 here ! — 
 
 *' Life exists by death. Nature, that loving mother, 
 has but one fundamental law — the law of blood. She 
 gives to her children a law, not for the weak, but for the 
 strong ; she teaches them that the law of preservation is 
 the law of destruction. Man the lord of all, the brutes his 
 slaves, alike are bound by the same gory code. Their 
 terrible necessity, stops with a satiated maw ; with 
 man alone it has no limits — no limits to the murderous 
 ascffressor, no limits to the avenp-er of blood, to fields of 
 carnage, to defaced human corpses. Before everything, 
 death ! This has been the cry from the beginning, not of 
 savage ignorance alone, but of the highest aspirations of
 
 *'rOR so HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 245 
 
 human progress. It is the war-cry of new truths against 
 old forms. Martj^rdoms, massacres, sacrifices, — by these 
 have truth and liberty been bought; thus have super- 
 stition and despotism been maintained; thus alone are 
 they overthrown. But the law of blood stops not here. 
 By death come the comforts, the luxuries, the bare neces- 
 sities of life. All these are bought by such suffering, such 
 shortening of life, such torture to the human frame, that 
 the fortunate few who walk in pleasant places shrink 
 from fathoming the ghastly secrets of these living charnel- 
 houses, and spare their decorous nerves a glimpse of these 
 skeletons of the mine, the labour-field, and the workshop ! 
 To these, add the dumb victims of man's sport, and science, 
 amusements, experiments, pursued without a pang, or 
 rather with a pernicious enjoyment. See, too, with what 
 a dainty content the fine lady decks herself in feathers ; 
 with what an equable eye the child watches the moth 
 fluttering round the flame ! Man points to the volcano 
 that overwhelms the cities; the floods that sweep away 
 the hamlets; the avalanche that buries shepherd and sheep; 
 and appeals to nature to justify his acts." 
 
 " Monomaniac !" is Lorraine's verdict. "But this 
 is worse. Come ; the man is a perfect ogre ! " 
 
 " I partake of all animal food with the utmost reluct- 
 ance. When I sit down to my solitary meal, the force of 
 habit, hunger, and preoccupation cannot conquer my 
 involuntary shudder when I touch with my lips, grind 
 with my teeth, a body which, an hour ago, was instinct 
 with life; which lived, breathed, moved; which was 
 possessed of feeling, affection, understanding, and God 
 knows how many more qualities of the mind and heart in 
 common with myself; — I sicken with disgust, and push 
 from me the remains of the murderous meal ! "
 
 246 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " * Sicken with disgust I ' and so do I," cries 
 Lorraine, aloud. " Only a depraved old cannibal could 
 have such revolting thoughts. Why can't he eat his 
 cabbages, if he likes them, without this red sauce ? " 
 
 It is no borrowed figure of speech. These painful 
 realities, pushed under his nose by ^Ir. Mildew's morbid 
 lucubrations, do actually cause such a rising of his 
 gorge that, at this moment, the sight of Caterina's 
 costoletta might have produced upon Lorraine the effect 
 of an emetic. He does not feel the kindlier towards 
 Mr. Mildew for all this. 
 
 He pushes the book away from him with a look of 
 supreme disdain, and the leaves turn over of them- 
 selves. At the top of the page under his eyes is this 
 sentence — 
 
 *' The proverb says, ' He who can live alone must bo 
 either a beast or a god.' AVhy should he not be a god ? " 
 
 " Well done ! " laughs Lorraine to himself. "That's 
 pretty well for such an old mole ! " 
 
 The next sentence also excites a scornful smile — 
 
 " I hold out my hand with distrust to be pecked b}' 
 strange birds that come from distant lands. I see that 
 tbeir feathers are fine ; but still I suspect them to be birds 
 of prey." 
 
 " Ah ! he calls me a bird of prey, no doubt." 
 Well, Lorraine w^as not far wrong there. After this 
 come a variety of headings : " Old Graveyards," " Un- 
 known Dust," " Yestiges of Man," " Vanity of Science." 
 Quite enough, without going further, to make Lorraine
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 247 
 
 p^ss them over. But again the text becomes sen- 
 tentious — 
 
 " Eeady for everything ; resigned to everything ; so 
 best we live." 
 
 But Lorraine has had enough of moralizing, when 
 his attention is once more arrested — ■ 
 
 " ' Quant ca laboras in Charybdi ! ' Observe, we say, fall 
 in love. It is, then, a fall, therefore a misfortune, possibly 
 a degradation." 
 
 " By Jove ! he's right," cries Lorraine. " But what 
 does he know about it ? " 
 
 This judgment upon the tender passion, which so 
 strongly coincides with his own, leads him with a 
 greater interest on — 
 
 " How drear 3^ this room is ! How its silence presses on 
 me ! How this life of loneliness begins to tire, to try, 
 to exhaust my patience ! In vain does the head seek to 
 absorb itself ; the heart will have its claims. Have I not 
 said, ' Be patient ; follow the straight line ; look neither to 
 the left nor to the right ; take nature for your friend ; 
 give, but do not take ; minister to want, but bear your 
 own burdens ; take your soul up to the solitary heights, 
 where the air is untainted ; hamper it not with the allure- 
 ments of the lower earth ; he who would travel surely 
 takes little baggage ? ' O my God, Thou madest me. Thou 
 knowest me; I tlid not make, I know not myself. Great 
 Father, let me suffer; but let it not be in this solitary 
 cell." 
 
 " The madness," thinks Lorraine, " is setting in 
 now." 
 
 T. -J-
 
 248 PEINCE FOKTUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 " The man who lives in solitude is very soon alone I 
 Great reader of the human heart, how true that is ! These 
 poets, these inspired men, this Goethe, this Shakespeare, 
 this Dante, they are as gods ; they know us ; to them we 
 must go to understand our own souls. Now I recognize 
 the hollowness of self-absorption. Have I not said that 
 the chiefest blessing, is our ignorance of that which is to 
 come. Possessed of prescience, could I have lived uncon- 
 sumed by the fire of my impatient heart, through all these 
 past long years, all these dull, heavy days and nights that 
 did divide me from the delight that now intoxicates ? " 
 
 " Intoxicates ! " criesXorraine. " Intoxicates what ? 
 —him?" 
 
 The page is no longer pursued with an indifferent 
 eye. Lorraine stares at it, as if he would stereotype 
 each word — 
 
 " How gay is my life ; how friendly ! I seem to have 
 lived all my days with them. How they spoil me ! They 
 flatter me ; they talk to me of themselves, of their aifairs ; 
 they talk before me as if I belonged to them ; they are so 
 glad to see mc ; they complain if I am absent ; they ex- 
 pect me always. We sit together; we walk together; she 
 and I ; we gather the flowers ; we rest by the way ; she 
 loves to listen ; she loves to learn from me — she is never 
 weary with me. When the sun is low, we come back 
 together ; we j)ass the evening in happy talk ; we are all 
 content. So go the days ; the parting brings no sigh ; 
 we meet again to-morrow. How kind the ' Good-night ' ! 
 how sincere the * Come early ' ! Has not an angel come 
 down about my path ? 
 
 " I came upon these lines just now. Let them speak for 
 me. My heart is too full for my own thoughts to-day —
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 249 
 
 " ' femmes, quel pouvoir vous fut donne sur nous ! 
 Xous naissons vos amants ; nous mourons vos epoux ! 
 Nous prenons encliantes d'un regard, d'une larme, 
 Le bonlieur dans vos yeux, des lois a tos genoux. 
 Contre vous c'est en vain que la raison, nous arme 
 Et les plus vieux sont les plus fous ! ' " 
 
 " Fools, indeed, the whole lot of them ! " breaks 
 from Lorraine. " But whose life is it ? What's the 
 meaning of all this rant ? " 
 
 " Of late, books and I have been strangers. I took up 
 my ' Petrarca ' last night ; I read my old favourite now 
 with a new understanding. In the early sonnets there is 
 but the fancy of the poet; in the ' Trionfo della Morte' I 
 find the feelings of the man. I find no echo now in my 
 once beloved ' Vita Solitaria.' Once it seemed to be my 
 very self that spoke as I read those lines ; now it is in the 
 ' Secreto Conflictu ' — in that sublime picture of the desolat- 
 ing weakness of the human heart, that I find the sympathy 
 I seek. Ah ! Petrarca ; when you and I meet to discourse 
 in the Elysian fields, thou shalt not boast too much of thy 
 peerless Laura ; for to-day I see a fairer one beside me." 
 
 Lorraine lifts his eyes from the book for a moment. 
 They are not pleasant eyes just now. " Insolent old 
 scoundrel ! " mutters he, " with his peerless Laura ! He 
 had better take care ! " 
 
 " * Come, live with me, and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove, 
 That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields, 
 Woods and sleepy mountains yield.' 
 
 "I have been transported to-day; transported with 
 delight. It is a life-time since these sweet lines came to
 
 -n 
 
 250 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 my memory. As we walked and talked, my lips mur- 
 mured them, but not aloud — not aloud. And yet slie was 
 fain to ask me what I said ? What I said ; what I felt ; 
 what I am ? I am lifted to heaven. And yet, with what a 
 rapture of pleasure do I tread this dear earth ! 
 
 "0 man, man! Dost know thyself? Mad, mad as 
 Marlowe, poor wretch ! wild as his passionate she^Dherd ; 
 madder, wilder, more wildly passionate than any ! " 
 
 " Hullo ! " says Lorraine ; and he starts to his feet 
 again. " What, in the name of Heaven, is the meaning 
 of this diabolical rubbish ? " And he reads fiercely on — 
 
 " What a garden of Eden I live in I I shudder ; I 
 tremble with the joy that fills my being ; I turn cold in 
 her presence ; I fear my transports. Can a madman 
 bridle his mad tongue ? Can he steady his mad brain ? 
 Reason only compels to silence. While I have my reason 
 I am dumb ; but madness, like wine, reveals the truth. 
 Great Heaven, let me but keej) my reason ! 
 
 " To L . 
 
 " Lower thy large, sweet eyes, 
 Blue as the skies. 
 Lower thy large, sweet eyes. 
 
 " Thy faultless presence veil, 
 So chaste and pale. 
 Thy faultless presence veil. 
 
 " Thy lips let silence tie, 
 AVhile I pass by. 
 Thy lips let silence tie. 
 
 " For sight of beauty slays 
 Who dares to gaze. 
 The sight of beauty slays."
 
 "FOE SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 251 
 
 Lorraine reads no more. He upsets the book ; lie 
 stamps his heel into it with impotent fury. He is pale 
 with rage and hatred. 
 
 " Good God ! " he cries ; " this monster — this old 
 cannibal is in love with Laure ! " 
 
 He strides up and down the room, giving the 
 hapless volume a kick at each turn. He calls down 
 Heaven to punish the imbecile invader of his rights — 
 rights, Heaven knows, he has set but little store by ! 
 He heaps up all the abuse, all epithets that injure 
 and dishonour—" Villain! " " Fool ! " " Fungus ! " They 
 flow freely out, until he stops from pure exhaustion. 
 And then he turns upon the book again ; he seizes it 
 up savagely. 
 
 " Let's have the rest of his impudence ! " and he 
 tears over the unoffending leaves in mad haste. 
 
 The rest of Mr. Mildew's impudence is not much. 
 There are but half a dozen words more inscribed in the 
 volume, and after these the sheets are blank. At the 
 head of these few words stands the date of this very 
 day itself. The ink has not long been dry — 
 
 " All is over now. My God, forsake me not ! Be with 
 me to the end, and bless them both ! I ask no more." 
 
 Lorraine stands suddenly becalmed. The agony of 
 the man yesterday rushes into his mind, — this man 
 who, in his great agony, gives still blessings for curses ; 
 — these blessings come with no preparation, with the 
 force of the unexpected. 
 
 Therein lay their power upon Lorraine.
 
 252 PRINCE rOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 He stands, holding the ill-starred book in his hands, 
 as if at a loss what to do with it. At last he closes 
 it; but the crumpled leaves will not go down. He 
 presses them out upon the desk, but to no avail. And 
 now he sees that the back has given way ; there is a 
 split from top to bottom in the leather back. He tries 
 to hold it together, but the loosened leaves slip 
 through. This crack, this leather crack, fills him with 
 a keen remorse. 
 
 Never mind, happy son of Fortune. Never mind 
 the leather crack. What is that to the cracked heart- 
 strings of the poor Old Fungus ? 
 
 There is a gloom in the room ; the jalousies must 
 have swung to. Lorraine will remain in it no longer. 
 He takes his hat, flings the white heath blooms that 
 lie beside it ruthlessly on the hearth, and goes straight 
 out of the room and out of the house. 
 
 Caterina catches the sound of his footstep, and 
 follows after him with all speed. Lorraine goes down 
 the oleander avenue as if he were escaping for his life. 
 
 Beyond the gate stand Dominique and Kenzo, the 
 long-legged lad who had led the chorus before the 
 orange grove. 
 
 Lorraine looks furtively round. There is Caterina 
 on his heels. He seizes the boy by the nape of the 
 neck, and swings on forward with him half a dozen
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 253 
 
 yards. " Now, sing to me ! " he cries, breathless with 
 the exertion. 
 
 Caterina, in the gate, looks out with her sharp eyes, 
 but Lorraine is in full talk with man and boy. 
 
 "Bestione !" hisses Caterina between her teeth. The 
 game is off. There is no need for her to keep to terms 
 any longer. She shuts the gate with a swing and dis- 
 appears. 
 
 Lorraine gives himself a shake of relief. His ruse 
 has succeeded. He is well content to have got clear 
 of the house and the housekeeper. His further search 
 for Mr. Mildew shall be in different company. But 
 somehow his desire for a song relaxes. 
 
 Dominique, however, sticks to the programme. He 
 takes the boy by the shoulders, and puts him against 
 the sea-wall. "Sing," he whispers in his ear, "and 
 you'll get a bit of money." 
 
 Kenzo's wits are still scattered by Lorraine's raid 
 upon his person. 
 
 " Sing, then," says the boatman, again. " Let it be 
 the * Marinar de la Marina.' " 
 
 Lorraine is paying only half attention. He wakes 
 up with the song. He is dead to many good things, 
 but not to sweet sounds ; their influence upon him 
 may be more physical than anything else. Hence 
 his pleasure in these simple strains of the people. 
 
 Kenzo is still panting, but his voice comes apace. 
 The air is wild, sweet, and monotonous ; it is for two. 
 First sings the belle —
 
 254 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " marinar de la marina, 
 Oh, cante me d'iina canson, 
 Sii la fior de I'acua, 
 Sii la fior del mar." 
 
 Then the mariner replies — 
 
 " Monte Bela su la mia harca ; 
 La canson mi la cantero." 
 
 The ballad is a stirring one, and Kenzo is soon absorbed 
 in it. He sings how the belle stept into the bark, and 
 how the mariner began to sing and to sing till they had 
 sailed full five hundred miles away, singing always the 
 same song ; and how the little belle begged hard to be 
 taken back ; and how the mariner only says she is five 
 liundred miles away ; and how the belle cries, weeping, 
 "What will my mother say?" and how the mariner 
 answers, "Think not of the mother. Think of the 
 gallant mariner;" and how the belle says to him, 
 " My stomacher is knotted, gallant mariner ; lend me 
 your sword;" and how the belle takes the sword 
 from his hand, and sets it deep in her heart. 
 
 When Kenzo comes to this point, he throws all the 
 tragedy of the story into his eyes and attitudes. He 
 is grand in the mariner's curse upon himself and his 
 sword — 
 
 " Oh, maledetta sia la speja, 
 E cu la man ch'a i I'ha presta ! " 
 
 Then his voice sinks into a dirge-like wail, as the 
 mariner makes his lament. *' Never, my belle, never, 
 little belle, shall I take you in these arms alive ; but 
 dead they shall go round your fair body." And the
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 2oO 
 
 finale is that he takes her by her two white hands and 
 throws her into the sea. And then comes the refrain, 
 which is gay and light — 
 
 " Sii la fior de I'acua, 
 Sii la fior del mar." 
 
 There is a desperate realism in the whole affair. Now 
 — the singer is the little belle; now — the gallant 
 mariner, j^ow his head is flung back, and his arms 
 are in the air ; now the long black hair covers the face, 
 and his hands are clasped; — ^passion, fear, despair, — 
 he simulates all by turns. It is a whole opsra with 
 one actor. 
 
 " Brau ! brau ! " cries Dominique. 
 
 Lorraine's ears are chained, but his thoughts are 
 not with the song. 
 
 The boy stares at him, expecting his reward ; but 
 he looks absently up and down the road. 
 
 " What can have become of that old man ? " says he. 
 
 " Yecchio," answers Dominique. " Mezzo vecchio," 
 he adds, with an air of demurring. 
 
 "Mezzo vecchio," echoes Kenzo, comprehending 
 the drift. They will not have that their padron is 
 more than half old. " K'ome o pu foart," says Kenzo, 
 with a look of contempt at Lorraine. "He is the 
 strongest man here." Kenzo is secretly indignant 
 with Lorraine for neglecting both to praise and to pay 
 for the song he commanded. 
 
 " Here, boy," says Lorraine, reminded by Renzo's 
 sulky air. And he gives him about as much as the
 
 256 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 boy will earn in the boats in a montb. It is not 
 much of a sum after all, and the boy works well too. 
 But if his pay is small, his wants are few ; and, as 
 they say down here, ''the man who has money, has 
 cares." 
 
 Tito, with his hands in his pockets, has lounged 
 down from the house to see what they are about. 
 Perhaps he has heard of Caterina's discomfiture, her 
 resentment having unloosed her tongue, and given 
 him this advantage over her. He certainly wears a 
 livelier countenance. 
 
 " We will take the boy with us. Get the boat ready, 
 Dominique," says Lorraine. 
 
 Dominique shakes his head at Lorraine's order. 
 It's no good taking him ; he has his work down there 
 at the quay. The Bonclinella is light, it can push in 
 anywhere; it can be at the creek below the villa in 
 half an hour." 
 
 Now it is Lorraine's turn to shake his head. " I 
 am going to the rocks," says Lorraine. 
 
 " Cercare il padron ? No good ; he will be on the 
 hills now." 
 
 " I shall go all the same ; get the boat afloat." 
 
 Dominique is no loser by the arrangement ; but his 
 honesty gets the better of his cupidity. He shrugs his 
 shoulders, and appeals to Tito if this is not pure waste 
 of time and money. 
 
 Tito thrusts his hands still deeper into his pockets. 
 " Ci vuol pazienza," he says, looking wide of Lorraine.
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEr." 257 
 
 Pazienza! Lorraine thinks he has had patience 
 enough ! 
 
 What's to be done when he gets to the caves, he 
 doesn't clearly see. But when he is put up to it, he 
 hates to give up the point. " Perhaps," thinks he, " he's 
 rehearsing the weeping scene at the villa ; " but some- 
 how Lorraine has an instinct that this is not the case. 
 
 Anyhow, in five minutes the Bondinella is launched, 
 and they are oif ; but not before Tito has received, with 
 profound bows, a substantial reward for silence. So 
 does one reap where another has sown. It is rather 
 hard upon Caterina. 
 
 The bay is gay to-day, rowing craft and feluccas 
 and larger vessels in the offing. There is a brisk 
 afternoon breeze ; the small squaresail is hoisted, and 
 the swift dip of the Rondinella is worthy of her name. 
 Nothing could be pleasanter; the day is perfect, the 
 sky is bright, the sea as blue as ever. But it does 
 not raise Lorraine's spirits. He is thoroughly upset 
 and bored by the whole thing. As he said afterwards, 
 if he had known it, he wouldn't have undertaken it for 
 a fortune. But the gist of the matter was that he did 
 not know it. 
 
 "Can you find these caves when you're there?" 
 asks Lorraine. 
 
 Dominique points to the boy who has come with 
 them. "Kenzo knows it all well. He goes often to 
 the caves, and breaks the bits of rocks for the padron.'* 
 
 "Eight." 
 
 VOL. I. ' -f- S
 
 258 PKINCE FOETUNE AND PEIXCE FATAL. 
 
 "Where does he go most?" asks Dominique of 
 the boy. 
 
 " D'intre le barma clou Cavillou," answers Kenzo. 
 
 "It's the deepest of the grottoes," says the boat- 
 man to Lorraine. 
 
 "What's this? Why are you going so far out?" 
 Lorraine has an idea that the man wishes to spin out 
 the time. 
 
 " The river," says the boatman, without turning his 
 head. Whilst he loosens the sail and shifts the 
 course, it is as much as he can do to steady the light 
 craft. Soon the difficulty is past, and they tack in 
 again, and Lorraine recognizes the ledge of rock and 
 the reefs, where he and Lady Laure had passed an 
 anxious hour. 
 
 Dominique shoots past it, and round the projecting 
 rock. "We shall go ashore here," he said. 
 
 The boat is soon run in, and made fast to a ring 
 sunk in a plate of rock. 
 
 " It is the padron who put it," says Dominique, as 
 he tightens the chain round it, " ten years ago now." 
 
 " Ten years," thinks Lorraine — " ten years digging 
 up old bones ! The man is certainly cracked ; there's 
 everything to prove that." It is his final conclusion 
 as to Mr. Mildew, and the most charitable thought he 
 has ever had about him. 
 
 The scene is lonely enough ; nothing but rock and 
 sea and sky. The sides of the rocks are as lurid as 
 ever, with their red and yellow streaks in the sun.
 
 '*FOR SO HE GIYETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 259 
 
 Lorraine looks round him from the point of rock 
 on which he stands. " There is no way up here," he 
 says, " that I can see." 
 
 Dominique gives a nod to the further end of the 
 inlet; and then, muttering something about hunger 
 and thirst, goes back into the boat, and, sitting down 
 in it with the boy, brings out about a yard of bread 
 and a bottle of wine — at least, he calls it wine ; the 
 bread also has a doubtful appearance, — to look at it, 
 you would say its colour and consistence were much 
 the same as the rocks about them. But Dominique 
 has no complaint to make either of the bottle, or the 
 bread; and he is also hospitable, and calls to Lor- 
 raine to come and share their repast. 
 
 Lorraine's "No" is too decisive to be mistaken. 
 
 "The signer wants a good appetite," says the 
 boatman, with a laugh ; and he fills a tin can with his 
 sour beverage, and, drinking it off, says, "A votre 
 sante." 
 
 They take their time over their meal. Meanwhile, 
 Lorraine is impatiently practising the goose step up 
 and down the boulders. 
 
 The best thing and the worst, in that transitory 
 affair which we call life, must have an ending, and so 
 with Dominique's frugal meal — the bottle is emptied, 
 the fragment of bread pitched into the stern, and man 
 and boy are on their feet. 
 
 " Vite ! Presto ! " cries the boatman ; and at the 
 words the lad goes leaping away over the boulders and
 
 260 PEIXCE FOETUNE AXD PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 gullies, with the agility of a monkey, till he gets to the 
 base of the lowest wall of the cliff, and there vanishes. 
 
 Lorraine, who is following with the boatman at a 
 more sedate pace, stops and points to the spot where 
 the boy has disappeared. "What has become of 
 him?" 
 
 " Va bene ; va bene ! " says Dominique, the rugged- 
 ness of the way cutting his politeness short. 
 
 Once arrived at the base of the rock, the mystery 
 is explained. A narrow spiral ascent is cut in a breach 
 of the cliff; it goes up in a zigzag, and can only be 
 perceived when close upon it; it is merely hacked, 
 something like the steps cut in ice. This they follow, 
 turning always inwards and leaving the sea, until, after 
 a stiff bit of moimting, they reach a level, where a 
 little soil has gathered, the tamarisk grows in tufts, the 
 trailing stone-crop patches the grey stone, and the 
 wild pink shoots up in the crevices and corners. Under 
 this burning sun, its fragrant blooms perfume the rocky 
 enclosure, as scented flowers fill the heated glass-house, 
 with their rich odours. To one side of the small 
 plateau are the remains of a charcoal furnace. It has 
 been disused for years, and the wonder is how the 
 wood was got down to burn in it. Close behind this, 
 juts up a fantastic bit of rock, split into two, after the 
 fashion of a stunted tree or a stag's horn. 
 
 "Ecco," says the boatman, pointing to the split 
 rock. "Yoila! that is the padron's barma dou 
 Cavillou."
 
 "FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 261 
 
 At this moment the boy Kenzo's head appears 
 hetween the horns of the rock, beckoning them to 
 -come on. 
 
 The opening to the cave is dark and deep, 
 indented crags overhang it, and the fall is steep, 
 and under foot it is moist and slippery. With the first 
 bend the daylight is gone. Lorraine and the boatman 
 grope their way cautiously along, nor does Lorraine 
 disdain the assistance of the boatman's hand, though 
 he grumbles at the necessity, calling it a "den of a 
 place," which, indeed, it was. 
 
 "II fera jour la bas!" says the boatman. But 
 scarcely are the words out of his mouth, before a 
 piercing cry echoes as if from the bowels of the earth. 
 
 Dominique cries, " Dio ! " and drags Lorraine for- 
 ward ; then, letting go his hand, he dashes on, regard- 
 less of everything. 
 
 The consequences to Lorraine are disastrous. He 
 falls heavily, and is half stunned by coming sharply 
 against a projecting crag. 
 
 The boatman's voice gets fainter and fainter as he 
 calls to the boy, " Renzo, mio povero ! Renzo ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, Lorraine is coming to himself. The 
 place in which he has stuck is something less than half 
 his height. He does not attempt to go forward or 
 backward, feeling convinced that, if he does, he shall 
 follow the example of the boy, and fall into some 
 bottomless pit or other. He crouches down, therefore, 
 in the damp gallery, and awaits in darkness the return
 
 262 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 of the boatman. In time thus spent minutes appear 
 hours, and Lorraine is in no cheerful state of mind 
 altogether when, at last, he hears the boatman's steps 
 upon him. 
 
 "AVhat's it all about?" 
 
 " Come and see ! " is the answer. 
 
 "Not I," says Lorraine. "I have had enough of 
 it. Help me out of the cave, and then you go back to 
 the boy." 
 
 " Diavolo ! " and the boatman gives Lorraine to 
 understand that if he does not choose to go down to 
 the cave, he may stay where he is. He, Dominique, 
 knows of another way out, and he means to take it. 
 
 There is nothing like the persuasion of force and 
 necessity. With a bad grace, Lorraine tells the man 
 to give him his hand, to pull him up, to go back, and 
 he'll follow him. He is something stiff and bruised, 
 and thoroughly disgusted. " This comes," mutters he, 
 " of this wild-goose chase after that old fool ! " 
 
 As they advance, the passage widens. There is a 
 chill, humid feeling, and a sound of the trickling of 
 water. 
 
 Gradually Lorraine becomes sensible of the powers 
 of vision. He sees again ; but it is through the 
 obscurity of a mist. But at a sharp turn, as they 
 enter the grotto itself, the full glare of daylight 
 streams in from a chasm above and almost blinds him. 
 
 The place has the air of a charnel-house rather 
 than a grotto. Bones and stones and charcoal dust lie
 
 "FOK SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 263 
 
 scattered about ; no graceful stalactites adorn the roof 
 and walls ; but, in their place, the water drips down, 
 blood red, from the rocks aboye. 
 
 Lorraine, still dazed with the change from dark to 
 light, exclaims, "Where is he, then? What has 
 become of him ? " 
 
 " E morto," answers the boatman, solemnly. 
 
 " Dead ! Impossible ! " says Lorraine, hurrying 
 across the cave, till his feet are stopped by stumbling 
 against something which is neither rock nor clay. 
 
 But no ; — clay, indeed, it was^living clay, only a 
 short span ago. 
 
 Lorraine's eyes are clear now ; a look of horror fills 
 them. 
 
 Dominique was right. Death is here; but it is 
 not youth, but age, that is laid low. 
 
 There sits the living Kenzo on the ground, holding, 
 with sobs and moans, the fallen head of Mr. Mildew. 
 Lifeless and prostrate, the body lay stretched in the 
 full glare of a ray of light, which shot like a prism 
 down upon the pale face, and lighted up with a halo, 
 the long grizzled hair dabbled in the blood-red ooze. 
 
 " He's asleep ; he only sleeps ! " cries Lorraine. 
 
 " Ah ! parlez bas, parlez bas," whispers Dominique. 
 " II est mort ! " 
 
 Yes ; — speak low, for you are in the presence of the 
 great King of terrors. 
 
 But again Lorraine cries, "He sleeps; he only 
 sleeps ! "
 
 264 PRESXE FORTUNE AXD PEIXCE FATAL. 
 
 He sleeps, indeed, the sleep of the Just. Look at 
 those folded hands, those closed lids, that smile on the 
 half-parted lips. Already the lines of care are gone 
 from the broad forehead; the face is like a marble 
 study in its sublime repose. 
 
 "What more ? 
 
 The hurried talk over the dead man ; the how ; the 
 why; the labour of removal. Pass over all these 
 things. 
 
 They stand by the water's edge, — the man and boy 
 reverently, and, with tears, bear their melancholy 
 burden into the boat. AYith a shudder, Lorraine steps 
 in last. They pull out ; the wind is against them, the 
 sail is useless. 
 
 The boatman looks ahead. " We shall not be there 
 in a minute," he said. " The wind is bad, and the boat 
 is low." 
 
 Yes, the burden is heavy as well as melancholy. 
 Now they round the rock and face the reefy creek. 
 
 Lorraine makes a quick start. 
 
 The boatman signs to him to be still, or he will 
 upset the boat. 
 
 " Land me here ! " cries Lorraine. 
 
 *•' Land the signer ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. I know the way ; I shall walk." 
 
 " It is a long walk." 
 
 Lorraine stands up and points to the creek.
 
 -FOB SO HE GiVKTH HLS BELOVED ^LEEP." 265 
 
 The boatman has no desire to follow this po(» 
 padrone to the shades. He tmns the boat to ibe lee&L 
 *• Sovez pret," he sajs, — ^leady to jmnp oat, when €be 
 boat touches, he means to say. 
 
 And Lorraine does jump. Gvood HeaTcns, wliat a 
 relief! How he welcomes this spot which he had 
 abused so lomidlT bnt a short while ago! The son is 
 getting low. Bather — a millicm times rather, will he pass 
 the night on this ledge or wandering about thcne hiUsy 
 than sit for two honrs side by side with that dead man! 
 
 Bnt before he can climb to the ledge, the boat hails 
 him again and pnts back. 
 
 "^ I won't go with them ! " tows Lorraine, mentally ; 
 *^ not to saTe their lives." StiTI, he goes back to tiie 
 edge of the reefe. 
 
 ~ We will not take these," says Dominique, and he 
 hands to Lorraine a watch and chain, same pieces of 
 money, and a few fossil bits tied iq> in a £ided silk 
 handkerchief. It looked rery mnch like tiiat washed- 
 out cast-off of former days. 
 
 Lorraine leans forward mechanically, his aims out. 
 But again he dra^^ back. Xo ! not fofr wodds will he 
 touch these things ! 
 
 But the boatman is not prepared for this 
 He opens his hands. Between the two, watch, 
 and fossU bits fall fethon^ down on to their deep sesa 
 bed. 
 
 ** DiaTolo ! Peste >:it ! " The man is between fear
 
 266 PRINCE FORTUNE AND TRINCE FATAL. 
 
 and rage. To him, these last effects are of priceless 
 value — a value he has to answer for. 
 
 " Oibo ! maleros ! " shrieks Eenzo ; which may be 
 taken to mean, " Oh, horror ! Oh, wretch ! " 
 
 The object of these maledictions is quite uncon- 
 cerned in regard to them, and not much moved by 
 the misfortune which has aroused them. He gives one 
 look after the lost property, which the waves of the sea 
 have closed over as surely — as irretrievably — as the 
 waves of death have closed over their once owner. 
 
 " What can it matter ? " says Lorraine. *' Better so ! '* 
 and he turns short round, and is again on his way up 
 the cliffs. 
 
 The boy and the boatman stay, calling after him ; 
 but Lorraine is deaf. 
 
 " Accidente ! " shouts Dominique, in other words, 
 " Devil take him ! " He is exasperated to a pitch. 
 He uses the whole of his polyglot to curse him, and 
 sends the last after him, with a stentorian effort of his 
 
 lungs, in unmistakable English. " you ! you did 
 
 it ! You go away with you ! You not care one sou ! " 
 
 " No avian vist ! no avian vist ! " cries Renzo, bear- 
 ing his testimony to Lorraine's evil deed. 
 
 But it is of no avail. Lorraine does not once turn 
 his head, and is soon beyond hearing and seeing. And 
 beyond the reach of the curses ? Well, that is another 
 matter. Some people think it is not a good thing to 
 have so many curses heaped up on your head.
 
 TOR SO HE tilVMXli BK ^EL0¥ED ^.EEPJ' 2ff7 
 
 It was tiie Teij inHf cf Fa«e tint lAEune AobIiI 
 1)6 Uxed to peifivm tiie» la»t ofliees for lEc. IGldew^— 
 llie man vliflse Memeas be ns, liie 9nm vImb fce bad 
 acomed, hated, lomAeA, and lifiicoled. 
 
 Heiem let us bdKere and knov lliat tiie dead aie 
 dead amongst the livii^; that A^liaie no eaiddj 
 ken, no hnman Mppaheaaitm, frcolfie^ or aensEs; 
 die tills poor son], but just set free^nooM baie i i^i 
 back again, to edio tbe mids, 'Better ao!" 
 back to Ind Lmaine let be, and meddle not !
 
 268 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 
 
 When Time was young, Night 'met the Day, and the Day said to the 
 
 Night, 
 " I, monarch of the Golden Rays, put thee. Black King, to flight. 
 Mount thy dark steeds with kindred Death, and rid me of thy 
 
 sight!" 
 
 With gloomy frown, lack-lustre smile, the Night said to the Day, 
 
 " Bright Day ! Proud Life, gold-dowered crowns, your doom is to 
 
 obey." 
 Death conquers Life ; Day yields to Night; for ever and for aye ! 
 
 It was a long walk, as Dominique had said — a very- 
 long walk, and many times Lorraine went astray in it, 
 iind nightfall had set in before it was accomplished. 
 But he was young and strong and a soldier ; he could 
 do a fatigue march as well as the rest, when needs 
 must. Still, short commons were not much in his way, 
 for, by virtue of his youth and his strength, he was 
 blessed with a good appetite, notwithstanding the boat- 
 man's blunt remark, and, for the last hour or more of 
 his tramp, his mastering sensation was a ravenous 
 hunger. 
 
 In the growing dusk, he misses the track down the 
 valley, and, instead of the olive wood, he finds him-
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 269 
 
 self still in the open, on the hills. He is on the point 
 of again turning back upon his steps — for many times 
 he has turned and turned — when, the moon breaking 
 brightly out, he sees the village half-way down the 
 heights below him. It lights up the rude slant of roofs 
 with the distinctness of a stereoscope. 
 
 " At last ! " cried Lorraine, throwing up his arms. 
 
 No mariner, ocean-tost without a compass, ever 
 welcomed the watch-towers of his port mere fervently 
 than did Lorraine these white roofs. He feels his 
 heart yearn towards the rustic eyry. He has scarce 
 ever been up to the village, yet it is a spot at least 
 familiar to his eye, for it is within close hail of the 
 villa, and the sight of it speaks to him of bed and 
 board and friendly human faces. 
 
 Now that the long tramp^ is so near over, and 
 Lorraine has the above-mentioned blessings well in 
 hand, he can afford to pause and consider matters. 
 
 " Better let them get off to bed before I appear. 
 I can't very well rehearse the affair of to-day by way 
 of after-dinner talk. Of course, there will be a scene, 
 and I hate a disturbance at night. I'm dead tired, too 1 
 I'll wait till I can go in and be quiet." 
 
 Well, it does not occur to him that Lady Laure 
 has had a long watch for his promised return with 
 Mr. Mildew, and may be watching still. To tell the 
 truth, subsequent events and exertions have thrown 
 that part of the day's business into the shade. But
 
 270 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 if he is not to go straight to the villa, what is he 
 to do? 
 
 "Fm as famished as a wolf! I must have some 
 food somehow. I'd give a pound for that fellow's wine 
 and bread at this minute. I've a good mind," thinks 
 he, " to go down there and get something ; they must 
 have their bricks and vinegar, at any rate." 
 
 It is a wildish night ; the clouds chase across the 
 sky like huntsmen in pursuit. The stars appear and 
 disappear, like brilliants in their starry setting; and 
 now the moon is veiled, and now it floods the hills. 
 
 It is not the easiest scramble down to this toppling 
 cluster of habitations. The labyrinth of rocky stair- 
 like passages, which take the place of streets in it, 
 stops abruptly with the highest house ; but men and 
 horses travel well by night — the sense of feeling is, 
 strangely, a safer guide than the sense of sight — and 
 Lorraine, though not much of a mountaineer, makes 
 the descent in the chequered light, without adding 
 any more to his list of bruises. 
 
 Most of the houses are closed ; the people are a-bed 
 or abroad. They are sleeping or gossipping down on the 
 place of the church. It is a stage or two lower than 
 the village proper. You can even drive up to it, and 
 turn a horse and carriage in it. The difficulty is to 
 drive down again. 
 
 Lorraine follows the serpentine line of the sloping 
 houses. They are not ten feet apart, and nearly 
 meet overhead. What light there is in the sky is
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 271 
 
 excluded here. It is all but dark, and almost as steep 
 as getting down tlie mountain, and almost as risky; 
 for the irregularly cut steps make but a dangerous 
 footpath. 
 
 Lorraine taps at a window or two, but he taps in 
 vain; everything is shut up tight and still. Here 
 they have the habit of closing up doors and windows. 
 It is the savage instinct. Curled up in a space 
 scarce big enough to turn in, the head buried under 
 the breast — such is the wild animal's notion of a 
 comfortable housing, whether beast or man ; and in 
 the case of the human savage, it cannot be denied 
 that typhoid and similar dispensations are not sa 
 much his peculiar portion as of the luxurious tenant 
 of the airy apartment, furnished with a free ventilation, 
 especially with the drain-pipe. 
 
 Groping his way down, Lorraine comes upon one of 
 the mule-sheds, and breaks his hat against it. The rough 
 stable is formed by a bit of roofing stretched across the 
 foot-passage from house to house. In a more civilized 
 community the owner might have been summoned for 
 obstructing the public way ; but up here, so near to the 
 sky, the regulations of the lower world don't count for 
 much. 
 
 Opening under the stable-shed from the house to 
 the left hand is a door, with a few stones piled under 
 the sill, by way of reaching the level of it; a dirty 
 oil lamp, fixed to a hook on the opposite house wall, 
 reveals the backs of a couple of mules huddled to-
 
 272 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 gether. The creatures appear to be asleep. Over the 
 door, stuck into the roofing, is a branch of withered 
 pine. This gives hope of the refreshment he is seek- 
 ing, and Lorraine knocks loudly at the door. It gives 
 way under his hand, and he stands looking in through 
 the crack. 
 
 " Darbe a poarta ! " 
 
 " Open the door ! " comes from the interior in a 
 cracked and querulous voice. 
 
 Going further into the room, Lorraine perceives an 
 old crone crouched by the stone hearth. The logs are 
 alight upon it, and a pot hangs over it. The only 
 light comes from the occasional flicker of the resinous 
 wood. Lorraine calls his vocabulary to his aid — 
 
 " Vin, earn pan." 
 
 This was very well, as far as communicating his 
 wants went, for the old woman begins to move. 
 
 " U mestre no en casa," she says. But in spite of 
 the absence of the proprietor, she proceeds to satisfy 
 Lorraine's demands.' She takes the fellow lamp to the 
 one that is hanging in the stable-shed, and, lighting 
 it, opens an inner door. In this apartment, which is 
 scarcely six feet in height, there is a conglomeration 
 of all kinds of household gear. Shakedowns on the 
 floor, wearing apparel, both masculine and feminine, 
 thrown across ropes strung from side to side, bottles 
 and cups and dishes, and such coarse provender as the 
 house contains. Out of this uninviting ensemble the 
 old creature brings forth a rush, long-necked wine-
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 273 
 
 flask — p:raceful, at least, in shape, swelling well at the 
 base and tapering high; it has no cork, — it is not 
 
 the kind of beverage to lay down in your cellar a 
 
 lump of bread, not much the better for being thick 
 instead of long; and a stick of salame. These she 
 brings in her arms, and pushes a wooden stool to the 
 table. 
 
 If Lorraine had been a connoisseur in such matters, 
 this table might have tempted him severely. Its 
 double spiral legs at the four corners, and the deep^ 
 cut carving of the quaint design on the broad brace 
 that held the legs together, made it a perfect gem in 
 its way. Lorraine, however, scorns hric-a-hrac, and 
 everything of the sort. Use and comfort to him are 
 the only merits either in chairs or cups. He thinks 
 nothing of the table, but a great deal of what is upon 
 it, and falls to, without a grain of squeamishness. He 
 draws the broken mug which serves for a glass, and 
 devours the bread in hunches, and the salame ! — Well, 
 if he had owned to the truth, he would have said it 
 was the most delicious preparation he ever partook of. 
 
 The old woman stirs up the wood embers, then squats 
 down beside them with her skinny arms doubled across 
 her chest. She eyes her guest from time to time, with 
 a grin of satisfaction, which wrinkles up her old face 
 into hideous lines. She is taking good note how the 
 viands are disappearing ; and, as Lorraine disposes of 
 the last bit of sausage before him, she gets up and 
 goes again into the omnium gatherum, and, feeling in 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 the pockets of one of the depending coats, she extracts 
 a slice of cheese — such cheese as the people of the 
 country eat as bread. It is not quite clear that she 
 has not purloined a piece of private property in 
 Lorraine's intention ; but it was, at the worst, an evil 
 deed, set in a frame of good works. But Lorraine does 
 not blacken her soul with this doubtful sin. He spares 
 the priest his casuistry in her next absolution. The 
 piece of cheese is motioned back to its place of con- 
 cealment. With that last bit of sausage Lorraine has 
 struck, or, it may be, hunger being appeased, fastidious- 
 ness is returning. 
 
 But now for the reckoning. The old woman jabbers, 
 and Lorraine reckons up ; but they come to no con- 
 clusion, no sum total, no understanding. The end of 
 it is that Lorraine holds a handful of coins in his hand, 
 and makes her a sign to take what she will. 
 
 It was a sight to see, — the old head trembling with 
 a very palsy of greedy joy, the sunken eyes glistening 
 like a snake's, and the bony fingers stretched out. 
 One large silver piece, shining like the moon among 
 the stars, excites a delirious cupidity. She makes a 
 desperate grab at it, but fails, for, in the act, there 
 €omes a sudden hubbub outside, a scufiiing of feet, 
 a confusion of voices, and the boy Eenzo rushes in, 
 with a mad troop of screaming women at his back, 
 the whole body howling, shrieking, and gesticulating. 
 
 " U noastre padron ! Padron men ! mestre men ! 
 ^ moart ! e moart ! Dio ! ahi Dio ! "
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 275 
 
 When the boy Kenzo sees Lorraine, he points 
 wildly to him, crying out, " Es r'ome ! Es r'ome ! 
 era stac aili ! Es r'ome ! " * 
 
 With the last "Es r'ome!" the whole female 
 brigade sets upon Lorraine. Before he knows where 
 he is, he is dragged from his seat, cuffed, scratched, 
 spit at, his hat is knocked off, his hair torn in hand- 
 fuls, his coat in strips. 
 
 " Ka bestia ! Piege ch'una bestia ! Ko sassin ! 
 O paire men ! paire ! men padron ! " So they 
 mingle blows and cries, assailing the victim on all sides. 
 Lorraine has not the faintest conception what the 
 row is about. Eenzo is knocked over, and is either 
 trampled on or has got out of the way. One thing 
 Lorraine sees — that he is in for it. He defends himself 
 ^s best he can, pushing for the door, with his arms and 
 elbows. Fists he won't use against a woman, though 
 she be a fury incarnate. His height helps him. 
 Another minute, and he will be out of the door. But 
 when he remembers, what sort of an outside the door 
 has, the darkness and the steep and broken footway, his 
 spirits don't rise ; for he expects nothing less than to be 
 bowled down it, and have his neck broken for a finale. 
 But the Fates had decreed a different termination to 
 this affair. It was in the interval of that other minute 
 that the crisis came, brought about by the old crone 
 of the cabaret. 
 
 * " This is the man ! This is the man ! He was there ! This is 
 
 the man ! "
 
 276 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Up to this critical moment she had been neutral. 
 She was too old for active fight, and there were hands 
 enough ; but when she sees, not indeed, Lorraine, but 
 her big silver piece escaping bodily out of the door, 
 she at once takes sides, and, seizing upon the stool on 
 which her guest had sat, she thrusts it into the hands 
 of the lustiest virago of the lot. This one is not slow 
 to use it. Up it goes, flourished by one leg, and the 
 next instant Lorraine is floored by a well-aimed blow 
 on the back of his head. 
 
 Murder is in the air, and will be done, for the 
 women are beginning to kick and stamp ; but Lorraine, 
 though doomed to fall, was not to die upon this igno- 
 minious battle-ground. At the door appears Dominique 
 the boatman, and half a dozen others, who have come 
 up to the cabaret to talk over the story he has to tell. 
 
 Dominique takes the thing pretty coolly, for he 
 has seen the world. 
 
 Mr. Mildew cold and a corpse, Lorraine senseless 
 and bleeding — two tragedies for one day's work rouse 
 him to action, but do not scatter his wits. Dominique^ 
 if he chose, could tell you of more tragedies than 
 this, and in fewer hours ; could carry you into more 
 stirring scenes; could take you away from this tame 
 terra jirma, and stir your blood with stories of life, and 
 of death too, upon the high seas. 
 
 Time was but the boatman has done with those 
 
 wild days; he passes for a peaceable man now. His 
 bread-winner is the little Rondinella, Still, he keeps
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 277 
 
 his cool head and steady hand ready for emergencies, 
 and with these good aids, he heads his mates now, and 
 goes to the rescue without any of Lorraine's delicate 
 reserve about the weaker sex. To him and his band, a 
 woman who fights, is a fighting animal, and must be 
 met on her own ground. 
 
 It is a sight to see ! The seven champions use all 
 the weapons nature has given them, fists and feet, and 
 w^hatever comes handy. They make short work of it. 
 The attack changes sides, and the victory too. The 
 fair ones seem to know their masters, and take to their 
 heels with a vens^eance. 
 
 With the clearing off of the women, there commences 
 an active discussion between the men. Great odds, is 
 the order of the day. They are six to one — Dominique 
 on one side, and his six mates upon the other. The 
 six are for leaving Lorraine where he is, and entering 
 into a silent bond " to know nothins; of the matter. "^ 
 They do not wish to have to answer for the handiwork 
 of those mescJiine freme — those miserable women. But 
 Dominique will not hear of it. He orders them to lift up 
 the monsic, and follow with him down to the villa of the 
 )Signor Inglese. Dominique himself will go forward 
 and prepare the family. In all things the boatman 
 comports himself like a man of the world. 
 
 His mates, however, still hesitate. Then the boat- 
 man's ire begins to show itself — in the flash of his 
 eye, which, like the lighthouse, gives warning that 
 the coast is dangerous, and in the two lines of his 
 I. -i-
 
 278 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 small, white teeth. The look of the tiger comes into 
 his face, his hand hides itself in the breast of his 
 loose flannel shirt. Keport says that within that loose 
 shirt there is a whole armoury of deadly weapons. 
 The common knife the man disdains to run into his 
 neighbour. It sticks in his sash, to be sure; but it 
 cuts up nothing redder than bread and cheese, and 
 takes the lives of none but cold-blooded creatures of 
 the fishy tribes — ; but maybe, on the principle of an 
 armed peace, Dominique humours the rumour, and 
 passes for more defensive than he is. Whether or 
 no, he stands now, with his hand still in his breast, 
 and runs his eye — along from man to man. 
 
 " Ben ! Ave capi ? " says he. " Do you hear ? do 
 you understand me ? " 
 
 Yes, without a doubt, they hear, they understand, 
 they prepare to obey. There are to be no more 
 tragedies at present. 
 
 But at this point of the proceedings, the boy Kenzo 
 reappears upon the scene of action. He comes out of 
 the inner apartment. In that retreat his quick eye, 
 in the onset of the fray, detected a safe refuge, and 
 during its fury he lay well-nigh smothered under the 
 largest shakedown. After the arrival of the relief 
 party, he had ventured to watch the progress of affairs, 
 with his head just out; but now he comes forward, 
 with his gaillaird air come back again, in spite of 
 the calamities of the day. Perhaps he has been 
 regaling himself under his shakedown with the good
 
 BKOKEN HEAETS AND BEOKEN HEADS. 279 
 
 things of his retreat ; or, may be, the boy was tired of 
 the dismal side of things, and wanted to sing again. 
 
 He is now all eagerness to attract attention. He 
 alone is in the secret ; he alone can give the true 
 history of this night's affair. It is quite in his style 
 too — highly dramatic. As he proceeds, he versifies it 
 with his natural gift. The men's eyes are fixed upon 
 him ; they hold their breath. Not Dominique himself 
 will move them, till the tale is told. 
 
 Eenzo paints the stormy grief of the women when 
 he brings them the news of the death of the padron, 
 as they sit under the moonlight, down by the church. 
 He makes a picture how some are knitting, and some 
 are at play, and some are singing, and some laughing. 
 And then comes the terrible deathstroke, which turns 
 them into stone — and from this comds the sudden 
 uprising and the wild rush up to ra maigran, to the 
 old grey grandmother who sits by the hearth, to tell 
 her the bad news, and to have her weep with them. 
 He acts his astonishment at seeing ro monsu in the 
 cabaret ; he cries again, " Es r'ome ! Es r'ome ! " and 
 whirls his arms, and hisses, and howls, and stamps his 
 feet : — to express the fatal effects of his " Es r'ome ! " 
 upon the afflicted women, he dilates upon their feel- 
 ings, their fatal loss, their fatal mistake, the blind- 
 ness of all sorrow, the heads that become foolish in 
 despair. He asks where were they to find another 
 padron ? Love and death, do they not drive the heart 
 to madness ? Lovers may deceive, but fathers never.
 
 280 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Was not the padron their father? What so good 
 under the sun as a good father ? Was he not better 
 than the black earth that nourishes the olive ? better 
 than the best net that catches the fish for the hungry ? 
 Must not the weak-handed ones hurry to strike down 
 the hand that struck their padron — that gave their 
 father to cold death ? 
 
 After this Kenzo comes down to prose. He says 
 that, quite too late, and yet in the twinkling of an eye, 
 he saw the way it was all going. But it was too late, 
 too late. How could he talk reason to the weak- 
 handed ones? Did not their white arms beat the air, 
 like flails that thrash the grain ? Was he not in great 
 terror ? Were not his feet taken from under him ? 
 What could Kenzo the boy do, but get out of the 
 way and leave the monsu a ra Madone ? 
 
 Now, Kenzo's Madone was no ordinary madonna. 
 She was a madonna, not of poor peasants only, but of 
 the great ones of the earth ; and Renzo, every Whitsun 
 Feast, in company with all the devout and the un- 
 devout of the hills and shores, and even of the distant 
 cities, made his annual pilgrimage to her blessed 
 shrine. Many miles he walked by bare heights and 
 stone-ways and bleak mountains — so bleak that the 
 great thistle blossom refused to grow, down to the valley 
 of flowing waters, where stood her Sanctuary. Here, 
 while some slept ofi" their weariness, and some washed 
 their travel-sore feet, and some sought refreshment of 
 the soul in prayer and confession ; and some, refresh-
 
 BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 281 
 
 ment of the body at the wine-house hard by, Kenzo, 
 each year with a growing wonder, betook himself to 
 the arts, and wandered from picture to picture in her 
 gallery of miraculous interpositions, in which Renzo 
 and all the devout pilgrims believed and gloried, and 
 expected nothing less than some day to set up a 
 picture of their own, an ex voto for their own particular 
 escape and salvation. 
 
 But, unfortunately for Renzo, the boatman Do- 
 minique must have rubbed off some of his devoutness 
 in the wild scenes before alluded to. He has never 
 made his pilgrimage, never visited the gallery ; he 
 makes no account of ra Madone, or of Renzo's pious 
 trust in her. More than once during the exciting 
 recital he shakes his fist, and when it is done, he calls 
 him a young rascal, a maleros giue, an " ill-starred 
 youth." He tells him that he set the women upon 
 the monsu, and then left him to his fate. What did 
 he mean by his " Es r'ome " ? 
 
 The boatman is not carried away by his anger. 
 Perhaps, at the bottom, he excuses the boy, and his 
 share in the fatal mistake ; perhaps he prefers to 
 frighten him, rather than to hurt him. He keeps his 
 hands off the boy, for now, he says, he has other things 
 to do. But to-morrow — to-morrow — and his brows 
 grow very black, Renzo may look out for a heavy 
 reckoning. 
 
 The unhappy culprit, who has just got back to his 
 light heart, shrinks away into the outside darkness
 
 282 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 with a heavier one than ever ; for what are two tragedies 
 in the past, to a sound cudgelling in the future ? At 
 least, what comparison can they bear in the estimation 
 of our pious Kenzo ? 
 
 " Misfortunes do not come singly." It is a proverb 
 of imiversal acceptance, and, it must be admitted, what 
 with the broken heads and broken hearts of this day, its 
 events afforded the strongest testimony to the reason- 
 ableness of the saying. 
 
 Whether there was a Nemesis in the case of the 
 broken head, it is idle to ask. It is not good to be 
 ready to see the Avenger in other people's troubles ; 
 we may leave this to the people themselves, and to 
 their consciences, if they have any. 
 
 As for Lorraine himself, it may be said, positively 
 and once for all, that he saw no Nemesis whatever in the 
 mauling he had undergone ; nothing but the brutality 
 of human nature, and women in particular. But he 
 never could forget it. For him, the real tragedy of the 
 day was soon forgotten and wiped out, but the memory 
 of the finish of it — stayed steadily by him. 
 
 If you met him now, let us take it for granted, 
 although middle age must be creeping upon him, that 
 he lives and thrives — if he were candid, he would 
 confess to you that in the midst of a glass of Life's 
 brightest champagne, the thought of what he suffered 
 at the hands of those daughters of the South, has come 
 up, and sent a cold shudder through his veins.
 
 BROKEX HEARTS AND BROKEN HEADS. 283 
 
 Let liim pass liis fingers carelessly through his 
 waving locks, and the chances are that they will stand 
 on end with a frisson, and he feels again the tugs of 
 those savage claws. Let him stand in the midst of a 
 bevy of fair dames, clustering round him, like so many 
 gay carnations, all radiance, colour, and perfume ; — and 
 up will start the companion picture, of those crowding, 
 screaming women-creatures, gaping upon him with 
 their garlic-smelling mouths, and tearing his eyes out 
 with their horny, grimy fingers. 
 
 Child of Fortune as he was, the indignity was done 
 and suffered, and could not be undone. It was as in- 
 exorable a fact as poor Mr. Mildew's funeral knell.
 
 284 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 Pitying INIother Earth has ta'en 
 
 To her bosom onco again, 
 
 This poor heart that loved in vain. 
 
 Now, ]i\^ him and grief to sleep ; 
 None he needs for him to weep. 
 Nor lamenting vigil keep. 
 
 Happy Chance to some belong, 
 For the race is to the strong, 
 Those who sec good days and long ! 
 
 Mother Earth for him is liest, 
 To her kindly bosom prest. 
 Mother Earth will give him rest. 
 
 On his grave our tears fall fast. 
 Strife and struggle, all are past, 
 Say farewell — he rests at last. 
 
 If misfortunes must visit us in pairs, let us follow the 
 optimist, wlio cries, *' There is good in everything." 
 Let us endeavour to discover the advantage of these 
 double dispensations. 
 
 We should be all optimists if we were content to 
 view ourselves as the potter's clay we are, and from 
 this standpoint to accept our fortune or our misfortune. 
 If men are content to live at all, human reason must 
 
 i
 
 MOTHER EAETH. 285 
 
 compel them to be thankful — before everything. And 
 how few of the countless millions walking the earth, 
 having tasted of life, are not content to live on — at any 
 price ! 
 
 Euthanasia is as much a dream as Nirvana. In 
 the realms of non-existence alone, wherever that may 
 be, is non-existence a blessing. The human soul is Life, 
 therefore life, its essence, is its first desired good. But 
 let us not pitch our eyes too high. If the ant take the 
 Alp for its standard, will not discouragement be its 
 portion? Therefore, is the optimist the wiser man, 
 since at least he holds something in place of nothing — 
 even if that something be misfortune. 
 
 But if this misfortune be duplicated, if the two 
 evil things are well contrasted, and unequally weighted, 
 and if the heavier one strikes upon the heart and the 
 lighter one upon the head, then out of the two, there 
 comes one unmitigated good. And of this lurking 
 truth, the broken head and the broken heart which at 
 this moment fill the Villa Grimaldi with lamentations, 
 afford a striking illustration. 
 
 No doubt there was an all-unconscious blessing 
 dealt out with this double blow. Whilst Lady Laure's 
 blue eyes shed blinding tears over the disaster of her 
 lover's bleeding head, she does not perceive the kindly 
 veil thus raised between her and the tragedy of the 
 bleeding heart. And as the anxious days go on, the 
 blessing goes with them. Bandaged brows and close 
 tether to bed and couch, make a more impressive show
 
 28G PRIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 than tlie dark and unseen limits of cere-cloth and 
 coffin. The body's brief, self-bemoaned, articulate 
 durance, compels a louder sympathy — than its dumb- 
 enduring, dolorous extinction. The glad sight of the 
 hair growing again over that scarred scalp — shuts out 
 the sadder one of grizzled locks that can grow no 
 more. 
 
 But is not all this well ? and well named a bless- 
 ing ? — negative, perhaps, but a greater boon than most 
 of our affirmative good. If the living can but live for 
 the living ; — if we can but bury out of mind our dead 
 past ; if we can accept, consciously or unconsciously, 
 the mortal necessity to forget, — then we shall have 
 possessed ourselves of the best talisman the wide world 
 contains, against the heart-ache. 
 
 As yet, we are at the bitter beginning of these 
 anxious days. The broken head is still bleeding, the 
 broken heart is still above the turf; disaster and 
 tragedy are but one day old. 
 
 The sun shines out gloriously, as if to flaunt pale 
 Death and Care, and the white-fronted house, with its 
 jalousies all tightly shut against it, looks warm and 
 gay and all aglow. 'Tis but outside show, 'tis but a 
 deception ; 'tis not to shut out the sun, but to shut in 
 sorrow. Inside the white-fronted house there is cold 
 cheer to-day; in the bright parlour there is neither
 
 MOTHER EARTH. 287 
 
 sunlight nor air, — only sable draperies, and tapers 
 flaring, and mute watchers, — and all that once was 
 Mr. Mildew. 
 
 In the red glare, the pale face looks paler than 
 ever; as yet unchanged, save in the strange smile 
 which has replaced the first stern look of death — a 
 smile of mute farewell and comfort. How many 
 bereaved hearts have been consoled by that last 
 strange smile ! " He looks so happy ! " sob the 
 weeping mourners, and they go their way, with that 
 smile fixed in memory, for future fortitude and resig- 
 nation. 
 
 On one side of the dead stands the Earl Bellarmine, 
 with much personal concern in his look ; on the other, 
 is the Abbate Faa di Bruno, grave and calm. 
 
 He is replying to the earl, in his low undertones. 
 "I looked for nothing else. His health has been 
 broken up for some time." 
 
 The earl shakes his head. "That was not my 
 opinion," he whispers. " To look at him there could 
 not have been a better life." Then he drops his voice 
 still more, "You don't think that he was just a little 
 wrong here?" and he touches his own forehead with 
 the top of his finger. 
 
 The priest raises his open hand, as if in the act of 
 blessing, and then lets it fall tenderly over the dead 
 man's brow, and then over his heart. "Nothing- 
 wrong here," — he says, " or here." 
 
 The earl stands silent, but not convinced. " I had
 
 288 PEINCE FORTUXE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 noticed quite recently a certain amount of prejudice 
 in my friend." 
 
 " Ah ! " replies the abbate. 
 
 " Yes, a most unreasonable prejudice against our 
 friend, Mr. Lorraine." 
 
 " Ah ! " says the priest again. 
 
 " Not to be accounted for on sound grounds, you 
 see," continues the earl. 
 
 " I am not in a position to judge," is the reply. 
 
 " But I am ! " rejoins the earl, quickly. Then he 
 adds, " But you have relieved my mind by what you 
 tell me. I was half afraid — of — suicide." 
 
 The priest draws back, as if he had received a 
 mental shock; he lets his quiet eyes rest upon the 
 Englishman with something of a reproof in their fixed 
 look, and the dark pupils dilate, though the face 
 does not move a muscle. Maybe he feels that these 
 words in the presence of the dead were better left 
 unsaid. 
 
 " Insanity, of course," adds the earl ; " of course, 
 insanity." 
 
 " And yet you pray against sudden death. Do you 
 believe in it, my lord ? " 
 
 " Well, well, of course we do ; but sudden death, 
 you know — we consider it suspicious." 
 
 The priest moves his eyes slowly from the face of 
 the living to the face of the dead. Both hands join 
 reverently, as if in prayer ; then the eyes are thrown 
 up, as if to call Heaven to witness the truth he utters :
 
 MOTHER EARTH. 289 
 
 "This man died," cries he, "because it was the will 
 of God that it should be so." The fine head bends 
 low over the corpse, the hands spread out ; he signs 
 the holy cross upon the brow and breast, and goes 
 solemnly out of the chamber of death. 
 
 " The funeral is for the evening," says the earl, 
 catching up the abbate, who is leaving the house. 
 The priest inclines his head. " I am surprised," says 
 the earl, "that the body is not to be sent to some 
 neighbouring town where there is a Protestant cemetery. 
 I would charge myself with the expenses whether 
 more or less." 
 
 " He will be laid with us," murmurs the abbate. 
 " He was, then, one of your flock. Signer Abbate ? " 
 " He received lately the consolations of my ojBfice." 
 " A Catholic ! Bless me ! " cries the earl, his 
 usual expletive breaking out with the natural use of 
 his voice again. " Bless me ! This comes, of course, 
 of living so long in these parts." 
 
 The abbate compresses his lips by way of reply, 
 and then, with a salute in silence, they part company. 
 
 Mr. Mildew is laid to sleep far over the hills, beside 
 a mountain Sanctuary. Near to it are convent walls ; 
 — a sweet, smiling spot, with vines and olive-grounds 
 stretching about it. 
 
 VOL. I. V
 
 290 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 The earl and the abbate, on their mules, follow as 
 chief mourners. 
 
 Soon the news spread how it was to be, and from 
 daybreak all the village was abroad, — they go along 
 with tears and lamentations. 
 
 Tito and Caterina, Dominique and Kenzo, all are 
 there. 
 
 When the last ceremony of earth to earth is over, 
 the earl wishes the priest good day, and travels back 
 alone. He is not sorry to have done with it all. He 
 goes along reflecting. " I am truly grieved for him," 
 thinks he ; " but I wish his last words had not been so 
 much against poor Lorraine." 
 
 Poor Lorraine ! So let it be. Only let us add also, 
 " Poor Mr. Mildew ! "
 
 ( 291 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 
 
 He takes the scroll, and he rends it twice, 
 
 And he rends it once again ; 
 He stirs the flame for the sacrifice, 
 
 He lets not a shred remain. 
 
 " So perish the thought for ever ! " he cries ; 
 
 " So perish it now and again ! " 
 But the angels whisper, " Thought never dies." 
 
 " Never dies," sighs a soul in pain. 
 
 Says the earl to Lorraine, " I don't know how it is, — 
 some men seem to break up so quickly." 
 
 The earl is surveying himself complacently in the 
 long glass of a chiffonier — and reflecting, mentally, 
 upon Mr. Mildew. 
 
 Lorraine is still in the role of invalid, though little 
 is left of the matter save a black patch at the back of 
 his head. He lies stretched out, with one leg on a 
 chair, in a corner of the room, his eyes partially closed. 
 He has given way to drowsiness of late ; he finds it a 
 convenient method of getting through the tedium of 
 the indoors confinement, and the interminable length 
 of the talking day.
 
 292 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Break up soon ! " he echoes, absently. Then, bring- 
 ing his mind to bear upon it, he says, tartly, " Well, 
 if you get a broken head, it's apt to break you up for 
 the time anyhow." 
 
 " My dear fellow," answers the earl, " I wasn't for a 
 moment thinking of you. What could make you sup- 
 pose I meant you ? " and the earl gives to his reclining 
 son-in-law elect, an admiring glance. 
 
 " Egotism, perhaps ; " and Lorraine yawns wearily ; 
 " the conceit being taken out of the animal by loss of 
 blood, — your humble people are all egotists, all think- 
 ing of themselves, and their meritorious humility is 
 always fitting on caps not intended for them." 
 
 " There's something very true in that," rejoins the 
 earl. " Have you remarked, for instance, in a church, 
 how some abrupt ad hominem remarks, make half the 
 congregation start with heads up, as one man ? " 
 
 " Well, no," says Lorraine, smiling faintly, " I can't 
 say I have ; but then, I've not sat under many popular 
 preachers, as the saying is." 
 
 " !N^aturally, naturally," returns the earl, apolo- 
 getically. " But those who do," he continues, " can't 
 fail to notice it. I remember a very good story to the 
 point. A hare-brained young parson of my acquaint- 
 ance made a bet with his divinity coach, that in hi& 
 first sermon he would, with his first word, rivet the 
 attention of all the women. He was a handsome young 
 fellow, by-the-by, and he won his bet, though not 
 altogether by his good looks. This was the text he
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 293 
 
 took : * Let your women keep silence.' The effect was 
 electrical ; the universal start, the turning of heads, the 
 severe looks of some of the bonneted faces, the con- 
 scious eyes of others, — it would have been a very 
 risible affair, but for the solemnity of the occasion." 
 
 "Wasn't it risible as it was?" asks Lorraine, 
 languidly. 
 
 " For that matter I suppose it was," answered the 
 earl, laughing heartily at his own lively recollections. 
 "By-the-by, talking of parsons," says he, when he 
 recovers his gravity, " didn't I see you walking to-day 
 with that Roman priest, Laure ? " 
 
 Lady Laure is very pale now ; it may be that the 
 tight-fitting black robe she wears is in too strong con- 
 trast to her alabaster skin. She looks up from writing 
 a letter to her brother. 
 
 "Yes; the abbate you mean, papa? He is so 
 kind; it is so much comfort to me to talk to him, 
 when I think of — of things." And she flushes, and 
 falls silent, turns white and red all in a moment. 
 
 " Oh ! a superior man, no doubt," remarks the earl ; 
 
 " and very amiable, I dare say. Don't, however " 
 
 But the earl also breaks off short. He covers his un- 
 finished sentence by rising hastily and throwing open a 
 window. " I wonder," says he, " why we have all the 
 windows shut to-day ! " 
 
 " Don't let him make a convert of you, Laure," was 
 the proper finish of his speech, as it stood in his mind ; 
 but the earl, all caution and courtesy, caught himself
 
 294 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 up, lest his words should convey an undesigned affront 
 
 to his Catholic son-in-law elect. 
 
 « 
 
 Lorraine also had a speech upon the tip of his 
 tongue, which expired before it was uttered, and it was 
 just this: "What! have you got another old man 
 already ? " — But for once he restrains his unguarded 
 utterance. Lorraine has made a vow never even dis- 
 tantly to allude to Mr. Mildew with Lady Laure, and 
 he means to keep it. He wishes, for the sake of peace 
 and decency, to let the dead alone, and he knows that 
 with her, he cannot trust himself in common patience 
 to speak of the man who, whether directly or indirectly, 
 has been the cause of such a desperate punishment to 
 himself. As for the fate of the man himself, for the 
 contempt he has felt for him, for the contempt he has 
 expressed, he has not a pang of conscience this way — 
 not one pang. 
 
 " I am sorry," says Lady Laure, " he is going. He 
 said Good-bye to-day." 
 
 His common creed with her lover made Lady 
 Laure very fearless about this alliance with her new 
 friend. 
 
 " Why going away ? " asks the earl ; — " though I 
 am sure I'm not astonished at it ; the wonder is why he 
 came here at all." 
 
 " He is going to London to see a brother who is ill 
 there ; he is in the Embassy, I think. We shall be 
 gone," sighs she, " before he returns." 
 
 The joy is more than gone out of her life here.
 
 MURDEKOUS MEDITATIONS. 295 
 
 and yet Lady Laure clings to the spot more fondly 
 than ever. 
 
 "Oh, then, he does return? Singular thing, isn't 
 it," says the earl, "a man of this calibre being the cure 
 of such a paltry little place as this ? '' 
 
 " Oh ! " cries Lady Laure. " I think that is just 
 the beauty of his life." 
 
 " I can't agree with you, my dear Laure. That's pure 
 romance. Any ignorant seminarist would do for this 
 village. This man's place is elsewhere; he is quite 
 fitted to be an ornament to society, and, since he has 
 chosen it, to be an ornament to his Church. You don't 
 need the red bit of ribbon in his button-hole to tell 
 you that the man's rank is on a par with his manners, 
 with his refined and courtly address, and cultivation 
 altogether. He is absolutely thrown away here — a 
 pearl cast to swine." 
 
 " Oh papa ! " says Lady Laure, deprecating, not 
 the simile of the pearl, but of the swine. Then she adds, 
 " It was the abbate's choice to come here." 
 
 " A grand mistake, I call it," says the earl ; " and 
 you see, he doesn't make anything of the people. One 
 of themselves would have more weight with them ; they 
 are nothing really but a set of savages ; " and he looks 
 compassionately at Lorraine. 
 
 Lorraine frowns under the compassionate glance. 
 If, once for all, they would have done with their com- 
 miseration and their condemnation! All he wants is 
 to get over it in peace, and forget it, if possible.
 
 296 PEIN'CE FORTrNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " They didn't mean it," murmurs Lady Laure. 
 
 Lorraine's ears, in his distant corner, are sharp 
 enough to catch this " didn't mean it." And his eyes 
 wake up with his ears ; they positively flash fire across 
 the room. He cares nothing for pity for his brutal 
 assault; but, exculpation for the savages, and from 
 that quarter, too ! Come, that's too bad. He vows an 
 indefinite vengeance some day and upon some one. 
 But he's not going to keep up the odious subject now, 
 or to make a fool of himself at this moment, and to 
 show his disgust. 
 
 He turns his eyes away and takes up a book. But 
 he is not really reading ; behind the open pages he is 
 resenting Lady Laure's exculpation of the " savages " 
 — resenting it on every count, for the sympathy it 
 gives, more than for the sympathy it withholds ; resent- 
 ing it, because, after all, Mr. Mildew has beaten him 
 out of the field, and the broken heart triumphs in its 
 ashes. 
 
 This *' didn't mean it " was as unfortunate as it 
 was artless, candid, and generous. It was a part of 
 Lady Laure's nature, and a part of her fate. It was 
 a part of Lorraine's fate, too. There was nothing very 
 breakable about his heart ; but if it couldn't break it 
 could harden, and one way or another it did harden. 
 
 Vindictive ! Yes ; Lorraine may have been vindic- 
 tive and unforgiving, too, when suflSciently roused and 
 touched on the right chord. His happy indolence 
 interfered with the full swing of these qualities; for
 
 MURDEKOrS 3IEDITATI0NS. 297 
 
 their indulgence costs trouble, and ruffles placid en- 
 joyments. But of these and other qualities it would 
 be curious to inquire how much comes of ourselves ; 
 how much is innate, indigenous, and our spontaneous 
 production ; and for how much we should travel back, 
 crab fashion, in order to find the responsible unit — that 
 is to say, the responsible ghost, which may not be a unit 
 but a unification. Yet, though impalpable, spectral, 
 diffuse, and disintegrated, has it not a right to answer 
 for the consequences of itself? Whether it was that 
 Iberian hidalgo, or that Hibernian progenitor — it is 
 too far back to be precise — yet it is ten to one that 
 Lorraine has to thank one or both for a srood deal that 
 is in him, and had better have been out of him. 
 
 This shadowy excuse — and shadowy it is in every 
 sense of the word — is the more allowable, since the 
 man had none of the vices that go along with these 
 passions. The earl took him to be a good-hearted, 
 well-living young fellow; and so did a good many 
 other people ; and, on the whole, you would not have 
 ealled Lorraine a hypocrite. 
 
 *•' During his absence," says the earl, who is always 
 of an inquisitive turn about commonplace matters, 
 "do you know, Laure, who the abbate is going to 
 entrust his precious flock to ? or is he going to leave 
 his sheep, black and white, without a shepherd ? "
 
 298 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " That fat little Don Giobbe, whom you often see 
 about. Every one calls him Don Giobbe ; I don't know 
 why," says she. " He is to be here for Mass. He has a 
 little chapel over the hills. It is a delicious little spot, 
 full of flowers and thyme, and honey and bees. He has 
 a little house there of three rooms, with such curious 
 furniture in it, and a large garden which he is always 
 working in. I believe he sells the vegetables about 
 here, and brings them himself. You know him by 
 sight, papa." 
 
 " Bless me, Laure," cries the earl, " what an exten- 
 sive acquaintance you have in the neighbourhood, 
 especially in certain quarters ! " The earl could scarcely 
 conceal his fidgettiness about his daughter's Catholic 
 proclivities. " I believe I know the man by sight, but 
 nothing more." 
 
 " I know him," says Lorraine, throwing his book 
 on one side, and not sorry to get away from his un- 
 pleasant feelings. "He's a very good little fellow, 
 and has often invited me to visit his ' delicious spot ; ' 
 but I believe it is an immense way off. He's a little 
 grise, as they say, and when you make him laugh, he 
 gives you Benediction, pointing his fingers in the most 
 original way. But he's a jolly little man, all the same. 
 He's the sort of priest I like to see ; no artfulness about 
 him." 
 
 Lorraine's appreciation of priests at this moment 
 was a good deal more ruled by his distaste for the 
 abbate, than for his taste for the rural Don Giobbe.
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 299 
 
 " That's so far true," returns the earl. " Now, the 
 abbate might be a Machiavelli — is probably a Jesuit. 
 The one man seems to be a buffoon ; the other wears a 
 mask." 
 
 " I won't grant that," says Lorraine. "Don Giobbe's 
 a kind-hearted creature, but he's no fool." 
 
 Lady Laure could also have said, *' I won't grant 
 that," in the interests of her friend the abbate. But 
 both her nature, and the force of habit induced her 
 always to retire before a serious argument. And she 
 went back in silence to the letter to her brother. 
 Here was the sympathy of a love without fear. Here 
 she could pour out her whole heart. Here she found 
 the companionship of the warmest fellow-feeling, the 
 comfort of an unstinting allowance, the safety of the 
 tenderest construction. 
 
 Into the life about her had come a loneliness to 
 which she gave no name ; yet its shadows were more 
 real by a great way, than the fancied light shed by 
 her lover's presence. Wider and wider became the 
 unconscious gulf between her gentle common sense, 
 and his strong commonplace. If he had been as 
 stoical as he was insouciant, if she had been as romantic 
 as she was devoted, there would have been less jeopardy 
 in their relations. 
 
 The situation was sad and repressive. Full of the 
 deepest love and the deepest concern for him, day by 
 day she feared more and more to show him her 
 thoughts, for now he laughed and now he frowned at
 
 300 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 them — and one grievous matter was forbidden ground 
 altogether. With her father as well, — all indulgent as 
 he was, all dutiful as she was, there existed the inevit- 
 able reservations that could not fail to arise between 
 her age, her sex, and her character, and the middle- 
 aged, something shallow, something conventional, easy- 
 going man of the world, whose wealthy and unjarred 
 life, for the last ten years, had allowed of the expansion 
 of these characteristics, to the detriment, perhaps, of 
 the bonhomie which was the other side of his qualities. 
 
 Still, there was one heart left to throw herself upon 
 — not, indeed, in a rebound on to some new affection, but 
 in the rational and confiding trust of a brother's love. 
 It would be hard to say what a chasm this love now 
 bridged over in her own heart. It might have been 
 better away ; without it, she might sooner have learnt 
 the truth she had to learn. But as it was, in this at any 
 rate, she for the present was happy, and felt safe. In 
 this at least, she risked no chance of a sneer or a frown 
 at her lover's hands — for this long-lost, long-parted 
 Lucie stood first with Lorraine ; he would not have 
 denied it, — first — before herself, before all others ! 
 
 In the late anxious, wearing days, in the shock of 
 the mischance, of the broken heart, and the mishap 
 of the broken head, — in all this sad and strange and 
 grievous trial. Lady Laure's daily consolation came 
 from her brother. She filled pages to him, and he 
 wrote pages in return — pages of the deepest sympathy. 
 He entered into it all, but chiefly into the tragedy of
 
 MUKDEKOUS MEDITATIONS. 301 
 
 the broken heart; he pictured the quiet heroism of 
 the man's life, culminating in the revulsion of the 
 final catastrophe ; he dwelt upon the mysterious sad- 
 ness, so often the unread forerunner of sudden death ; 
 he saw some strange affinity in her being belated 
 beneath those gloomy rocks ; he marked the hand of 
 Fate that led up to the wild scene in the cabaret. He 
 had not the master-key to the piece, but he read the 
 events backwards, and traced the steps between them. 
 His meaning went deeper than his words ; the words 
 might be hard sayings, — flights, perhaps, of the poet 
 and the mystic, but the loving intention flowed out 
 full and free with them, set her tears falling first, — 
 and dried them afterwards. 
 
 As for the earl, he kept up with himself in these 
 events, which might have discouraged a less equable 
 person. He took great credit to himself for the way 
 he bore it all. " These melancholy matters pressed so 
 much upon him," as he said. " He was the responsible 
 head, of course, but, though personally so implicated 
 in it all, it wouldn't do for him to give way." And he 
 didn't give way. He kept to his fixed habits and 
 fixed hours, and took his constitutional exercise with 
 the regularity of clockwork. " If you don't study your 
 health," as he often remarked, " in these kind of 
 places, what's the use of them at all ? "
 
 302 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Stepping out of his room between eight and nine 
 the morning after this conversation upon the spiritual 
 pastors of the neighbourhood, he was agreeably sur- 
 prised at meeting Lorraine, equipped, like himself, for 
 a morning walk. 
 
 " Bless me ! " he cries. " This is a good sight. I 
 hope you slept better. Feel more like yourself this 
 morning, eh ? " 
 
 " I believe I've been well enough for the last week," 
 says Lorraine ; " only one gets such a confounded habit 
 of laziness." 
 
 " Ah ! quite right ! Habit, you know, is second 
 nature ; but I like your resolution ; you're not going 
 to let it get the better of you." The earl was ever 
 ready with a word of praise for his model young man. 
 
 For the space of a quarter of an hour, the two 
 walked up and down the earl's bit of quarter-deck on 
 the road below the villa. Lorraine was preoccupied. 
 At last he said — 
 
 " Mr. Mildew's goods are not removed yet ? " 
 
 "No, not dispersed at present; poor fellow, poor 
 fellow ! It seems so hard, — all his pet gimcracks tossed 
 very likely into the dung-heap. However, all is as it 
 was, up to now. The arrival of a cousin is daily ex- 
 pected. I suppose the house will be cleared then." 
 
 " Ah ! " says Lorraine, and relapses into his ab- 
 straction. 
 
 Two hours later, Lorraine is sitting beside Lady 
 Laure, playing idly with the tiny implements of her 

 
 MUKDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 303 
 
 worktable ; when, in its turn, he lays his hand on a 
 mother-of-pearl penknife. He opens and shuts it, shuts 
 it and opens it, fidgetting with it heedlessly, till of a 
 sudden he stops still ; he looks at the blade, feels its 
 edge, knits his brows, gets up, prepares for a move. 
 *'Laure," says he, holding the penknife half-way out 
 of his waistcoat pocket, "lend me this little weapon, 
 will you, for half an hour ? " 
 
 " For a whole hour if you like, Claude, but not for 
 altogether. It's ill luck, you know, to give penknives." 
 
 " Cuts love, you think ? " says he. 
 
 "I am not afraid of that," she answers quickly, 
 turning her blue eyes upon him. 
 
 " Why not ? Fear is for self-defence — a valuable 
 quality for the weaker ones. You should always be 
 afraid, my dear Laure." 
 
 " Not of you ? " says she. 
 
 " Yes, of me, before all things ! " 
 
 " Of you before all things ! " she echoes. 
 
 " Yes ; because, one way or another, you have 
 made it possible, you see, for me to do you a peck of 
 harm." 
 
 Lady Laure's blue eyes dilate more and more. 
 
 '• If I were nothing to you, and you nothing to me, 
 whatever we did, we shouldn't upset each other." 
 
 " You shall not have the knife," says she, playfully, 
 taking possession of it; "it's having a bad effect 
 already." 
 
 " Come, give it to me, Laure." There's nothing of
 
 304 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 a jest in his tone, but much the reverse. When he has 
 regained possession of the " small weapon," as he calls 
 it, he looks grimly at it, and says, " If I do a deed of 
 murder with it, I'll wipe off the blood stains, fair lady, 
 before I give it back to you." 
 
 " Ah ! you make me shudder ! " whispers Lady 
 Laure ; and she draws herself together, as the thrill of 
 nervousness runs through her. 
 
 " I forgot your nerves, poor child ! " His voice is 
 kind; his banter has lost some of its pitiless ring 
 when the old grudges are out of sight. " With the 
 loss of blood, perhaps," as he said on a former occasion ; 
 but not altogether. Due, in part at least, to a more 
 gracious cause — to simple gratitude. 
 
 It flattered his feelings as much as soothed them, 
 Lady Laure's persistent seriousness, in her sympathy 
 with his misfortunes. The only side of the matter for 
 her, was still the tragic side. It was as earnest ah affair 
 for her as for him, and this struck upon the right chord, 
 and brought them together in a manner that he could 
 well appreciate. Now, other people — the two doctors 
 who came from the right and the left, the two Maires 
 who had called to express their regrets and to make 
 inquiries from time to time, the servants, and even the 
 earl, as the broken head began to heal — began simul- 
 taneously to show a lurking smile at the corners of the 
 lips when the subject came up. These outward signs 
 of the ludicrous, in their unfeeling minds, made Lorraine 
 wince, and anathematize the whole lot of them in his
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 305 
 
 heart. It tried his temper, too ; and Lady Laure had 
 to bear the brunt of it. Yet when she shivers at his 
 speech, it brings her tender sympathy with his broken 
 head, full in his eye, and he cries with sincerity — 
 
 " I forgot your nerves, poor child ! " and adds 
 consolingly, " Never fear ; my murders are bloodless 
 ones ! " And so he drops the subject of nerves and 
 murders ; — but he pockets the penknife. 
 
 Presently he says he shall take a stroll. The walk 
 may do him good. He feels better, he thinks, for 
 going out before breakfast. He goes into his reasons ; 
 but he does not ask Lady Laure to go with him. 
 
 Lorraine dawdles into the garden and down between 
 the myrtle hedges with the air of an idle man who 
 has nothing to do. At the gate he stops and leans 
 against the post. There is an exquisite view from this 
 point: the fir-crowned cape, and the city-crowned 
 rock, and the craggy ridge that juts, island-like, into 
 the waves. The air is so clear that you can see their 
 tiny crests rippling in the pierced crags. There is 
 the lovely sweep of the shore and the lovely curve 
 of the hills, and right up above is the human eagle's 
 nest, hanging over his head. Lorraine's back is this 
 way. The bare sight of the eagle's nest fills his soul 
 with disgust and hatred. He is not much of a bird's 
 nester; but, if he had his way, he would pull that 
 eyry down over its ears. He stands vaguely scanning 
 the sea, and leaning upon his stick, as Mr. Mildew had 
 done by this selfsame gate but a short moon ago, just 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 PKINCE FOKTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 when his tragedy was brewing. Lorraine looks as if 
 he were brewing mischief, too. His features beli© his 
 air of unconcern ; his brows knit more than ever ; the 
 cruel look comes over his mouth ; he fingers the 
 penknife, and looks furtively over his shoulder back at 
 the house. 
 
 The windows are blank of faces. There is no 
 sound, no motion, only the hum of the bees, the dip 
 of the swallow, the wave of the light breeze in the 
 bushes. 
 
 If you had watched him, you would not doubt but 
 that he meditated sc^me secret thing or other; — nor 
 would it take you by surprise to see him give, once 
 and again, a hurried glance at the house, and then, 
 with a sudden start, pass through the gate, and cut 
 into the orange grove. 
 
 Not long after, Lorraine might have been seen 
 dropping leisurely down the road, with the white 
 house shining full before him. It is poor, crawling 
 work at the best. Lorraine has not played the role 
 of invalid in vain; he realizes all the weakness of 
 returning convalescence. There is no striding step 
 to-day ; he stops from time to time to rest his ex- 
 hausted body. 
 
 " Another month like the last," thinks he, " and I 
 should be as dead as he ; " and he points his stick at 
 the white house, with its never-changing smile. 
 
 Now he stands before it. Upon his face is the 
 expression of an unconquerable aversion ; yet he pushes
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 307 
 
 open the gate, goes through the oleander avenue, up to 
 the door, and pulls the bell with a ring of desperation. 
 
 The door glides open by a few inches, not wide 
 enough to admit the comer, but sufficient to discover 
 a new face within — a respectable man in shabby black, 
 with a crumpled shirt and a sallow face, and who 
 speaks good French. He intimates that he is in 
 charge, and that the Italian servants are gone back to 
 their country. 
 
 Lorraine offers up a sigh of thanksgiving in the 
 intention of the comely Caterina. Amongst the terrors 
 of this visit, her face was one of the foremost. He 
 takes more courage, and gives his card, with the words, 
 " I come from the Villa Grimaldi. Can I go into the 
 parlour ? " 
 
 The card is inspected, turned up and down. To this 
 follows the personal survey, — equally scrutinizing. 
 
 " Monsieur is a friend to the monsieur qui vient de 
 mourir ? " 
 
 Friend ! That means Mr. Mildew's friend. 
 
 " It is all right," says Lorraine, in English, and, 
 brushing past the man, he crosses the little vestibule, 
 goes up the short flight of steps, and lays his hand 
 upon the parlour door ; but he tightens his lips and 
 holds his breath. He is weak; he changes colour, 
 before this closed door. But whatever he has got to 
 do, it must be done, and there's no time for delay. 
 
 Once within the room, he feels stifled. All his 
 sensations in that damp cavern come over him again,
 
 308 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 till the very moisture stands upon his brow. The 
 windows are shut, the jalousies are closed, the blinds 
 are down ; already the mouldy feeling of the un- 
 tenanted chamber, has infected this snug sun parlour. 
 
 Lorraine gropes his way to a window, pushes away 
 the blind, throws it open, dashes back the jalousies, 
 and, leaning his head out, gasps for fresh air. He 
 allows himself little time for recovery. Before a 
 minute has gone past, he is again at the door ; shuts 
 it with a slam in the face of the man in black, who is 
 peering in ; and slides a bolt. He searches round the 
 room, upon the desk, upon the tables, tossing one 
 thing over another; but in vain. His search is not 
 over. He goes to work again, shaking the glass cases 
 at the risk of shattering glass and locks. 
 
 Angry and foiled, he throws himself down upon the 
 nearest chair. But he is quickly up again. With an 
 impatient kick, he sends the encumbrances upon the 
 cushion flying — a coat one way, a book another. The 
 book falls to pieces, back and leaves part company, 
 and the floor is scattered with the loose sheets. It 
 is the black manuscript book ; he has wreaked full 
 vengeance upon it at last! It is a mournful sight; 
 but Lorraine feels no remorse. 
 
 " Now for it," he mutters. 
 
 His hands tremble with eager haste ; he seizes up 
 the leaves, and looks them over and over. He stops, 
 and then, with a vengeful glisten in his eyes, he takes 
 the half-dozen he holds in his hand, and, bringing out
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 309 
 
 Lady Laure's small bright blade, he cuts away the 
 other sheets, which fall fluttering to the ground. 
 
 Lorraine stands with the few jagged pages held 
 out under his eyes. It is done at last, this bloodless 
 murder that sent the shiver through Lady Laure's 
 veins. All through these late chafing, dragging weeks 
 Lorraine has meditated the murderous deed. He holds 
 this deed to be a simple duty : duty to the woman he 
 is to call wife ; duty to himself — yes, quite as much to 
 himself as to anybody else. Other people's eyes may 
 be as clear-sighted as his own were; but that con- 
 tingency is safely provided against ! 
 
 Yet — could dead eyes weep, what tears would not 
 be flowing ! But dry as the desert are Lorraine's eyes, 
 unmoved as the rock, is his heart. Pity ! he would 
 laugh to scorn the notion of pity. The man is dead 
 and buried, — and so let his folly be. 
 
 So let it be ; but still, Lorraine is standing with the 
 corpse he has slain — in his hand, and all about him. 
 
 He hears the handle of the door turned. Heavens ! 
 how to get rid of these dead men's tales ! He glares 
 at the hearth and at the window. JSTo good there. 
 Now the door is thumped imperiously. The time 
 is up ; he crams the leaves he holds into his breast, 
 scrambles up the broken backs and the rest, and forces 
 them under the chair cushion. 
 
 " Entrez ! " he cries ; and, stalking to the door, 
 unbars it, and comes straight upon the sallow face of 
 the man in black.
 
 310 PKINCE FORTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Que faites vous done ? " says the man, dropping 
 all convenances. 
 
 "Bon jour," says Lorraine; and, elbowing his 
 broad shoulders past the sallow face, he is gone. 
 
 He turns sharp up the ravine by the familiar path, 
 and then into the brushwood. He must find some 
 hole, some dark spot, in which to hide his murderous 
 burden. He reaches the euphorbia grove. Peasant 
 voices are singing. He hides in pure fear of his life. 
 What if he were to get a second clawing ! The voices 
 come nearer. They are crossing the grove above him. 
 
 What poor creatures are the strongest of us ! 
 Fear knows how to take us — knows our weak side. 
 With one it is a shadow in the dark ; with another, 
 a giddy precipice ; with another, some creeping insect, 
 some unconquerable antipathy ; and then — we halt, as 
 Lorraine is doing, his face as white as Mr. Mildew's 
 in his bier. 
 
 The peasant voices sound no notes of assault. 
 Mournfully melodious, with a sweet rise and fall, you 
 might weep to hear them ; but not from fear. It was 
 the ronda of " Bela Sabe " that they were singing. 
 
 " Oh ! Sabe, bela Sabe, 
 To my wedding come, I pray." 
 " At your wedding I'll not be ; 
 But the dance I mean to see." 
 " If the dance you join to-night, 
 Come attired all in white." 
 
 In a robe of charming hue, 
 
 The Bela soon is drest ; 
 And if 'tis good the blue, 
 
 For Hope the green is best
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 311 
 
 At the first note of the tambour, 
 
 The Bela joins the ball ; 
 At the next note of the tambour, 
 
 In death they see her fall. 
 
 " Oh ! Sabe, bela Sabe, 
 Do you die by force ? Ah! say ! " 
 " Not by force in death I lie ; 
 'Tis for love of you I die." 
 " If for love of me you die ; 
 For your love, so will I ! " 
 Then out his knife he drew, 
 And his heart he ran it through. 
 
 Before one verse is over, the next is taken up, and 
 again the third comes into the ronda, and again the 
 first begins. It is only an harmonious monotony, 
 infinitely sad and sweet, with " Sabe, bela Sabe " 
 sounding plaintively through it, like the soft tolling 
 of a bell. 
 
 The singers of this invisible band are men and 
 women, youths and young girls, and small children ; 
 they are vine-workers, twenty or thirty of them, 
 coming down from the vine slopes over the hills. 
 They sing as they go. Their voices mingle without 
 method or intention — now two, now four, or more, in 
 unison together; they catch up the song from each 
 other as they pass, and drop it as they will. Singing 
 through the wood, to the tramp of their unseen feet — 
 some here, some there — the effect is magical. 
 
 The tramp, tramp, and the sweet chant are dying 
 away on the wind, which sweeps with a hush through 
 the leaves, and Lorraine, with the colour back in his 
 face, is leaning against the trunk of a tree.
 
 312 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Angels, or devils, or both ! " says he. " Never 
 did diviner sounds fall upon human ears." 
 
 But then Lorraine has a passionate liking for the 
 simple songs of simple singers ; and now he would have 
 civen a round sum for an encore from this invisible 
 troupe on their greenwood stage, provided they kept 
 to the invisible. But whether angels or devils, he was 
 not at all more ready than before, to meet them face 
 to face. 
 
 " I must go back again," says he, half aloud. " I 
 believe I'm a fool ; but all the same, I wouldn't meet 
 the lot for fifty pounds." 
 
 He begins retracing his steps as fast as he can. 
 He chooses where the brushwood is thickest; he 
 tramples through the wild myrtle bushes and rosemaries 
 mercilessly. It is hard work, and he is horribly tired. 
 At last he has the comfort to find himself upon the 
 open road again, with the white house well in the rear. 
 Now he goes leisurely forward, allowing himself time 
 to breathe. But with the next turn his tranquil mind 
 is again upset. He espies the black figure of a man 
 on before ; he takes sight of him ; it settles his 
 suspicions. He mutters to himself — 
 
 " There's that sallow-faced scoundrel on ahead ; I 
 must get out of his way, too. What a den of thieves 
 the place is ! One's dogged right and left." 
 
 So he gives up the road, and drops down to the 
 shore. He is intensely weary; the worry of the 
 morning, and the burning noonday sun, after his role
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 616 
 
 of invalid, have been too much for him. But here is 
 rest at last! Down here, under the sheltering cliff, 
 there is refreshment and retirement, peace and quiet. 
 The sea runs round and about the broken rocks, 
 making the shore into a small, stony archipelago. 
 
 Lorraine picks his way to where the cliff overhangs 
 most, and the water and rocks are deep and broad ; 
 and here, amidst the drowsy lap of the murmuring 
 waves, he stretches himself down, and falls into a 
 doze. 
 
 A half-dream holds him chained. It comes half of 
 fancy, half of reality, as dreams are wont to do. He 
 is down under the sea, with Lady Laure and Mr. 
 Mildew. Everything is smiling and sparkling about 
 him. Mr. Mildew looks as young as Lady Laure ; but 
 this arouses no angry grudge. Stormy hate is changed 
 into the calm of Good Will. Suddenly, the ronda of 
 ^* Bela Sabe " sounds in his ears, but inexpressiby sadder 
 and sweeter. Lady Laure melts into tears, Mr. Mildew 
 melts into air, Lorraine stretches out his hand to hold 
 him, and with the effort he awakes. 
 
 He is sitting upright upon the slab of rock; the 
 earl is calling him from the shore ; and Mr. Mildew, in 
 the shape of the tattered leaves of the black manu- 
 script book, is floating away upon the blue waves, past 
 recall. 
 
 How did these poor fragments of a bleeding heart 
 loose themselves from the stony prison of Lorraine's
 
 314 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 breast ? Perchance some kind angel, passing by, 
 touched with pity, set them free ! 
 
 "Who'd have thought to find you down here 
 amongst the mermaids ? " says the earl, smiling, when 
 Lorraine joins him under the cliff, having managed to 
 bring himself and his senses back into the world of real 
 things. 
 
 "I've been on the look out for you," adds the 
 earl. "There's been a fellow up at the villa, in a 
 black coat ; he's the locum tenens down at Mildew's 
 house. He came, he said, to bring the tall English 
 monsieur to justice ! " Then the earl laughed heartily. 
 " The man is ready to swear that you, this very morn- 
 ing, made a raid upon valuables — amount unknown — 
 under his charge. Of course, I assured him that he 
 was altogether in error ; that he had mistaken you for 
 some one else ; and that, to the best of my belief, you 
 had not been near the house since the day of the 
 unfortunate catastrophe. But it was all to no purpose ; 
 he was as unbelieving as a Jew ! I was obliged to call 
 Burton to get him away, and he went off sacre-ing as 
 only a Frenchman can. The odd part of it was, that 
 he described your face, figure, hair, eyes, as if you had 
 sat to him for your portrait ! " 
 
 Lorraine is flushing all over crimson. The pure 
 guiltiness of his conscience keeps him dumb during
 
 MURDEROUS MEDITATIONS. 315 
 
 the earl's account. If he was to be hung the next 
 moment for it, he couldn't help this confusion of face. 
 
 " Yes, I've been down there to-day," he stammers 
 out. " I wanted to look at a book." 
 
 The earl gives him a glance of immense appro- 
 bation. " Kind of you," he says. " I see how it was ; 
 you wanted to take a last look at the poor fellow's 
 household gods, before they're broken up. My dear 
 Lorraine," cries the earl, "you're the most feeling- 
 hearted man I know." 
 
 Lorraine, once alone, lets his rage burst out. 
 " Murderer and thief ! half killed, and nearly sent to 
 the galleys ! Come, that's quite enough to owe to a 
 musty old villain, that's not so much to me as the 
 dirt under my feet."
 
 S16 PKINCE FORTUNE AXD FRINGE FATAL. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 MEN ANT) ANGELS. 
 
 *' Fair angel, coming from the upper sky. 
 
 Scorn not a lonely mortal's earth-bom song ! 
 Above the clouds, poor heart ! he cannot fly ; 
 
 Only the things of earth to him belong. 
 He calls thy snowy brow the jessamine ; 
 
 He calls thine eyes the fountain's crystal light ; 
 He calls thy smile the sea 'neath moonlight sheen ; 
 
 He calls thy voice the murmur of the night. 
 Poor heart ! he cannot rise to heights with thee ; 
 
 He breaks his wings against the golden bars ; 
 For thou hast learnt the heaven-taught melody, 
 
 Of sun and moon, and of the crowned stars. 
 Fair angel, coming from the upper sky. 
 
 Pity a low-bom mortal's fluttering sigh ! " 
 
 Tuscan BUpetto. 
 
 ^* Laure, my love," says the earl, " do you know if 
 Burton is back with the letters ? " 
 
 *• There he is," says Lady Laure, nodding to the 
 window. 
 
 "* Ah ! that's all right. I am extremely anxious to 
 know how the elections have gone, especially our own, 
 -as you may suppose." 
 
 Whereupon Burton walks into the room with his 
 hands full of all manner of news. The earl puts aside 
 his letters, and sroes at once to the Times. 
 
 \
 
 ATFX AXD ANGELS. 317 
 
 "You cannot estimate, Laiire, the misfortone it 
 would be if we lost it;" and he fixes his eye-glass 
 upon his nose and prepares to read his fate. 
 
 Lady Laure is already engrossed deep in her 
 own correspondent ; but answers dutifully, " Yes, 
 papa." 
 
 Anxiously rummaging the sheets, the earl finds 
 what he wants, and all he wants. He throws the 
 paper down with a triumphant wave. 
 
 "Rejoice with me, my dear! Aboyne is returned 
 with fiying colours." 
 
 " I am so glad for you, papa ; " but the tears stand 
 in Lady Laure's eyes, and her voice fails. 
 
 The earl is too proud of his victory to notice his 
 daughter's emotion. 
 
 "God bless me! What's this?" The eari i& 
 staring in blank amazement at a letter he has just 
 begun to read. His look of triumph is dashed with 
 dismay. " Grod bless me I " he cries again. He pushes 
 his hair back, rubs his eyes and his glasses ; he clearly 
 misdoubts the evidence of his senses. 
 
 At this moment, Lorraine comes quickly into the 
 room, with a black-edged document open in his hand. 
 
 '* He's dead," says he. 
 
 ^ He's thrown it up ! " cries the earL 
 
 •• He's going to America," sobs Lady Laure. 
 
 " Who's dead now ? " asks the earl, querulously, 
 entirely off his balance.
 
 318 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 " Only Sir Loftus Lorraine," answers his nephew 
 and heir, in an indifferent tone. 
 
 Come, — whatever has gone wrong, here is a piece of 
 good news for the earl. It brings him a little round at 
 once. " Bless me ! is it possible ? How every one 
 seems to be dying ! Dead ! Your uncle dead at last ! 
 But could you credit it, Lorraine? — that misguided 
 fellow Aboyne, after gaining his election with the 
 most unqualified success, goes the very next hour and 
 throws it up." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " moans Lady Laure, " what is that to 
 Lucie's going to America ? " 
 
 " America ! " exclaims the earl. " Why, all the 
 world's gone mad ! What in the name of common 
 sense takes him to America ? " 
 
 " He says he can't breathe in Europe ; " and Lady 
 Laure sighs pathetically. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! '* cries Lorraine. " Is he so far 
 gone as that? You never told me his lungs were 
 weak." 
 
 " Poor, unfortunate fellow ! " sighs the earl, in his 
 turn. " If he were only right, none of this imbroglio 
 need have happened." 
 
 "But America can't be the best place for him," 
 says Lorraine. 
 
 " I should think not," jerks out the earl, angrily. 
 
 " The changes of the temperature are tremendous 
 there. I'll go and bring him down here to-morrow; 
 this is the air for him." Lorraine looks in good 
 earnest this time.
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 319 
 
 " Oh, it's not his lungs ; it's not his lungs, Claude," 
 says Lady Laure, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " No," says the earl, with a frown, " it's much worse 
 than that. It's the canker of revolution and red 
 night-caps. It's Lucie's crack-brained republicanism 
 which is at the bottom of all this mischief. If he 
 had not taken up with these destructive principles, he 
 might have come in himself, without contest or ex- 
 pense ; and now, through his sheer folly, we have to 
 contend with Aboyne's idiotic conduct, and all this 
 disappointment — disgrace, I may say ! " he adds, 
 emphatically. 
 
 " That's all, is it ? " says Lorraine, coolly. 
 
 Silence ensues. 
 
 Lorraine drums with his fingers on the nearest table. 
 
 Lady Laure goes back to the study of the red 
 republican's letter. 
 
 The earl sits with his eyes on the floor. But, 
 after all, the cud he chews has sweet as well as bitter 
 fancies. Lucie's red flag, Aboyne's white feather, it 
 was all very bad! But still, there was Lorraine's 
 family escutcheon to throw the scale up again. 
 
 It was no small turn in Fortune's wheel, the title 
 and inheritance which Lorraine this day had come into. 
 
 So the earl lifts his eyes, looks across to the 
 master of Loughmore, and says, in his ordinary cordial 
 voice, " Well, well, we have to do the best we can in a 
 bad business ; there's nothing else for it. Meantime, 
 my dear Lorraine, I have been very remiss in not
 
 o20 PRIXCE FORTUNE AND PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 offering you at once, my sincere congratulations, on 
 your accession to your uncle's noble property.'* 
 
 " Thank you," says Lorraine ; " but I can't say I 
 feel particularly rejoiced at it myself. Sir Loftus 
 would have obliged me much more just now, by 
 continuing to live." 
 
 " Of course, of course, property and position have 
 their duties." Then, as if he had no remarkable 
 interest in the question, the earl goes on to say, "By-the- 
 by, you'll be thinking of Parliament for yourself now." 
 
 "Not if I know myself," says Lorraine, with a 
 decisive smile. "No; I'm no Parliament man, and 
 never shall be. I should neither know how to speak, 
 nor when to be silent. I pity the poor party," he 
 says, laughing, " that catches me." 
 
 The earl subsides again. 
 
 Here is another disappointment. He puckers up 
 his forehead and says, plaintively, " Dear, dear me ! 
 what difficulties we are drifted into, all at once ! Now, 
 who would have thought of all this twelve hours ago ? " 
 
 Let us take a look into the letter that has so upset 
 the Earl of Bellarmine's equable temper, and prosperous 
 programme of county politics. 
 
 "My deak Lord, 
 
 " I fear this letter will not reach you before 
 the English papers of yesterday's date, in which you 

 
 MEJT AND ANGELS. 321 
 
 will learn the success of my election. I wish it were 
 in my power to leave things as they are, and I wish 
 also I could profit by the splendid chance of doing 
 credit to your generous support ; but I have no choice. 
 You have long known where my affections are un- 
 alterably fixed, and you may, therefore, judge of the 
 blow it is to me, this morning, to receive from Lord 
 Lucie the announcement of his sister's engagement to 
 Mr. Lorraine. Lord Lucie's letter leaves no room for 
 doubt, or for hope ; and I feel that for myself at 
 present there is but one course, and that is to quit the 
 country till I can return to it in a calmer state of 
 mind. — Feeling, as I do now, I could neither do justice 
 to you, to myself, or to my constituents. I think 
 nothing of this check to my ambition ; it is little, in- 
 deed, compared to that other check to all my hopes 
 and affections. To you, personally, I know not what 
 to say. I feel I am making a miserable return for 
 more than fatherly friendship. Nor can I make my 
 shortcomings the less by anything 1 can say to- excuse 
 them. All I can hope, as to the political embarrass- 
 ment I am creating, is, that good will come out of the 
 evil; and that you will end by finding a worthier 
 candidate than I should have proved at the best. 
 Farewell, my dear lord. May Heaven bless you and 
 
 yours ! 
 
 " Yours always truly, 
 
 "Arthur Aboyne." 
 No doubt, such a letter from the winning candidate 
 
 VOL. I. -f- Y
 
 1 
 
 322 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 of a contested election, to the party leader in the 
 county, was a crushing discouragement; and, but for 
 the tjmely death of Sir Loftus Lorraine, the effect of 
 it upon the earl might have been serious. With no 
 rebound, and just at the grand climacteric, it might 
 have fallen upon his health, and broken him up quick, 
 much after the fashion of his friend Mildew, which he 
 had lately, so curiously speculated upon. But the earl 
 would have told you that he was born under a luckier 
 star than friend Mildew ; and at the present moment, 
 Lady' Laure's bright certainties might be quoted as a 
 proof of the truth of this presumption. 
 
 Lady Laure also has found some cheer in the midst 
 of her trouble. She looks up with vivacity to her 
 father. 
 
 "It's not so bad as I thought, papa," says she. 
 " Imagine ! Lucie, in the end of his last scraj), says 
 that he is not writing from Paris, but from some place 
 very near here, and that he expects to be here as soon 
 as his letter. Imagine ! " cries Lady Laure again. 
 " How delightful ! I thought, you know, he was going 
 straight off. He says he shall take a passage in some 
 French ship. Will that be safe ? " 
 
 " French ships ! French fiddlesticks ! " grumbles 
 the earl, beginning to fume again. "The rubbish 
 Lucie gets into his head one way or another, and all 
 through his crazy theories, is enough to drive a sane 
 man wild to hear of! And yet the boy is far from a 
 lunatic ; that would be some excuse." 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 MEN AXD ANGELS. 323 
 
 " Though it would scarcely improve the case," says 
 Lorraine, smiling sarcastically. '* However, we'll bless 
 the theory, whatever it may be, that brings him this 
 way. Upon my word, I believe you this time, Laure, 
 that he really is coming ! " 
 
 " Coming — really coming ! " and Lady Laure nods 
 her head with each " coming " in a rapturous way. 
 
 But the earl looks as if he were still settling the 
 affairs of the nation, or some other affairs equally 
 momentous. 
 
 " Did you say he was coming to-day, Laure ? " he 
 asks. 
 
 " He said he should arrive as soon as his letter." 
 
 " Ah ! ahem ! Well, you've got the letter, haven't 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Quite safe," smiles Lady Laure, carrying it to 
 her lips. 
 
 " It strikes me," says the earl, " in that case — I 
 mean, since Lucie comes at once — that I had better start 
 for England to-night. It is of vital importance that 
 I should be on the spot to change, if possible, Aboyne's 
 unreasonable determination. It's no use writing letters 
 about these things. Just see his letter. What good 
 
 has that done ? " The earl's logic is a little at fault ; 
 
 but he must be excused — the circumstances are so 
 trying. " If everything I can say fails, well, then, I 
 must lose not a moment in finding some safe man to 
 put in his place. You see, these things can't be done 
 in a hurry ; and yet there's not an hour to be spared !
 
 324 PKIXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 Just see what a strait we're brought to, and all through 
 the folly — I was going to say of a couple of wrong- 
 headed young men! — for, upon my word, Aboyne is 
 quite as extravagant in his way as Lucie is in his. 
 However, to do Lucie justice, he is turning up just in 
 the nick of time ; for I can leave him here, Laure, to 
 take care of you in my stead, and you can follow me 
 to England by easy stages, under his escort and 
 Lorraine's, — unless indeed, Lorraine thinks he had 
 better start with me and go on to Loughmore." The 
 earl is for settling everybody's business all round. 
 
 "I am in no hurry," says Lorraine, with a little 
 shrug. 
 
 Now, Lady Laure finds a good deal of this beyond 
 her comprehension. "But you forget, papa, that 
 Lucie is going to America in a French ship ; so he 
 won't go back to England." 
 
 " Psha ! my dear," says the earl. " Lucie is coming 
 here to-night or to-morrow; I believe that's the last 
 programme. What's he got to do in America? 
 Who expects him there ? But what he has got to do 
 here is quite another thing. He has got to take care 
 of you, and bring you home to me. Do you under- 
 stand ? What I have arranged is plain to the meanest 
 comprehension. I shall leave a letter for him ; and, 
 as I said before, you can all travel homewards at your 
 leisure. But remember, Laure, if Lucie takes to this 
 place, as he's very likely to do when he's once in it, 
 encourage him in his fancy, — remain here a week or
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 325 
 
 more longer ; and so, God knows ! we may get this last 
 craze — this American lunacy— out of his brain. As 
 for myself, I don't see that I can do better than start 
 this afternoon." 
 
 As the earl said, his arrangement for the whole 
 party, was plain to the meanest comprehension. It 
 wasn't for Lorraine to object ; and yet he did object, 
 once for all, — from the moment the arrangement was 
 made, down to the moment it came to an end. 
 
 Lady Laure, too, looks grave. She has not the 
 gift of overruling people, but she has an intuitive 
 sense of what is wise and best. " Then, pray take 
 Burton, papa. We don't want him. I don't like your 
 travelling alone." She is thinking not only of herself; 
 an indefinite anxiety about her father fills her mind. 
 
 "Without an escort, eh? — I can't be trusted. Is 
 that it, Laure ? " The earl is getting up his spirits. 
 The notion of taking immediate action in his dilemma 
 is so much easier a trial, than sitting down passively 
 to bear it. 
 
 He takes out his watch. " There is not much time, 
 I see; and I have to write to Lucie. I think I 
 had better go and do it at once, and make my pre- 
 parations." 
 
 He rings the bell. " I want you in my room. 
 Burton. I am going to England this afternoon, and 
 you will have to go down to the town and see about 
 a carriage and horses." 
 
 Burton is too well trained to show a shadow of
 
 326 PKIXCE FOKTUNE AND PEINCE FATAL. 
 
 surprise. He opens his eyes a trifle wider, and follows 
 his master in silence. Once shut in together, and out 
 of the hearing of the rest of the world, Burton allows 
 himself to remark, " that, of course, he can be ready in 
 an hour; but that he doesn't see how Mrs. Jenkins 
 can move my lady and herself at such short notice." 
 
 The earl ignores Mrs. Jenkins. " Lady Laure," he 
 says, " remains here for the present. Lord Lucie will 
 arrive in a few hours ; she will then return to England 
 with him and Sir Claude Lorraine." 
 
 Burton's stoicism is quite upset. He opens his 
 eyes at the widest [stretch, and coughs alarmingly. 
 Burton's cough is articulate speech. The earl per- 
 fectly understands its language, and replies at once — 
 
 "Yes, the black-bordered letter you brought just 
 now, announced the death of Sir Loftus Lorraine." 
 
 The earl's travelling preparations appear to Burton 
 interminable, bursting, as he is, with the grand news he 
 has got for Mrs. Jenkins's ear. At last he suggests, 
 " that, if my lord really wishes for horses to-day, con- 
 sidering the difficulties of getting any, that he had 
 better perhaps see about it directly." 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure. Bless me ! Why didn't 
 you say so before? Didn't you understand me that 
 to-day I must start ? You ought to have gone straight 
 down, before you began to put up the things." 
 
 Thus Burton gets his release ; but he does not go 
 straight down — not, at least, down to the town. Before 
 he turns his steps that way, he seeks out Mrs. Jenkins.
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 327 
 
 " We shall have our wedding at last, Mrs. Jenkins," 
 says he, rubbing his hands. 
 
 Mrs. Jenkins bridles up, and smirks with a " None 
 of your nonsense now, Mr. Burton." 
 
 Burton is so swallowed up by the great things in 
 his mind, that he does not remark Mrs. Jenkins's 
 conscious appropriation of these nuptial possibilities. 
 
 " Yes ; we've got our baronet in the family at last. 
 There's nothing more, that I know of, to wait for." 
 He throws out his arm, and with the sepulchral note 
 proper to his office, announces, " Sir Claude Lorraine ! " 
 
 " Lawks ! you don't say so ! " cries Mrs. Jenkins. 
 " And if I didn't dream last night I saw him with a 
 black cat on his head, just as plain as I see you now ! 
 There's his luck ; it crosses my dream to a T." 
 
 Time pressed, however, and Burton was not able to 
 linger over further details. It was a dreadful shock 
 to Mrs. Jenkins to hear that she and my lady were to 
 be left behind, and she solemnly declared that " no 
 good would come of it." xis for her, the Yilla Grimaldi 
 without Mr. Burton, who was to accompany my lord, 
 would be simply unbearable. She is not naturally 
 lachrymose, but she goes about all the time they are 
 getting off, sniffling dreadfully. 
 
 " You have got a bad cold, Mrs. Jenkins," says 
 Mr. Burton. 
 
 " It's not that," says Mrs. Jenkins, " and you knows 
 it isn't, Mr. Burton." 
 
 At four o'clock that afternoon, the earl, after taking
 
 328 PRINCE fortttnt: and pkince fatal. 
 
 an alTectioiiate leare of Lady Lame, and shaking 
 Lorraine warmly by the hand, stepped into a small 
 cabriolet just big enougli to hold two persons^ Burton 
 sat beside him. A ragged \x)j for driTer, and a lean 
 hoise^ went in front. 
 
 ''We shan't set the Thames on fire with oor 
 eqmpagey" laughs the earl ; "but we may mend in ap- 
 pearances as we adTance. We shan't make more than 
 one stage this erening, bat that will be something." 
 
 Lady Laore cries out anxiously, ''Take care of 
 yourself ! Pray — pray take care of yourself! " 
 
 " And take care of yourselres ! " cries the earl, and 
 wares his hand gaily. And so they see the last of 
 him at the Yilla GrimaldL 
 
 Lady Lanre walks into the house. She does not 
 raise her eyes to Lorraine. She sits down, rests her 
 iBce upon her hand ; she is unable to conceal the pain 
 this parting gires her. 
 
 " Don't firet, Laure," says Lorraine, following her 
 into the room. *^ We young people mustn't let your 
 lather cany off all the good spirits, though I swear I 
 beliere he's dcme so. I can't make out my sensations. 
 I feel just like a babe in a wood. Who'd hare thought 
 there was such a substantial security in your fisUher's 
 comely £iee heie? He didn't seem to do much 
 beyond eating, drinking, sleeping, jnst like ourselres ; 
 and yet here we are ! — all abroad without him. I hope 
 to Hearens," says he, with something of a forced laugh, 
 ^ that Lucie will aocm oome to take care of us ! "
 
 IfKS AXD J3GEL& 
 
 ^S9 
 
 
 Be if m change MMT, and 'h^d giiem 
 to be lelievBd of iL 
 
 "^CoMv TfWT," he ^^ify , vi& a 
 -wlHildejiMaT^toawalk? r^gotaijksi 
 It's a kKtnewin't]^ nee we lad <»«£«■
 
 330 PFtlXCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 "Shall I tell Jenkins to bring you your shawl, 
 Laure?" says he, moving away to the door. "You 
 will find me down below there ; " and he points down 
 the myrtle hedges. 
 
 Lady Laure tries to smile, tries to thank him. She 
 says she will go herself, and hurries off. 
 
 Once alone, she finds her best relief in the 
 abundant shower of tears she has been all this while 
 repressing. Now, with none to see, her bursting heart 
 has its vent, and she is comforted. > 
 
 " I'm sure I'm not unhappy ! " she sobs, and then 
 she peers into her mirror and reads the tell-tale story 
 of her tears. " Why should I cry so ? " murmurs she. 
 " My dear father is gone off quite happy again, and 
 dearest Lucie coming directly, too ! " Then she seeks 
 to wash and wipe away the traces of these idle tears. 
 "Claude hates to see me crying; and what will 
 Lucie think? If he thinks I am unhappy, what will 
 he say ? " 
 
 So Lady Laure takes herself to task, and tries all 
 means to efface her fault — cold water, and eau de luce, 
 and the eau cVorange that she made herself — and this 
 brings up a sigh, and half another tear for Mr. Mildew ; 
 and so she w ent along, and it took some time, indeed, 
 — this halting between Grief and Joy. 
 
 Lorraine stands smoking his cigar, leaning against 
 the gate-post — this favourite post of all frequenters of 
 the Villa Grimaldi. He stands with his back to the
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 331 
 
 enchanting sea, and with his face to the house. He 
 must have his eye upon Lady Laure. But Lady 
 Laure tarries ; she is busy throwing stones into Sorrow's 
 well, and trying to pick them out again — the last task 
 much harder than the first one. 
 
 Lorraine is not impatient. He doesn't care whether 
 Lady Laure comes in five minutes or fifty ; he only 
 proposed the walk to give her something to do — to 
 take her out of herself. 
 
 Gradually he falls into a reverie. He looks back 
 upon the last six months of his life. A more useless,, 
 hampering, bothering period of time, he cannot conceive 
 possible to any man, least of all to himself, — who, if his 
 life has not kept clear of uselessness, has made its first 
 acquaintance here, with what it is to be bothered and 
 hampered. Yet, while he chafes so at it, the memory 
 of his life before it — is a blank. What did he do in 
 those old days, when there was no pottering earl, no 
 mouldering Mildew, no mad brutes of peasants, no 
 lovely, adoring Lady Laure ? 
 
 "They've taken away my life," he cries aloud, 
 " and given me nothing for it." 
 
 In the moment of his words, a light touch falls 
 upon his shoulder, and a voice, musical as a flute,, 
 makes him turn with a start. 
 
 " Given nothing for it ! " says the voice. 
 
 It is Lady Laure, and it is not Lady Laure. This 
 blonde head, with its radiance of waving hair; these 
 large, wide, dazzling eyes; this transparent face of
 
 332 PKINOE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 ideal beauty, is Lady Laure's glorified. Lady Laure's 
 double wears a white hat at the back of the head, 
 pepper-and-salt pantaloons, a greenish coat, a greenish 
 neck-tie, and no collar at all to speak of. 
 
 For once, Lorraine is tongue-tied. The wonderful 
 apparition grasps his hand, tosses back his bright hair, 
 and cries, " Claude ! " 
 
 Then Lorraine's faculties come back, and in his turn 
 he cries, " Lucie ! " 
 
 So without more words, full of a great joy, of which 
 the world holds none greater, — hand-in-hand, stand 
 these two friends, who parted boys, and meet as men. 
 Thereupon, speech began to flow freely. What did 
 they say ? Did they know themselves ? What do we 
 all say, when the heart is full, and the soul rejoices, 
 and the head knocks under to both ? 
 
 Linked together, as in old Eton days, they turn 
 down the garden path, between the myrtle hedges — 
 these myrtle hedges that have heard so many heart 
 histories of late, — but they keep silence upon none so 
 buoyant, none so bounteous, as this renewal of the boy 
 Friendship of former days. 
 
 The new-comer says, " Stop, I have not seen you 
 yet." Less tall by half a head, he steps back; his 
 earnest eyes go up and down the bold, broad figure ; 
 his bright, rejoicing glance rests upon the face ; and 
 then he cries, " Why, Claude, what a knight paladin 
 you have grown into ! " 
 
 Then Lorraine laughs, and is himself again, and,
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 333 
 
 throwing his arm round him, still in schoolboy- 
 fashion, lie cries in return, "And what a Phcebus 
 Apollo is my dear old Lucie ! " 
 
 But Lady Laure from her window^ above espies her 
 counterpart — nothing so unlike as this blonde head to 
 Lorraine's raven locks. In a moment she is down, 
 tears and sighs and even their traces are forgotten, 
 as, with quick love, she flies to meet her brother's 
 embrace. 
 
 "My child!" 
 
 " My darling Lucie ! " 
 
 So they greet each other. 
 
 " Yes, Laure," cries Lorraine, with all his heart for 
 once in his words ; " here's Lucie at last come to take 
 care of us ." 
 
 If only we could take these rare and precious 
 moments in our lives, crystallize them, and fix them 
 in an adamantine setting, and wear them as talismans 
 upon our hearts, for future renewal and refreshment 
 in the dark days of distressful doom and disillusion- 
 ment ! — if only we could do this ! 
 
 Now all things sing lo Paean ; now the earl is no 
 longer missed; now Lady Laure's smiles shine out, 
 clear of all shadows; now Lorraine broods no more 
 over his life, past or present; now poor mouldering 
 Mr. Mildew no longer haunts the air; — now no more
 
 334 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 stones are thrown into Sorrow's well ; — for Lucie, like 
 an Angel from the upper world, has brought with him 
 a golden atmosphere, and wrapt them in it. 
 
 So they sit down together. 
 
 " We dine at any hour, Lucie," says Lady Laure. 
 Then she turns, laughing, to Lorraine, ^^ Lucie won't 
 mind that. He never knows whether he has dined or 
 not dined ; we always have to tell him." 
 
 Lorraine looks affectionately across. He seems to 
 be taking the whole measure of this beautiful youth 
 with the radiant hair and eyes. Youth — was beyond 
 all other words, the most appropriate to him ; its very 
 aroma seemed to fill his being, and set a halo upon his 
 brow. 
 
 Lorraine brings his study to an end, with a shake 
 of the head and a smile. " He doesn't look like a 
 cooking animal, now Laure," says he; "nor much of 
 an eating animal ; still less like a self-killing and super- 
 stitious animal, which some one said was the definition 
 of a man." Lorraine looks from the brother to the 
 sister. " He's very like you, Laure — very like. I'll tell 
 you what," says he, smiling ; " since he's so deficient 
 
 as a man, he must be an angel ! A pair of them ! " 
 
 adds Lorraine, gallantly, nodding at Lady Laure. 
 
 " Do you believe in angels ? " asks Lucie, with his 
 earnest look.
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 335 
 
 " If they're like you, Lucie, I should be disposed 
 to do so," says Lorraine. 
 
 Lucie shakes his head. "If they would come 
 quickly," says he, " I would accept them." 
 
 Then Lady Laure has something to say. " But you 
 believe in angels, Lucie. You call me your angel so 
 often." 
 
 " I use it adjectively — that which is, for that which 
 might be," says he, looking at her tenderly. "Like 
 some other things, they are over-weighted for crazy 
 brains. If I believed in them, I must go seeking them ; 
 man could not satisfy my desires. So it is with it all. 
 — Who could tarry here, if he believed something 
 better was beyond it ? " 
 
 As for Lorraine, he takes the world easily — past, 
 present, and to come ; and he lets the words pass. He 
 might have given one of his rallying replies, but there 
 was something in the tone that went with them that 
 stopt him. Still, he rallies Lucie on something else. 
 
 " Give us at least a proof that you are an eating 
 animal, Lucie. As your father says, ' What's the use 
 of this air, if it does not give you an appetite ? ' " 
 
 Lucie smiles, and drinks off a glass of Asti spumante. 
 " Is this nectar ? " says he. 
 
 "Very near to it," answers Lorraine. "It was 
 generous of the earl to leave it behind for us. He fell 
 in love with it at the place where he picked me up, 
 and brought us both away together. Two good finds," 
 says he, with a lively nod. " When the wine is first-
 
 336 PPJNCE FOETUNE AXD PKINCE FATAL. 
 
 rate, — which, by-the-by, is rarely — it is the most perfect 
 of all human drinks." 
 
 Lucie pours out another glass, and drinks it slowly. 
 " Are you sure," says he, " that it is not superhuman ? 
 Its golden pallor betrays it." And he takes the glass, 
 and looks at it with serious eyes between the light. 
 
 " Come," laughs Lorraine ; " after your rejection of 
 the angels, this superhuman Asti seems an unnecessary 
 provision for the immortals." 
 
 " Why, then ! " — cries Lucie, " must not the mes- 
 sengers of the Gods be fed ? AVill you not nourish the 
 workers of the winds and the sunbeams, of the waves 
 and the storms? — Ariel and Puck, Elf and Dis, 
 Damon and Deva, Valkyria and the heavenly Yazatas, 
 Ribhus and Demiarge, and the seven immortal Abdals." 
 
 " But you don't profess to believe in them ? " cries 
 Lorraine, in return, infinitely amused. 
 
 The serious eyes, dazzling still, yet sad, — shift from 
 the glass of Asti to Lorraine's face. " Who knows ? I 
 don't. Do you ? " 
 
 Lorraine's handsome face, with its undoubted prose, 
 gives back a look of wonder. This long-lost Lucie 
 promises to become a fantastic mystery ; so beautiful, 
 so bizarre, so earnest, so boyish ! Strange that it 
 shouldn't tax Lorraine's short patience ; but it doesn't. 
 
 Lady Laure, having thereafter the perfection of
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 337 
 
 things in her mind, smiles and says, "It would be 
 perfect if you had not missed our dear father." 
 
 " But I hav'n't missed him, my child ; I have seen 
 him. We met on the way ; but to stop was impossible. 
 I was going down ; he was going up. On his side a 
 wall that touched the sky; on my side a wall that 
 touched the sea ; the path narrow as the road to 
 Heaven. What would you have ? — each of us with 
 a Fate behind us! All the chance we had was a 
 ' Halloa ! ' and a * How are you ? ' " 
 
 "Filial and paternal," remarks Lorraine. "But I 
 can tell you, Lucie, you missed a moral lecture." 
 
 "Say political," answers Lucie, with a faint smile 
 and a sigh. 
 
 " Papa was to have written a letter to you, but he 
 went off so suddenly ; he hadn't time." 
 
 " Well, I would have read it. I always read his 
 letters, my dear Laure. I don't set you an evil 
 example, child. I'm not undutiful ; but yet such 
 letters as they are, — such sentiments as he has ; it is 
 enough to draw tears of blood, to see a good man so 
 sinning against himself — and his fellow-man ! " 
 
 Lucie stops. Then a bright laugh lights up the 
 beautiful face, and the tone of the voice changes into 
 indescribable gajety. " But for all that, he looks as if 
 he had a good conscience. The dear old Pater has 
 grown fat and jolly here." 
 
 " I sent Burton home with him," says Lady Laure, 
 VOL. I. z
 
 oJ8 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 with a responsible air. " I couldn't have him travel 
 alone; so now we have got only a little French maid 
 and Jenkins and a peasant girl." 
 
 -' You forget the hero of the umbrella," says 
 Lorraine. 
 
 " But he is not indoors. We have but three really," 
 says Lady Laure, reckoning up her household with the 
 gravity of a matron. " You won't mind Burton's being 
 away, Lucie, will you ? " 
 
 " What's Burton to me, or I to Burton ? " and 
 Lucie shows his white teeth. " To be sure, I miss the 
 solemn * I hope I see your lordship well.' " 
 
 " That's just the man," cries Lorraine. 
 
 " Lucie can imitate every one," says Lady Laure. 
 
 Lorraine looks up. " It lies in the mouth," 
 says he. 
 
 Lorraine was right. This mouth can convey as 
 much unuttered as uttered thought ; can take all 
 expj:essions. Its full, flexible curve, is a marvel of 
 beauty, and feeling. 
 
 Before the sun sinks they set out to wander to- 
 gether by the shore, and through the terraced groves 
 in the rising breeze. But Lucie, who will see all at 
 once, is not content ; but must mount the hills to catch 
 the double chain of purple summits glittering and gilt ; 
 to behold the fiery sun sink into a flood of gorgeous 
 light ; to feast his eyes upon the luminous sea, the line 
 of the glowing shores ; to look down upon the silvery 
 
 ^
 
 MEX AND ANGELS. \ 339 
 
 masses of the olives, the pine-clad cape, and all the 
 rest. 
 
 Becalmed with pleasure, he throws himself down 
 on a bed of sweet mint and thyme, while the great 
 yellow grasshoppers bound to right and left of him ; 
 — and falls into a rapturous silence. 
 
 In vain Lorraine points to the drowning sun and 
 cries, " Keturn." 
 
 Lucie is only able to remain. 
 
 " Why — why not call me," he cries, " to this 
 paradise before?" There is a pleading pathos in his 
 upturned eyes. " Why keep it all to yourselves ? " 
 
 "Why didn't you come when you were called?" 
 says Lorraine, in his plain prose, with a laugh. 
 
 Then Lady Laure begins to tell, in softer tones, 
 of how much and how long she had been entreating 
 him ; of all she had written upon the charms of this 
 paradise. 
 
 " You know, Lucie," she says, " you had my letters, 
 for you answered every one of them." 
 
 "Words, words," murmurs Lucie. "How can words 
 paint such a world as this?" 
 
 Now a party of peasants, with their mules and 
 burdens, come past. They are returning for the 
 morrow's /es^a from their labours across the mountains ; 
 the mules are laden, as usual, with the wine-barrels 
 and great water-gourds, and bundles of vine cuttings, 
 and with tools for work. The men walk light and
 
 340 PEINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 free, the women follow after, loaded ; they go siDging 
 as they tramp by. It is the very chorus of the 
 euphorbia grove, and the selfsame ronda. In their own 
 tongue it is far more fascinating. Words and air 
 mingle into a most melodious whole. It is the long 
 " a " which bears the voices over valley and hill, waking 
 many echoes as the strains sweep slowly over them. 
 
 "Oh! Sabe, bela Sabe, 
 Vinvio a ra noassa." 
 " A e noasse non vago pa ; 
 Anerai a ra dansa." 
 " Se a ra dansa vo vene, 
 Viestevo tota in bianca.** 
 
 Ra bela s'en va viesti, 
 
 D'una coio ciarmanta 
 Se ro blu va ben, 
 
 O verd ha ra speranza. 
 A o primo cou de tambour, 
 
 A bela intra in dansa ; 
 A o segond cou de tambour 
 
 A bela tomba moarta. 
 
 M 
 
 " Oh ! Sabe, bela Sabe, 
 Voure mori per foarza ? " 
 " Per foarza non moaro pa ; 
 Moaro pe r'amo voastra ! " 
 " Se per a mia vo more ; 
 Mi moaro per a voastra ! " 
 Se ranca o sen cote, 
 E s'o pianta ent' a coasta. 
 
 Lucie is ready to move now. He goes first, keeping 
 up with the peasants and murmuring, " Sabe, bela 
 Sabe ! Sabe, bela Sabe ! " 
 
 vD
 
 mmm 
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 341 
 
 At the brink of the descent the men turn off to the 
 shorter cut down by the ravine. 
 
 "This is our way," says Lady Laure, taking his 
 hand gently. 
 
 Lucie looks longingly after the peasants ; — now 
 their voices go, now they come back again, now they 
 are lost behind the woods. 
 
 " What a life ! what a life ! " cries Lucie, " for 
 these children of toil. They live like the lilies of the 
 field." 
 
 " But they don't smell quite so sweetly," says 
 Lorraine. 
 
 Lucie turns to him with quick reproach. "Is 
 this their fault ? Is it even their misfortune ? The 
 million masses of mankind must be dirty. To be 
 clean is to have money, to have teaching, to have a 
 civilization. Can dirt be a reproach for those who 
 have none of these ? Can dirt shorten life ? Can it 
 lessen happiness ? Who has said ' Yes ' to this, and 
 proved it ? Disease and corruption : — who suffers most 
 from these ? — the savage in his wilds, or the citizen of 
 a civilized existence ? Nature answers for our coming 
 and our going; men supply the connecting links of 
 misery and suffering. Look at those children of 
 Nature ; you hold your breath as they pass by. Listen 
 to their joy-notes; behold their Eternal Childhood; 
 compare them with yourself. Which is the happier ?
 
 342 PRINCE FORTUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 which the freer ? As this air, as these waves are free 
 and bounding, they are free, their hearts are light. 
 Their Charter is the sun, their bulwarks are these hills, 
 tlieir store the fruitful earth. Happy hearts ! their 
 li ves are songs and sunshine ; they can defy the 
 tyrant's power ! " 
 
 Lorraine, with a half-unconscious action, lifts his 
 hand to the back of his head. "For my part," says 
 he, " I have not fallen in love with them ! " 
 
 " The beauty of their lives belongs to themselves," 
 cries Lucie. " Ours is the defect if we cannot see it. 
 Could we put ourselves into their coarse garments ; 
 could we be unclean, as they are unclean ; gay, as they 
 are gay ; could we feel as they feel ; could we realize 
 all good and all evil, whether our own or another's ; — 
 tlie false idols of the world would fall before the 
 universal sympathy with Truth. First would die 
 Priestcraft, and then Kingcraft; and after these, all 
 the other crafty things that torture poor Humanity ! " 
 
 Lorraine looks at his friend's radiant eyes, fitter 
 exponents for the love he feels — than the hate he 
 dreams of, and says, — "Grant the existence of the 
 angels, and people your paradise with them, and then 
 your way of arranging it all would do very well." 
 
 " I will people it with men," cries Lucie — " men, 
 moved by universal sympathy and love." 
 
 " So let it be," answers Lorraine ; " only I bargain 
 for the word * universal.' Don't leave that out ! If 
 
 - — y^
 
 ^s 
 
 MEN AND ANGELS. 31^ 
 
 I sympathize with the tiller of the ^oil, let him sym- 
 pathize with me." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighs Lucie, " can the worm feel for the 
 foot that crushes it ? " 
 
 Lorraine begins to laugh. " But what if I don't 
 crush the worm, you see ? I hate chains and cords as 
 much as you do, for honest folk. I have only a 
 partiality for a good set of laws." 
 
 ** And where will you find them ? " asks Lucie. 
 " Where is the Code that secures to all men their 
 rights — to all men their deserts ? " 
 
 • In your Paradise, peopled by my Angels," laughs 
 Lorraine. 
 
 Lucie does not heed ; he walks on, murmuring with 
 a sigh, " Nowhere ; nowhere ! " 
 
 They are still ui>on the hills ; earthy sea, and sky are 
 all aglow. Lucie is on ahead — he has gone back to 
 " Bela 8ab^," and its bewildering melody ; when, of a 
 >adden, he halts, with a cry, and a start, that bring 
 I .ady Laure and Lorraine to a halt as well. 
 
 ''Where is it?" he cries. "Where is it jrone ? 
 where is the sun ? " 
 
 Where, indeed, was the Fire-God and his spreading 
 rays ? Echo miglit have taken up Lucie's ** Nowhere ! " 
 
 In the full presence of tlie glorious pageant of th«* 
 sunset, night, string in the power of its intense gloom, 
 had come up and extinguished day. The |)early sky 
 was a pall ; the golden earth was wrapt in Siiblo ; the
 
 344 PKINCE FOETUNE AND PRINCE FATAL. 
 
 crimson sea lay dark in shadow ; a touch as of death 
 chilled the warm air. 
 
 " Fled ! fled ! " moans Lucie, with a shiver. " Here 
 is the dark wilderness again ! " 
 
 "Here we are upon the hills, after the sun's 
 down ! " says Lorraine. " Button up your coat, Lucie ; 
 if you don't catch one of their fevers it won't be 
 our fault." 
 
 END OF VOL. L 
 
 Gi 
 
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 LOKDON : PRINTED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AND SOXS, LIMITED, 
 STAMFOSD STREET AND CHAKING CKOSS. 
 
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