miraammm' 

 
 ai E> RARY 
 
 OF THL 
 U N IVE.RSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 F57SP 
 
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 \ 
 
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 PUPPETS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 PUPPETS 
 
 % Romance 
 
 BY 
 
 PERCY FITZGERALD 
 
 AUTHOR OK " BELLA DONNA," " NEVKK rX)RUOTTEN. 
 
 " See how the merry puppets dance ! 
 You think it's all their little will ; 
 But though they frisk, and though they prance, 
 They are but merry puppets still." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES.— NOh. I 
 
 LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL 
 
 Limited 
 
 1884 
 
 \_All RighU reserved.^
 
 CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
 
 92.3 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 X 
 CO 
 
 < 
 
 2 
 
 to 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAOK 
 
 MR, BENBOW'S THOUGHTS IN DIPCHBSTER CHURCH ... 1 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 II. 
 
 ' THE 
 o 
 
 BENBOW 
 
 BROTHERS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 III. 
 
 < LUCY WINTER 
 
 
 ... 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 .^THE 
 
 SON 
 
 
 ... 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 V. 
 
 I^HE 
 
 EVE OF 
 
 THE 
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 
 V3 
 
 (g CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ^THE WEDDING 
 
 24 
 
 30 
 
 46 
 
 57
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEll VII. 
 
 I'ACIK 
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCER BENBOW ... ... ... 77 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 REHABILITATED ... ... ... ... 88 
 
 CHAPTEll 1. 
 DirCHESTER ... 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DIPCHESTER THEATRE ... 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BOUQUET 
 
 9U 
 
 116 
 
 142 
 
 153 
 
 163 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN mi. IJliNT.OW's STUDY ... ■•• ■•• ^'^^^
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 VU 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A LOVER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 182 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 lA'DIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS 
 
 191 
 
 LOVE 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 206 
 
 RIVALS 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 219 
 
 ACCEPTED ! 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 224 
 
 REJECTED 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 237 
 
 DISAPPOINTED 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 244 
 
 A HEROINE 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 250 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA 
 
 2G3
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING ... ... ... ... 277 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE LUNCH ... ... ... ... ... 291 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A HOLIDAY ... ... ... ... 3Qg
 
 PUPPETS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 MR. BENBOW'S THOUGHTS IN DIPCHESTER CHURCH. 
 
 As a ray of the morning's sunlight fell aslant 
 on the family pew one brilliant Sunday morn- 
 ing in Dipchester church, it lit up the face — a 
 rather notable one — of Mr. Spencer Pelham 
 Benbow, the chief personage in the parish. That 
 sunlight seemed of a complimentary sort, and 
 imparted a genial air of festival to the service 
 going on in the old church. For beside him sat, 
 as was well known to every member of the 
 congregation, an unassuming-looking gentleman, 
 of Bank-director-like aspect ; and next him an 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 PUPPETS. 
 
 elegantly-dressed, cold-looking lady, his daughter. 
 Behind, in the roomy pew, which was like the 
 cabin of a brig, and had a stove, were " super- 
 numeraries" — those undistinQ[uished rank and 
 file of visitors to a country house. The service 
 seemed to be conducted with extra reverence and 
 devotion, and every face in the congregation was 
 periodically turned to the pew with an ULiusual 
 awe. Tt was well known that these unobtrusive 
 strangers were no other than the Duke of Banjff- 
 shire and his daughter, the Lady Eosa, now 
 on a visit at Benbow Towers. " A real live 
 Duke," said the simple rustics to each other : 
 such a visitation was not remembered within 
 the memory of man. 
 
 It might be speculated, in what place would 
 the ancestral trophies and associations of a 
 family, their friends, neighbours, and general 
 position, be best and most conveniently brought 
 together ? Not at the Heralds' College, nor in 
 the Muniment Room, or even in the family pic- 
 ture-gallery : but perhaps in the village church, 
 of a Sunday — so old, and whitened, with its
 
 THOUGHTS IN DIPCHESTER CHURCH. '6 
 
 bottle-green diamond panes all bent and wavy. 
 There, with a whispering sexton or pew- opener 
 at his ear, the careless stranger, dropping in for 
 a few moments, would have the living figures 
 themselves before him, as well as the records 
 of the dead upon the walls ; the neighbours 
 grouped round, and the whole parish in force. 
 
 It is thus that one would best know Mr. Ben- 
 bow of Benbow Towers. There he is, sitting in 
 his pew, thinking of his illustrious companion the 
 Duke, and of his daughter the Lady Eosa, rather 
 than of the words of the monotonous preacher. 
 
 Dipchester church, in which his busy mind 
 muses and travels away swiftly to London — to 
 ministers' cabinets, to the future, to the past — is 
 too familiar to disturb him now. Yet it is often 
 that an accident will settle the thoughts on an 
 object that has been before the eyes, and never 
 seriously noticed before. Over his head was 
 a " fine mural tablet," with a sad, bewailing 
 inscription, to the memory of one Edmund 
 Spencer Benbow, Esq., who must have died a 
 saint, from the glowing terms of his inscription 
 
 B 2
 
 4 PUPPETS. 
 
 — the present Mr. Benbow's father. Near him 
 a sculptured urn, and unanimated bust, with 
 a broken sword and helmet. Underneath an 
 inscription, also of the most extravagantly-com- 
 plimentary sort, to " Colonel Edward Benbow," 
 son of the above, and the other's eldest son, to 
 whom had succeeded the present Mr. Benbow, 
 the present incumbent of the pew. But there 
 was a yet more magnificent tomb, with mosaics 
 and carvings : 
 
 <Sarrei) to the JEemcrg 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWD. HENGIST BENBOW, 
 
 ONLY SON AND HEIR 
 OF 
 
 colo:n'el edwaed be^-bow. 
 
 HE MET HIS DEATH BY DROWNING 
 
 IN BENBOW LOCH, 
 
 AT THE EARLY AGE OF TEN YEAHS. 
 
 Ehcu ereptus etflebilis. 
 
 In the congregation there were plenty who 
 knew the history of the Benbows well, and 
 which a glance at the little boy's tomb often 
 recalled. There was the good-natured-looking
 
 THOUGHTS IN DIPCHESTER CHUECH. 5 
 
 Major Hallam, and his " soncy " plump wife — he 
 was adjutant of the district militia; and the excel- 
 lent Mrs. Winter — wife of Dr. Winter, a worthy 
 clergyman — and mother of that before-named 
 Mrs. Hallam. She often told the story some- 
 what garrulously. The incidents occurred ex- 
 actly at the time of Captain Hallam's marriage 
 with her daughter, this leading naturally enough 
 to it. She always added at the close : " So you 
 see what a wonderful man Spencer Benbow is, 
 to have lived down so much!^ 
 
 Jt would now be easy to see w^hat led Mr. 
 Benbow's thoughts, as he sat in his family pe\^, 
 to ' the monument of the little boy. That dead 
 boy, but for the drowning, would no doubt have 
 been sitting where he, Mr. Benbow, sat. He 
 would have found himself that day in some 
 dismal suburban church in London, with his 
 wife and children, thinking of the expenses for 
 the coming week. 
 
 But while the wheezins^ oro^an thrums the 
 psalm, and the preacher preaches his best, and 
 the long service trails on, we shall also look
 
 PUPPETS. 
 
 back a few years, and call up those old images. 
 It will not take long, and it will then be seen 
 how he came to be seated — and unexpectedly — 
 in the Benbow pew, and entertaining a Duke 
 and his daughter on that memorable Sunday.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE BENBOW BROTHERS. 
 
 The Benbows were not an old family, though 
 they had, of course, pedigree, arms, &c., exactly 
 as though they had been old. The truth was, 
 Mr. Benbow's grandfather had been in trade, had 
 made a vast fortune, and had purchased BenboAv 
 Towers, " taking over " all its entire stock, tradi- 
 tions, pictures, and housekeeper's stories, and thus 
 kept up the continuity of " the thing." In a 
 couple of generations everything settled down, 
 and, as the Americans would put it, you can 
 " run the old family business " as effectively as 
 though you had been there for centuries. 
 
 Nearly thirty years before, Mr. Benbow's 
 father was living in great state and power — for 
 he was regularlv member of Parliament, almost
 
 8 PQPPETS. 
 
 as of right, — and exercised a haughty dominion 
 in the district. 
 
 The eldest son was the Colonel Edward of the 
 monument ; while the second brother was the 
 present Spencer Pelham. He was a youth wise 
 beyond his years, thoughtful, full of generous im- 
 pulses — cliecked, however, by a certain good sense 
 and prudence which made him look a little coldly 
 on the worldly schemes of his parents. For this, 
 or some other strange reason, the latter disliked 
 their son. He was treated from his infancy 
 with a cold harshness and severity. The eldest 
 was plain in face and person, awkward and 
 retiring in his ways and habits. He did not get 
 on with strangers, while his brother had a ready 
 art of making his way in the world, and forming 
 acquaintances and making friends. 
 
 This was the old, natural Spencer Benbow, 
 altogether different from the Spencer Benbow 
 we see on this Sunday morning seated in the 
 church. And he would doubtless have remained 
 as he w^as in those early times, — amiable, 
 thoughtful concerning others, eager to advance
 
 THE BEN BOW BBOTHERS. y 
 
 his family rather than himself — but for a 
 strange, fatal incident, which, like a Fate, over- 
 took him without any fault of his own, and 
 which he could not vanquish. 
 
 In this fashion both grew up. When it came 
 
 to be determined what course in life each was 
 
 to take, the eldest was put into the Guards, 
 
 equipped with abundance of cash, and every 
 
 advantage that could set him off, while his 
 
 father resolved to use every means to arrange 
 
 some grand and influential " match " for him — 
 
 odd word, by the way, which may have been 
 
 adopted from the phraseology of an horse-dealep, 
 
 who looks out for a fellow to the handsome 
 
 animal that is to draw his client's carriage. Nor 
 
 was it creditable to the paternal feelings that 
 
 this eagerness to settle his eldest in life, was in 
 
 part prompted by a wish to hinder all possible 
 
 chances of his second son succeeding to the 
 
 estates. For this youth, for his thoughtfulness 
 
 and calm deliberative characteristics, he had, 
 
 strange to say, conceived a sort of dislike. One 
 
 reason may have been that he felt, that with
 
 1 PUPPETS. 
 
 this stock of good sense, the son was likely to 
 prove altogether independent of him, and had 
 already indeed shown, on most occasions, that 
 he was rio;ht when his father had been wronor. 
 This led to a distrust and suspicion, and above 
 all, to a curious forecast and instinct, that one 
 day the " Town attorney," as he sometimes called 
 him, might after all succeed to his estates. This 
 was being perpetually whispered to him, so the 
 next stage was a suspicion that his second son 
 had the same idea in his head, and was calmly 
 waiting till his time. In the aged this un- 
 reasonable suspicion takes little to grow into 
 a something positive and certain : it is akin to 
 the idea that your heir is impatient to succeed, 
 and is interfering before he is entitled to do so. 
 
 Old Mr. Benbow's "right-hand man," as it 
 is called, had been for many years one James 
 Gordon — a smooth, clever man, devoted to the 
 family and its interest, having been brought up 
 on the estate. He was agent, administrator, 
 and general director ; and lived with his wife and 
 young family in a house near the castle, specially
 
 THE BENBOW BROTHERS. 11 
 
 built for him by his patron. He too shared his 
 employer s dislike or distrust of the second son, 
 and not without reason, owing to a rash and 
 foolish excess of zeal on the part of the latter. 
 One winter, when Mr. Benbow was complaining 
 of the falling off in some sales, or profits, his son, 
 who was in the room, said abruptly : 
 
 " I think, father, you should know something 
 that I have discovered by a mere accident." 
 
 " Now for something clever," said his father 
 sarcastically ; " what it is to have a wise son ! 
 Well, out with it ! " 
 
 " It's my duty, father, to tell you I hav^ 
 found that Gordon speculates, and has lost a 
 good deal lately." 
 
 "Well?" said his father coldly; *'what is 
 that to you ? " 
 
 ** Oh, nothing ; save for what it is to you." 
 
 " And what is it to me, pray ? " 
 
 *' That is according as you look at it. I make 
 no charge, but cannot shut my eyes to it." 
 
 " Make no charge ! " said Mr. Benbow. *^ That's 
 a sneaking way in which to take away an old
 
 12 PUPPETS. , 
 
 servant's character. I shall tell him of this 
 caluDiDy.'' 
 
 Mr. Gordon was accordingly told, and instantly 
 beo;o'ed that his accounts mio-ht be investio:ated. 
 They were found correct to a shilling. Young 
 Benbow, however, refused to apologize, and this 
 injured Mr. Gordon. But he said generously that 
 he knew Mr. Benbow 's strang:e conduct had been 
 dictated by the best of motives. 
 
 Nor was this young fellow, not long after, how- 
 ever, without his chapter of romance. Hard- 
 by the Benbows there lived Dr. Winter and his 
 family. Their house was in the green lanes of 
 a warm and sheltered green country just outside 
 Dipchester; it stood alone, as if it were in a 
 vast demesne of its own, and yet it was only 
 surrounded by a small meadow or two. The 
 road that led to it was a by-road. The house 
 was old and yet new — burly and portly, full and 
 contented, like an old-fashioned, well-to-do gen- 
 tleman, wJio yet went with the times, and wore 
 as much of the modern dress as would fit him. 
 The red of the bricks was ripe and genial. As
 
 THE BENBOW BROTHERS. 13 
 
 gig or coach drove by on the high road, the 
 driver or passengers got a peep of crimson that 
 warmed and comforted them. The windows 
 were bright, and set off with fresh clean paint, 
 and over the old roof rose a little cupola, fresh 
 and trim, though about as antique as an old 
 cocked-hat. Between the road and the house 
 was a tiny lawn, with cheerful beds of scarlet 
 geraniums flowering in huge hillocks, and a bit 
 of balustrade that gave a hint of terrace. Such 
 was Arbour-hill — as seen from the top of the 
 passing coach, pronounced " an uncommon snug 
 place" by the outsides, and where Dr. Winter, 
 who farmed in a "jolly" way, and Mrs. Winter, 
 and Miss Lucy Winter, the jewel of the jewel- 
 case, lived all the year round. 
 
 Inside, it was a miracle of comfort and bright- 
 ness, airy to a degree, with the old-fashioned 
 rooms, and the quaint twist of the stairs, but 
 with none of that old-fashionedness which brino^s 
 dampness and strange unseen burrows and decay, 
 and drifts up to a sensitive visitor sudden and 
 unpleasant gales. And there were also alterations
 
 14 PUPPETS. 
 
 and additions, and the rather straitened dining- 
 room had been expanded into a handsome modern 
 room. It was the most comfortable and com- 
 pact of places. They said to Winter, " How 
 did you light on this place ? Where did you 
 hear of it ? What would you take for the plant 
 and good- will now, lock, stock, and barrel ? " 
 At which proposal Lucy Winter cried out in 
 piteous protest, " Oh, papa ! " 
 
 With the exception of a little girl only five 
 or six years old, this Lucy Winter was the only 
 child, a gay, handsome, impetuous girl of seven- 
 teen, all flash and impulse. Some one calls her 
 from the hall as she is heard carolling above, and 
 down she '^swings" the little twisted stair, with 
 a sort of spring, " hand-over-hand," as though 
 she were a sailor coming down to the deck. It 
 is a picture to see her as she stands with a little 
 tinge of colour in her cheeks, pushing back her 
 tossed hair, of which she had abundance of a 
 fine honest auburn, perhaps a little rough too ; 
 and with a delightful smile of happy interroga- 
 tion, says, " What is it, papa ? "
 
 THE BENBOW BEOTHERS. 15 
 
 This young girl had soon attracted the second 
 son, and it was well known in the parish that 
 the grave, thoughtful second son was deeply in 
 love with Lucy Winter. He was not very 
 demonstrative, but he appeared to have made it 
 one of the settled purposes of his life that when 
 he had made a fortune, and opened that great 
 oyster, the world, he would return and claim her. 
 Lucy herself seemed to accept this arrangement, 
 as she really liked and " esteemed " — dangerous 
 uncertain word in love's vocabulary — her admirer. 
 All her family thought it an '' excellent thing " 
 for her to be allied to so good and sensible and 
 amiable a youth. But who would have given 
 that " Blue Book of a man," as some one styled 
 him, credit for having quite a tender corner in 
 his heart ! But this, it must be recollected, was 
 the young Spencer Benbow of the old early days, 
 not the Benbow of the church of the Sunday 
 morning, who was without heart or love, or 
 romance of any kind. 
 
 Mr. Benbow looked scornfully on this attach- 
 ment, and said it was exactly what he would
 
 16 PUPPETS. 
 
 have expected. His second son would never 
 raise the family. A beggar he would be, and 
 another besforar he had found, and there w^ould 
 be more beo^orars to follow. He " washed his 
 
 OO 
 
 hands of the whole business " — a favourite hypo- 
 critical form by which the selfish convey that 
 they had hitherto been soiling their fingers in 
 the cause of the person thus renounced. It was 
 noted that this sincere, honourable, manly attach- 
 ment had a remarkable influence on our second 
 son, who became more thoughtful and gracious. 
 It should be mentioned, however, that he had 
 " never told his love," though there had been 
 no " preying on himself" in the shape of conceal- 
 ment, nothing that could suggest the " worm 
 i'the bud." 
 
 Suddenly there appeared in the neighbourhood 
 a certain Captain Hallam. A pleasant, ofl'-hand, 
 agreeable soldier, without cleverness or brilliancy 
 but w^ith a full stock of good-nature and good- 
 humour, best and most " workable " of all the 
 virtues. When we say that this officer, grown 
 stouter and more good-humoured-looking, was
 
 THE BENBOW BROTHERS. 17 
 
 seated in the church that morning, beside 
 Lucy Winter, the train of intervening incidents 
 may be guessed. This was the first dislocation 
 in the character of Spencer Benbow. He had 
 will and power sufficient to force his life to 
 be as before, as one will force a key to turn 
 in the obstinate wards of a lock, but at the 
 cost of violent ben dings and wrenchings. 
 
 No one knew or guessed how much that 
 effort cost him. But he appeared to accept it 
 all cheerfully. As for Lucy, she had given her 
 affections for the first time, and in such a case 
 neither logic nor pity nor feeling is thought 
 of. 
 
 The younger son by this time saw that he 
 could expect little or nothing from his family, 
 whose prejudices seem to grow with years, and 
 determined, as it is called, to go and shift for 
 himself There was a certain dignity in this 
 resolution, and he hailed with pleasure the 
 day when he would be enabled to set forth 
 on his course independently, and earn his own 
 living. He felt he had a taste for " business," 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 1 8 PUPPETS. 
 
 and " affairs," and resolved to go into the city 
 and make money for himself. 
 
 "Aye, exactly,'* growled his father; *'just 
 the proper thing for you to do. Go — stick a 
 quill behind your ear.'* 
 
 Young Benbow parted with his family in 
 perfect good humour, and went up to Town to 
 seek his fortune. In a couple of years his 
 steady character and sagacity stood in good 
 stead. In a surprising way he made friends 
 — rather he made himself useful to the friends 
 he made, was helped by them because he was 
 likely to help them, and very soon was known 
 to be on the road to making a fortune. Old 
 Mr. Benbow only growled more and more as 
 this good news travelled to him. 
 
 " Low quill-driver 1 " he would exclaim ; "I 
 knew he'd disgrace the family." 
 
 Meanwhile Colonel Edward had been serv- 
 ing with his regiment, and was now ordered 
 to Dublin. His father was now growing a 
 little impatient, and eager that he should settle 
 in life. Every " great house " his son was
 
 THE BENBOW BEOTHERS. 19 
 
 asked to, suggested the fair and noble daughter 
 of the house ; and in every letter from Mr. 
 Benbow it was insisted that he should make 
 haste in his selection. His son, however, took 
 it easily enough, assuming there was no hurry 
 He was supposed to be enjoying himself in 
 Dublin — dancing at the Viceregal balls, and 
 other entertainments of that gay capital. 
 
 " Ah, Ned will do well, and raise the family," 
 his father would say, reading out one of his 
 letters, " even though they would persuade me 
 that all the sense has gone to the quill- 
 driver." 
 
 There was a young dame of high degree 
 whom his son had carelessly mentioned in one 
 of his letters, and on this he began to build 
 a new structure, pressing his son in every letter, 
 and asking him " how the business was getting 
 forward?" " Kecollect," he would say, ''that 
 our family has found you money ; you must 
 find blood and rank." 
 
 Accordingly the Colonel went on his visits 
 to the great houses, and was received favourably 
 
 C 2
 
 20 PUPPETS. 
 
 by the various Lady Marys and Lady Hildas 
 and their families. 
 
 Suddenly, one memorable Monday morning, 
 when the Benbow post-bag had been opened, 
 and its contents were distributed round the 
 breakfast-table to the guests, Mr. Benbow said 
 good-humouredly : 
 
 " Ah, the scoundrel Edward — he has written 
 at last." 
 
 '*Why, what's this— ?" 
 
 No one knew until a day later, for the paper 
 dropped out of his grasp, and he himself fell to 
 the floor in a fit. There was consternation and 
 hurry, flying for doctors on horseback and in 
 carriages. However, soon the dreadful news be- 
 came known that Colonel Edward was married, 
 and had made a *' low, foolish, improvident 
 marriage," and had nearly killed his father. 
 There was talk of disinheriting, cutting ofl" the 
 entail ; for his father, who gradually recovered, 
 full of rage and fury, was determined to slake 
 his thirst for vengeance, and his first step was 
 to send for " the quill-driver " from Town.
 
 THE BENBOW BROTHERS. 21 
 
 There are abundance of painful situations ; 
 but none perhaps so acute as that when an act 
 being done in defiance of all consequences, with 
 a sort of proud heroism, the moment arrives 
 when the ''hill must be paid.'' There has been 
 a faint hope that the menaces are not wholly in 
 earnest : that finally some mode of propitiation 
 or release will be found. But when the awful 
 truth is disclosed that your " ships are really 
 burnt," and that all through the rest of life the 
 penalty must be suffered, it is to be suspected 
 that in nearly every case the first is, a fatal 
 unsealing of the eyes, and the despairing reflec- 
 tion, that what was purchased at so costly a 
 price — was not worth the money. At least 
 there are but few natures so heroical as to stand 
 the shock. 
 
 The one that felt this improvident step the 
 most w^as Spencer Benbow, who, strange to say, 
 wrote a letter of sympathy to his father, saying, 
 he felt deeply for the disappointment of what he 
 knew had been his life's hope, and that he did 
 not think his brother could have played so selfish
 
 22 PUPPETS. 
 
 a part; at the same time he begged of his fatlier, 
 now that the mischief was done and incurable, 
 to make the best of it and not visit it too 
 heavily on Edward. 
 
 Before, however, the proper steps could be 
 taken, or indeed before the second brother could 
 arrive, either to dissuade or mollify his father, 
 Mr. Benbow was seized with a second fit and 
 expired. And thus Colonel Edward Benbow, 
 after this very narrow escape, succeeded and 
 became Lord of the Benbows. His brother, not 
 in the least disappointed, was eager to congratu- 
 late him. But to his astonishment the Colonel 
 refused to see him. He was of curiously morbid 
 and sensitive nature, inclined to see intended 
 offence in the most harmless incidents. He had 
 found his brother's letter among his father's 
 papers, and naturally assumed that much more 
 had passed, and that he had been his enemy 
 throughout. Not lonoj after news arrived that 
 the new Mrs. Benbow had died — for she had 
 been of a frail constitution. 
 
 At last undisputed Lord and owner, he did
 
 THE BENBOW BROTHERS. 23 
 
 not set himself out to look for any enjoyment 
 in his new possessions. The place was for him 
 accursed, and associated with two painful memo- 
 ries. So it was shut up, and he lived abroad, 
 solitary and gloomy : though there was many 
 a fair and gentle girl and dame who found him 
 and his distress particularly interesting, and 
 would have tried their little all to comfort him 
 sometimes. Once or twice in the year he re- 
 turned to look after his property, but he never 
 would stay at **the Big House."
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 LUCY WINTER. 
 
 At this stage a little incident of a minor sort 
 began to flutter the parish — and this was the 
 marriage of Captain Hallam with the fair Lucy, 
 whom we have seen in the church on the Ducal 
 Sunday morning. 
 
 For all this going on, as it were, while Mr. 
 Spencer is listening abstractly to the wheezy 
 organ, or glancing wearily to the mural tablets. 
 
 The marriao^e had been talked of for some 
 years in the district, but had come about in a 
 quiet imperceptible way. The Captain Hallam, 
 who was to be married, had been quartered in 
 Dipch ester, the house where the marriage was 
 to be. He had gone on foreign service, was 
 quartered again there, and came pretty fre-
 
 LUCY WINTER. 25 
 
 quently, first, to get rid of ennui — afterwards, 
 from a very natural interest, as those who saw 
 the young girl, the precious stone of that house, 
 could testify. 
 
 The officer was a manly, honest officer, fairly 
 well-looking, with lively tastes and accomplish- 
 ments, had good connections, and was tolerably 
 well off in the world. All the good people of • 
 the place were sincerely glad '* that the Winters 
 had got him ; " while those who were not such 
 good Christians talked with a little depreciation 
 of picking up a man '^ in a marching regiment," 
 with only "his pay to keep himself upon." 
 
 A marriage in a country district is a great, 
 even a tremendous, event, and the two figures 
 become as interesting as actors upon the stage of 
 a theatre. The gossip tongues run riot. It is 
 like promotion to a ministerial office. Those 
 who are looking forward to a similar advance- 
 ment for their children feel something akin to 
 envy. 
 
 When the passengers on the up-coach, going 
 by about eight o'clock, saw the little " box "
 
 26 PUPPETS. 
 
 blazing cheerfully away like a bright lantern, 
 to them it looked more than ever "snug," the 
 very essence of snugness and warmth. If they 
 could have drawn up the yellow blinds and 
 peejDed in, they would have seen two pictures 
 of warmth, colour, happiness, and comfort. One 
 was in the dining-room, with its sea-green walls, 
 and where Mr. Trail, the grey-haired curate, and 
 Doctor Legge, the village doctor — who, it was 
 said, knew more of the moon and stars than of 
 physic — and Captain Hallam, and a chosen friend 
 and brother- officer, Hillier, who was to be his 
 " best man," and the host, were sitting round 
 the fire taking claret. 
 
 The ladies had just gone, had crossed the hall, 
 and were drawing in to their fire, which makes 
 up the other picture of warmth and comfort. 
 Mrs. Trail and her daus^hter, a darlinor friend of 
 Lucy's, were staying in the house. They were 
 all drawing in closer to the fire, to continue a 
 subject more confidentially, which had been just 
 touched on as they left the dining-room. The 
 subject was Colonel Benbow.
 
 LUCY WINTER. 27 
 
 ** Oh, mamma/' said Lucy, " he is certain to 
 come, he arrived at the Towers yesterday. He 
 promised." 
 
 " I am sure he will, dear," said her mamma, 
 " and for a reason that I know." 
 
 "But what an interesting character," said 
 Mrs. Trail. "The world is not so bad as my 
 dear Trail preaches, when there are men with 
 such deep feeling as that." 
 
 "The strangest thing," said Mrs. Winter, 
 " was their estrangement. And there can be no 
 doubt that Spencer had spoken bitterly of his 
 brother's behaviour to his father. And Colonel 
 Edward always believed that but for him they 
 would have been reconciled. When his wife 
 died, this became a morbid, bitter dislike, which 
 really preyed on him. But all this is an old 
 story now, and took place some eight years ago. 
 My dear, I could not describe it. I assure you 
 it haunted me like a nio^htmare for months 
 after. It was really terrible, his rage and grief 
 mixed together. At times I thought his reason 
 would go, or /lad gone. Men ca7i love their wives,
 
 28 PUPPETS. 
 
 you see. When lie lost her his grief was terrible. 
 Since then he has wandered about the world 
 with his son. The old grief and fury have 
 given way, and gradually, I think, a love the 
 most overpowering for this child — a love that is 
 increasing every day and every hour — is soften- 
 ing him ; and the most wonderful proof of his 
 being softened is his coming here." 
 
 " And the boy ? " asked the vicar's wife. 
 
 " A darling !^'' said Lucy, running to the table. 
 " Look here ! " And she brought over her 
 photograph album. 
 
 In a moment they were all admiring a little 
 fellow in a Scotch dress, leaning, his hand in his 
 pocket, with a smile of composure — the smile of 
 a " boy of the world " — against a very low table. 
 He had a charming air of gracious composure. 
 The ladies ao^reed he was indeed a darling. 
 
 " Now, mamma, tell Mrs. Trail what we have 
 settled." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mrs. Winter. " Spencer, who 
 really never did anything in the matter, and yet 
 was sorry, and has tried again and again to see
 
 LUCY WINTER. 29 
 
 his brother, is to be here to-morrow. He is of a 
 cold temper though. Do you see now ? " 
 
 *' Ah, yes/' said the vicar's wife. " But still, 
 if he is in the same mood " 
 
 " But Lucy has a plan." 
 
 " Leave it to me,'^ said Lucy, pacing round 
 and round the room in delight. " I have my 
 plan, and it shall succeed. Hush ! " She held 
 up her finger. Was it the gentlemen coming 
 in ? Yes, their voices were in the hall. But 
 Lucy heard another sound. In country houses, 
 ears are as trained as the ears of Indian hunters, 
 and can hear a sound of wheels on gravel eten 
 at the lodge gate. 
 
 Mrs. Winter started up. *' It is Colonel 
 Benbow ! " The gentlemen came in, in delight- 
 ful spirits. But Mr. Winter and his wife went 
 out into the hall.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SON. 
 
 Through the open door, in the dark night 
 outside, a chaise was waiting. In a moment 
 those round the bright fire in the drawing-room 
 heard the sound of shuffling and pattering feet. 
 In a few minutes more the door was opened 
 gently, and Mrs. Winters voice was heard. 
 " Will you come in here, Colonel Benbow ? " 
 
 A tall gentleman, with a sunburnt face and 
 large brown moustache, and the softest of blue 
 eyes, advanced through the doorway, and then 
 drew back irresolutely. He held his son by the 
 hand, who was in a dark little Scotch dress, and 
 who looked round on all the company with a 
 pleasant smile of greeting. 
 
 " I am afraid," began Colonel Benbow, " that 
 after our journey "
 
 THE SON. 31 
 
 But he was interrupted, for, with cheeks 
 glowing and eyes flashing, Lucy came from the 
 other end of the room straight to him, and said : 
 
 " How are you, Colonel Edward ? I am 
 Lucy ! " 
 
 He half started back, and seemed to shade his 
 eyes from the lamp. 
 
 " Ah, yes. I am glad to see you, dear," he 
 said, taking her hand affectionately, " and am 
 delighted to hear about all this. But I am 
 ashamed coming in this way — a dusty wayworn 
 traveller/' 
 
 Every one remarked what a soft voice he had, 
 and a gentle address, while to ladies he had a 
 sort of reverential courtesy with a faint bloom of 
 " old fashion " on it, but which was not the less 
 welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Winter eagerly said these were only 
 neighbours, and these " neighbours " with deli- 
 cacy drew away, and sat in different parts of 
 the room. But the father's eye wandered over 
 to his son, who, having already introduced him- 
 self, was the centre of a group of ladies. He
 
 32 PUPPETS. 
 
 was sitting on one of the low chairs, ^' nursing " 
 one of his little stockinged feet, and talking 
 away about their journey with great volubility. 
 He was telling them of his travels, and how he 
 was not in the least tired. He had very delicate 
 little features, a little nose, a pretty mouth, a 
 fair skin, and his father's soft eyes. 
 
 " I was not in the least sick in the packet," he 
 said, still nursing his little leg. " I never ayn — 
 neither I nor papa. There was a French child, 
 though. You should have seen liim ! " And the 
 little fellow laughed and crowed over the abase- 
 ment of the hereditary enemies of his country. 
 " Party here to-night ? Papa doesn't like par- 
 ties," he went on, ^' nor do I. Do you play 
 games here ? /can play." 
 
 They were charmed with him ; he prattled on 
 with such composure. The captain had intro- 
 duced himself, not with that mock respect and 
 burlesque "humbugging" with which young 
 men "draw out" children, and whom they use 
 merely to show themselves off. 
 
 " How d'ye do ? " said the boy graciously.
 
 THE SON. 33 
 
 " I am very glad to have the pleasure of know- 
 ing you. Would you tell me, please," and he 
 hesitated a little, " who the lady is, over there, 
 that you were talking' with ? " 
 
 The captain laughed. ^' Oh, that is the 
 prettiest, finest young lady in the world. At 
 least /think so." 
 
 " Not in the world," said the boy, shaking his 
 head gravely. " Because you have not seen all 
 the young ladies in the world. But still — oh 
 yes, she is very pretty.^' 
 
 " Then why are you so curious about all this, 
 Master Benbow ? I declare I am beginning to 
 be a little jealous." 
 
 " Ah," said the boy, quickly, " you are going 
 to marry her V ^ 
 
 ** Yes, you have guessed it," said the captain. 
 " Am I not a happy fellow ? " 
 
 *' Indeed I think so," said the boy, swinging 
 one leg, and in the same wistful sincere way. 
 '' She is very nice — much nicer than the French 
 ladies." 
 
 Lucy came running over. 
 
 VOL. I. . D
 
 34 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Here she is herself," said the captain, gaily ; 
 and then added, in a half whisper, " I won't tell 
 her what you said — about her not being the 
 finest and prettiest young lady in the world." 
 
 '^ I didn't mean that^^ said the boy, colouring, 
 and stepping back with a little defiance ; " you 
 know I would not say so." 
 
 Lucy was down on her knees, holding his 
 hands and looking into his face. " What is it 
 that you don't mean, dear ? " she asked. '* Tell 
 me — we are to be the greatest friends." 
 
 He shook his head. " No, no." 
 
 " What ! You refuse me ? " 
 
 *' No ; but you know," he said, hesitating, and 
 still swinging on one foot — " you know you are 
 to marry him^ and there won't be time." 
 
 " But we shall meet afterwards," she said, still 
 on her knees, and holding his hands, " and you 
 must promise to come and stay with me." 
 
 " And with liim ? " asked the boy with a 
 knowing look in his eye. " He will be the 
 husband — and if he does not choose " 
 
 " Rut I do choose, and always will choose — it
 
 THE SON. 35 
 
 you will do us the honour, that is. Eecollect, 
 it is an engagement ; you come very soon ; I 
 choose. Besides, whatever Lucy chooses I 
 choose." 
 
 The boy took the hand that was held out 
 to him, and shook it. 
 
 "The only thing," he said confidently, "is 
 papa. He is very particular about my going 
 anywhere by myself — that is, he does not wish 
 that I should go anywhere without Jiim. And 
 / don't wish. When you come to know papa, 
 you will like him very much. We go every- 
 where together. We have travelled an immense 
 deal together, papa, and I, and Andy." 
 
 " And who is Andy, dear % " said Lucy, still 
 on the carpet ; " tell me.'' 
 
 " Bless me ! " said the little fellow. " Don't 
 you know Andy ? He is our servant — our own 
 servant" — in a confidential tone — "He came with 
 poor dear mamma from L'eland (I never saw 
 mamma that I can remember), and papa and I 
 have agreed that we are never to part with Andy. 
 Papa talks a great deal to him, but he does not 
 
 D 2
 
 36 PUPPETS. 
 
 like my talking much to him, as papa says I 
 might learn to speak like Andy, who has a 
 strong brogue. But papa says that should make 
 no difference in his character, because he is the 
 most faithful and trustworthy man that ever 
 lived. And I assure you I feel it a good deal, 
 not talking to Andy, because I know he is good. 
 And papa means, when Andy gets old and lame, 
 to pension him off; and, when I am grown up, 
 I shall pension him too; for I like Andy, and 
 should wish to be kind to him ; and when you 
 come to know him, you will like him too." 
 
 They listened to these little assurances with 
 great pleasure, the little man was so earnest 
 and assured. Captain Hallam looked across to 
 Lucy with delight. 
 
 '^ Give me a kiss, you darling ! " she said. " I 
 like you as if I had known you from a 
 child." 
 
 Tlie little man put forward his' cheek with 
 great dignity. 
 
 " And I like you," he said ; " and when he 
 said you were the fairest young lady in the
 
 THE SON. 37 
 
 world, I did not mean to deny it^ — indeed no. I 
 should not be so unpolite — no, indeed." 
 
 " Give me another kiss, you pet ! " said Lucy, 
 in great delight. 
 
 Now was heard a gentle voice calling, from 
 the side of the room : " Now, now, take care 
 you are not talking too much, and tiring our 
 friends." 
 
 He walked over himself. The little man went 
 to meet him, and took his larger hand. 
 
 " Yes, papa. Come and talk — do. Oh ! " — 
 to the little circle — " he can talk, papa can ; 
 you'll be (5?(?e-lighted." 
 
 They all smiled. 
 
 " This little fellow and I," said Colonel Edward, 
 in his gentle, half-apologetic voice, "have been 
 great companions. We have travelled and seen 
 a great many things together — have we not, 
 little man ? " 
 
 " Yes, papa," said the little man, looking up 
 at him ; " and we are to see the world regularly 
 when I get bigger — he has promised me — and I 
 am never to go to school."
 
 38 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Can you sing or play ? " said Lucy. 
 
 " No, no," said the Colonel, a little hastily; 
 ^' he will only tire you." 
 
 " Just as papa pleases," said the little man, 
 with a bow. " Some people like my singing ; 
 others, as papa says, get tired." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cried the captain, eagerly. " Do 
 sinsf for us : we shall take it as a o-reat favour." 
 
 '' Do, dear," said Lucy. 
 
 " JFoidd you like it, really ? " asked the little 
 man. 
 
 '^ Indeed we all would, and I particularly." 
 
 " Well, papa : may I ? " 
 
 " As these ladies are so kind," said the Colonel, 
 looking round doubtfully ; and he walked slowly 
 back towards the fire, and sat down by his 
 cousin. / 
 
 Without the least shyness, the little man 
 looked round on all the company, and began 
 a French chanson — Cadet Roussel — with a 
 burden : 
 
 " Ah, 9a ! oiii ! vraiment ! 
 Cadet Eoussel a trois enfans,"
 
 THE SON. 39 
 
 and whicli he sang with the greatest seriousness. 
 There was great applause when he had finished. 
 
 " Oh, I can sing other things," he said, " in 
 quite a different style. There was one song 
 which Andy taught me ! but," he added, with 
 sudden earnestness, " that was long before papa 
 wished that I should not speak so inucli to him — 
 it was indeed — though papa might not like it on 
 that account. But, oh ! it is such a very funny 
 Irish song ; and if you heard Andy sing it " 
 
 Lucy had run over to the fireside with the 
 request. She was whispering the Colonel. 
 
 *' You won't refuse me ? Let the dear boy 
 sing. He is getting quite at home with us all. 
 Do let him — Andy's song — do ! " 
 
 The Colonel, smiling, half grave, made a pro- 
 test. "For shame, little man," he said; "he 
 picks up all these low sougs ; though, indeed," 
 he added, correcting himself, " he never sings 
 them without consulting papa. Well, yes, this 
 once more, as these ladies and gentlemen are so 
 kind as to call for it." 
 
 Holding Lucy's hand, with his knee on the
 
 40 PUPPETS. 
 
 sofa, and a steady serious look into the faces of 
 all the company, he struck into " Mulligan's 
 WeddinV' in which his little clear pipe, trying 
 to struggle conscientiously with the Irish patois 
 and brogue, and his perfect and earnest serious- 
 ness, had the most curious effect : 
 
 " Dere was feastin' and fightin', 
 De neighbours delightin', 
 And singin' and pratin' 
 And lots of the batin' 
 At Mulligan's weddin'. 
 Whack foldi dididdle follero ! 
 Whack fol di di do ! " 
 
 They were delighted with this little perform- 
 ance. The doctor enjoyed it. ''A capital song, 
 sir, and well sung. Thank you, sir." 
 
 The little man replied, with a bow, " I am 
 so glad you liked it." 
 
 " I dare say, sir, you have plenty more on your 
 list," said the doctor, '* and would favour us." 
 
 " No, no," the Colonel interposed ; " that will 
 do very well. In fact, it is time to be thinking 
 of bed. What do you say, little man ? " 
 
 " Whatever you please, papa." Then to Lucy :
 
 THE SON. 41 
 
 "Did you like 'Mulligans Weddin ? ' " Then 
 he began to laugh with a hearty child's laugh. 
 **So funny, you know — a wedding here; and 
 then, Mulligan's. Ha ! ha ! Isn't it, now % " 
 
 " Getting late," said the doctor. " I must go 
 and look after my stars. This will be a great 
 night for observations. I shall search and 
 search until I read something good there for 
 Miss Lucy." 
 
 " And do you really do all this ? " said the 
 captain. 
 
 '' I have a regular observatory, a fine glass, a 
 meridian no less, and go regularly to work. Do 
 you ever see the * Southern Counties' Times ' ? 
 No, I should say not," added the doctor, laugh- 
 ing ; " the circulation is limited, and the matter 
 very local. Well, there is an astronomical 
 letter there every week from the present 
 speaker." 
 
 " I should like to see it very much," said the 
 captain ; "I once had a little taste that way 
 myself." 
 
 " Put on something warm and come," said the
 
 42 PUPPETS. 
 
 doctor. " It's only across the lake, and my 
 boatman is waiting." 
 
 The little man had been listening with dis- 
 tended eyes. He put up his mouth to Lucy : 
 " Whisper," he said ; " make them take me. 
 Oh, dor' 
 
 The doctor heard him. *' And why not ? " he 
 said. " We would not keep him long, and Cap- 
 tain Hallam could bring him back, though it is 
 rather late." 
 
 The little man crowed with delight, and 
 clapped his hands. " Let us go at once ! 
 Come ! " And he began to pull at the doctor's 
 arm. 
 
 The father, who was at the other end of the 
 room, heard something of this, and came over. 
 '' At this hour ? Not to be thought of, my dear 
 child ! Folly ! 1 can't allow it. Go to bed." 
 
 Utter blankness and misery came into the 
 boy's face, and he hung down his head. 
 
 " My dear child," said his father, lifting him 
 till the child's face was on a level with his own, 
 " why, you would catch cold in your chest, and
 
 THE SON. 43 
 
 take ill, and die ; and then what would become 
 of poor old papa ? To-morrow we will drive 
 over to this gentleman's." 
 
 The boy gave a deep sigh of disappointment, 
 but of resignation. He looked back wistfully 
 towards the doctor, who embodied such exquisite 
 and ravishing charms — instruments that turned, 
 and screwed, and went up and down ; an inex* 
 haustible source of entertainment. But he 
 turned to his father. 
 
 " Papa, I should not like to take cold, and 
 die, and leave you. So please to ring for Andy 
 to come and take me to bed." 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and a short 
 figure of a man, with a curious quaint head, 
 stood looking in. He peered round, and then, 
 without the least concern or consciousness of 
 any one's presence, called out, with a nod, 
 
 '' Master Ned, it's time now. Come, Sur 1 " 
 
 " Go," said his father. " There's Andy come 
 for you. Wish all these ladies and gentlemen 
 good night." 
 
 This ceremony the little man achieved with
 
 44 PUPPETS. 
 
 courtly form, going round and putting out his 
 hand, and in the ladies' instance, putting up 
 his cheek for the kiss which he seemed to know 
 w^ould be inevitable. The father's turn came 
 last, and he lifted him up to give him a warm 
 embrace, and looked after him with rapt fond- 
 ness. Taking Andy's hand, the little man 
 w^alked away. 
 
 Then the clergyman and his wife and the rest 
 took their leave for the night. The captain 
 and the doctor came into the hall muffled in 
 great-coats. It was a fine clear night, and they 
 could see the stars without the aid of the 
 doctor's telescope. The lake was at the back 
 of the house, and the doctor's own boat was 
 waiting — " My cab," he always called it. 
 
 But the Colonel and Mrs. Winter sat long 
 in the drawing-room after all the rest had gone, 
 talking, we may suppose, over some passages in 
 life, long gone by. The French clock on the 
 chimney-piece struck twelve, and half-past 
 twelve, and one. Lucy had not yet gone to 
 her bed- room, but fluttered nervously about the
 
 THE SON. 45 
 
 hall and passages and now ghostly dining-room. 
 For she knew very well what troubled pictures 
 were raised in the drawing-room. Suddenly the 
 door opened, and he came out with a candle ; 
 as he saw her, he suddenly started back, but 
 recovered in a moment. 
 
 " Oh ! " he said, " how strange, how wonder- 
 fully strange ! For the moment I thought — no 
 matter now — you ought to be asleep, my dear 
 child." 
 
 "I was waiting, dear Cousin Edward, to say 
 good-night to you."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 The next morning, the faithful Irish Andy 
 came familiarly into the breakfast-room, with 
 the most perfect composure, and told the com- 
 pany that "the masther" was not "himself at 
 all," and that he, Andy, had thought it better 
 to keep him in bed. He had now come for a 
 " sup " of weak tea, and such-like. " Indeed," 
 Andy went on, entering on a narrative, as he 
 himself took up the teapot, '*!' don't know 
 what's coming over him lately, the crature. I 
 don't like the way he's in at all now ; there's the 
 truth, and no lie. His chist's always wrong — 
 always, always — and I'm not pleased at all with 
 the way he's in. And he'll see no docthors, and 
 he has the old thing always on his mind."
 
 THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE. 47 
 
 They were a little alarmed at this description, 
 which was indeed true ; for as any one might 
 have read from the Colonel's face, he was always 
 ill, and at the moment of his arrival brought 
 with him a heavy cold and cough which he 
 did not care to tend or try to cure beyond the 
 *' little sup of tea/' which Andy had brought up. 
 Yet by the middle of the day he had forced him- 
 self, as he always did, to get up and go about, 
 and said he was perfectly well. 
 
 That day was an almost feverish day. It was 
 the day before the marriage, and a hundred 
 things " turned up " and presented themselves 
 after lying back expressly, as it were, and which 
 had to be done, and done hurriedly. 
 
 Yet neither mother nor daughter was " put 
 out " by this flutter, nor was there need to mark 
 them " dangerous '' as is common with too many 
 persons on such occasions. The mother and 
 daughter sat together and talked, sometimes 
 of the great ^vent that was drawing near, but in 
 truth a o^ood deal more of the guest who had 
 arrived last night. He was gone out, and from
 
 48 PUPPETS. 
 
 the windows they had seea him holding his 
 "little man's" hand as they both walked off 
 together round the lake on the promised expe- 
 dition to the doctor's observatory. 
 
 That day passed by too quickly. But to- 
 wards evenins: all had been done that was to be 
 done. They had been down to the church — a 
 charming little village church — rather new, its 
 tower and spire being tiled over with warm 
 genial tiling, made out of the clay of the place. 
 The genteel people of the place were for the best 
 Welsh slates, but the vicar and his architect felt 
 that there was fitness in this local covering. 
 The village people had worked very hard and 
 decorated the inside very prettily. The Colonel 
 was nearly all the day away at the doctor's 
 house, looking at the instruments, in which his 
 boy found such a fascination. They came home 
 towards four, and as they walked up the avenue, 
 the boy's hand still in his, and he in a sort of 
 reverie, they saw a chaise at the door with a 
 portmanteau on it. This awakened him, and he 
 stopped a moment. '' More company," he was
 
 THE EVE OF THE MAEEIAGE. 49 
 
 thinking ; " this was not the place for me to 
 come to.'' 
 
 In the hall he met Lucy in all her impe- 
 tuosity and flutter. She started when she saw 
 him. 
 
 *' Come with me, Colonel Edward," she said, 
 hastily taking his arm. " Won't you ? I want 
 to show you something." 
 
 " My dear child," said he, fondly, " do not ask 
 me. I cannot go through more of this. Seeing 
 new faces always makes me miserable. I am a 
 wretched oddity, but you know " 
 
 " It is not that, dear cousin," she said, in 
 great excitement. " There's no new face. 
 Come to my room. I want — Yes," she added, 
 suddenly, " to show you all my stores. Come, 
 do." 
 
 " But, Ned," he said, absently, " we must 
 find Andy somewhere. Where is he ? " 
 
 Andy was found, and the Colonel went with 
 her. She was strangely excited, and as she 
 showed all her presents, seemed to be doing this 
 as an excuse for approaching some subject, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 50 PUPPETS. 
 
 talking very rapidly all the time. He looked 
 and admired in a sort of abstracted way. 
 
 Colonel Edward seemed to be awakino: o^radu- 
 ally. " But what is this ? and / have con- 
 tributed nothing ! Goodness, what a being I 
 am I I think of nothing. I don't know how 
 to do anything like other people. You must 
 let me make up for all this stupidity. Tell me 
 quickly what you would like." 
 
 *' Mr. Benbow," she said, colouring, *' how 
 kind you are ! " 
 
 *' But you must tell me,",^ he said, more 
 earnestly ; *^ I don't understand these things. I 
 am quite helpless — a bracelet, a necklace — you 
 must tell me, and fix on something." 
 
 In her eyes was twinkling a sense of some 
 eager and secret plan. 
 
 " There is a present you could give me, dearest 
 cousin, which would make me — and make us all 
 so supremely happy ; but I know that you could 
 not give it to me, and that I have no right to 
 ask it of you." 
 
 " What is it ? " he asked, eagerly. " I am so
 
 THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE. 51 
 
 glad to hear this. Let it be as big as you like. 
 Don't be afraid." 
 
 " If I thought you cared for me enough," she 
 said, hanging down her head sadly. " But I 
 have no right to expect that, and you would 
 think me forward, and " 
 
 " But what can you mean, my dear child ! " he 
 said, wondering, and with a troubled air. *' You 
 know that I like you, and it would make me, oh ! 
 so happy, to be allowed to make you happier 
 even in that trifling way ; for since I have come 
 into this house, I seem to have come into a kind 
 of peace that I have not known before, for from 
 your eyes the old light seems to come, and I 
 seem to be in a presence that I have long 
 missed. And you think I could refuse you, when 
 I seem to hear that voice, and to see those 
 features ? " 
 
 With an impetuous motion she put her arm in 
 his, and, with glowing cheeks and flashiug eye, 
 began to pour out an eager whispering — a perfect 
 tide. Before she had done, he had drawn himself 
 away with a start — drawn himself further and 
 
 E 2
 
 52 PUPPETS. 
 
 further away. He set himself free, and covered 
 his face with his hands. 
 
 " This is not right. Impossible ! I did not 
 expect this from you ! '^ 
 
 " Forgive me, you make me wretched. But 
 you asked me to name the present I liked — you 
 know you did, and I told you you would be 
 angry ; " and she glided down before him on to 
 her knees. 
 
 He had walked away a little, then turned 
 hastily, and saw her kneeling before him. 
 '^ Dear child, you know not what you ask me. 
 How can I — how dare I do it ? He hates me 
 and hates my boy." He was growing more and 
 more agitated every moment. " You do not 
 know the whole. You cannot understand. 
 Anytldng but that — no ! no ! no ! " 
 
 She rose slowly, and turned away impetuously. 
 
 *^ This was to be a happy day for me," she 
 said, tossing her head. ** They all told me so. 
 Where is your promise now ? Do you suppose / 
 care for presents, and bracelets, and such things ? 
 You have made me feel a mortification that no
 
 THE EVE OF THE MAERIA.GE. 53 
 
 one else has done — no one else ! Every one else 
 has been good to me." 
 
 She walked away flushed and indignant. He 
 stood a moment irresolute, then in a faint voice 
 called her. 
 
 " Lucy, come back. I did not mean to be 
 unkind. But if you were to know how I have 
 suffered — what I suffer. But it may have been 
 all Avrong, and I promise you now I will try in 
 future to think less uncharitably of one who has 
 so deeply injured — not me, but " 
 
 " Ah ! " said she, running to him. " But that 
 is not enough — that is a very trifling marriage 
 present for me,* Try % You must give me more 
 than that. Should you see him or meet him, you 
 will promise me to write — to speak — to forgive — 
 to hear him — tell him that you have misjudged 
 him a little — that he has done nothinof to " 
 
 " Never ! I can never do that,'' he said, 
 passionately. Then, suddenly checking himself, 
 " Well, if it pleases you, I do promise. It will 
 not be for long, and there is folly in all this. 
 Some day — if he writes — I may "
 
 54 PUPPETS. 
 
 " This is a promise," she said, panting with 
 eagerness ; "a solemn one, mind ; for I shall 
 be away, and you w^ill not see me again for long, 
 and I have nothing to trust to but your honour 
 and promise." 
 
 " Then you have it." 
 
 " The first time you see him ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 In a second she had flown away from him, and 
 with a cry of delight called out : 
 
 " Spencer ! Spencer ! " 
 
 Spencer Benbow came hurrying from some 
 room, then stopped irresolutely. Under the 
 lamps stood the Colonel half turned away, and 
 as his brother drew near, with his hand half 
 raised. In a moment the eager girl had seized 
 that gentle hand in both hers, and drawn it 
 softly towards another that was half extended. 
 
 " You promised, you know," she whispered. 
 It was no use resisting, and the Colonel turned a 
 look upon his brother, which the other under- 
 stood in a moment. 
 
 It was all over — the enmity of years was gone. 
 
 i
 
 THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE. 55 
 
 *' Poor Spencer," he said, " I have done him 
 sad injustice. Will you say it to him again ? 
 You recollect what I said to you and to Lucy — 
 that he hated me and my boy. It was a shock- 
 ing slander. I thought so, but I had no reason 
 to think so. I must atone for all this," he 
 added, wearily. " Give my love and affection 
 to the pretty bride, and tell her I am only 
 nursing myself for the morning." 
 
 This scene, reposing as it seemed, basking as 
 it were in a softened mellow light, was often to 
 be looked back to ; that gay drawing-room, full 
 of beaming and happy faces. They had little 
 games, that almost verged on romping, at least 
 where the ** little man " was concerned, who 
 was screaming and crowing with delight, hiding 
 behind cushions and sofas, and burying his little 
 face in ladies' skirts. He told his day's adven- 
 tures again and again, and spoke with rapture 
 of those ivonderfid instruments, the screwing 
 and mechanical arrangements of which had pene- 
 trated him with delight and admiration. He 
 had never seen such a world of apparatus, and
 
 56 PUPPETS. 
 
 the doctor this very niglit, taking him by the 
 shouhlers, had sworn he should go over to-mor- 
 row and assist at certain unscrewings and oilings 
 which were to take place. He sang them various 
 songs, and, on a general demand, stood up in the 
 middle and again gave " Mulligan's Weddin'/' 
 with entire approbation. It was noticed that, 
 whenever he mentioned the name of that Irish 
 bridegroom, his little eye wandered roguishly to 
 the captain, who affected to be overcome with 
 bashfulness at such public notice. Occasionally 
 he assumed a grave face of responsibility, and 
 stole away to have a private interview with his 
 papa, coming back with a little air of decent 
 solemnity, saying, "I do not like the way papa 
 is in." But he soon freshened up into gaiety 
 again, until eleven o'clock came, and with it 
 Andy's curious face appeared at the door, with 
 his unconcerned, " Now, Master Neddy, it's time 
 for you ; come along.'*
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE WEDDING. 
 
 Here was now the morning of the wedding, 
 as sunny a morning as ^' though it were bespoke, 
 Glory be to God," to use Andy's remarkable 
 blessing. How bright the day was, and how 
 bright and gay looked the deep red and green 
 of the little place. Inside there was flutter, bui 
 delightful flutter — kissing, smiles, tears, and 
 kissing again. 
 
 The Colonel is down betimes, but every one 
 notices his face, and sees at once that he should 
 be in his room. There is a great change in his 
 looks within these two days, but he said he was 
 well. But Andy, who had a sort of festive air 
 himself, was heard to say, " he hoped it would 
 all be right to-morrow next day^^ — a misgiving
 
 58 PUPPETS. 
 
 which was to be realized presently. Yet, with 
 a generous foresight, the Colonel had not lost 
 time ; and on the night before a messenger had 
 been sent ujd to Town, with a letter to the chief 
 jeweller, and who returned betimes with a superb 
 casket. As Lucy came to him, about eleven, in 
 her bridal dress, all lace and white silk and 
 white flowers, he put this into her hand. *' This," 
 he said, *^ is but a poor token of what I feel to 
 you, and for what you did last night. It is a 
 
 miserable present, but I have no time, and no 
 judgment." 
 
 *' It is superb," said she, taking out the jewels, 
 which were magnificent, " and I am so happy ! " 
 
 Captain Hallam was come for her. The 
 carriages were waiting. 
 
 The little church was charming. The flowers 
 seemed to have bloomed from the night before. 
 They clustered over the pillars. The villagers 
 filled the aisles. The young girls looked wist- 
 fully on, thinking, as every young girl does, of 
 another picture where they would be the chief 
 figure. Of all the pageants in life's many
 
 THE WEDDING. 59 
 
 pageants and shows, this, perhaps, is the most 
 interesting. The greatest churl among the 
 spectators feels that this is not a mere scene 
 in a play. Long after, when the last act has 
 nearly begun, the performer looks back to that 
 morDinof, and sees herself throuo^h a soft cloud 
 on that morning, and thinks herself another 
 being. Oh, how young ! how pretty ! how 
 fresh ! And how bright and fairy-like every- 
 thing all round. It seems only as far off as last 
 year, and she turns (by instinct) to look into 
 that glass over the chimney-piece ! 
 
 Mr. Winter was the celebrant of the office, 
 and was " assisted " by a good-humoured clergy- 
 man, the Rev. John Hall am, brother, as we may 
 suppose, to the captain. The friends drew in 
 close as the clergymen began their combined 
 labours. Even at that moment the quick eyes 
 of Lucy, darting about, saw that the Colonel was 
 not there, though the little bright face of his 
 son was to be seen, studying, with an absorbing 
 interest, some mechanical arrangements on the 
 stair of the pulpit. Andy, too, could be seen
 
 60 PUPPETS. 
 
 afiir off, towards " lookin' in " at the business 
 with a dry, serious, and inquiring look. He had 
 just "run down from the masther." 
 
 It was done now. The combined efforts of 
 the two clergymen had succeeded, and Lucy and 
 her lover. Captain and Mrs. Hallam^ were walk- 
 ing away in a sort of reverential bearing. There 
 was signing in the vestry, congratulations, kisses 
 so fervent, whispered " darlings ! " '^ my pets ! " 
 Then a coming^ out and taking^ off hats, and 
 drivino; awav. Then there was the house agrain. 
 Arbour Hill ; and Lucy, bounding from the 
 carriao:e, fluttered straio;ht to the Colonel's room. 
 
 He was on the sofa, and languid and pale. 
 After he had wished her all blessings and happi- 
 ness, " My dear child, my dear Lucy Hallam " — 
 he said this very tenderly — " when it came to 
 the last moment, then I found I had not 
 strength, though I tried very hard. My little 
 man will be here, I suppose, presently.'^ \ 
 
 Then they all came home with a sort of 
 dropping fire. Our doctor, who had hoped to 
 be there, was kept away by professional duty,
 
 THE WEDDING. 61 
 
 which came most awkvvardly. Then the break- 
 fast set in. 
 
 That, too, was of a very cheerful and festive 
 pattern. Such things in the country have a 
 tone of their own quite unique. That, too, is 
 a picture to be looked back on in those coming 
 days when we shall be looking into the drawing- 
 room mirror, waiting for our married son and 
 his children to come to dinner on, say, a Christ- 
 mas. The affectioaate voices, the fervent wishes, 
 the genuine speeches, so different from other 
 speeches over wine — these come back like the 
 chime of the Christmas bells we have heard 
 overnight. * 
 
 There was a health or two, and a speech, 
 kindly but hurried ; for time was pressing, and 
 a train was to be watched for. Spencer Benbow 
 did this duty in a pleasant buoyant fashion, 
 which kept away the faint clouds of gloom that 
 were seen gathering. He told grandly of the 
 bride's virtues, of the love they all bore to her, 
 of her smile that lit up that house and delighted 
 all who came within its charm — her cheerful
 
 62 PUPPETS. 
 
 spirit, which made all happy. There was the 
 loss — but there was gain for another, who had 
 secured a prize. Then there was another, who 
 w^as not with them at that moment, but whose 
 heart was with them, and who had tried to be 
 of their company. He knew him ; and never 
 so well, as within a day or two, knew what 
 were his virtues and his affection. However, 
 it was not too late then. 
 
 During this speech the servants had gathered 
 at the door, and were listening. Round the 
 table were handkerchiefs very busy. The " little 
 man " had listened with an air of deep attention, 
 *^ taking it all in : " he was very happy, too, and 
 had been supplied with wedding-cake under 
 tolerably small restraint. Yet he was a little 
 gentleman, and had trained himself not to in- 
 dulge in excesses which he found but too com- 
 mon among his contemporaries. When Spencer 
 had finished speaking of the Colonel, the little 
 man softly stole from the room — not, as some 
 unfairly suspected, because of the richness of 
 the cake, but to pay a visit to his father. In a
 
 THE WEDDING. 63 
 
 very few moments he came back, with a strange 
 look of mystery and importance on his little 
 face, got beside Lucy and her husband, and 
 whispered eagerly : 
 
 " Papa is so much obliged for your kind 
 reception of his name — those were his words — 
 and wishes he was here himself to thank you 
 all." 
 
 " Why not tell these ladies and gentlemen, 
 my boy ? " said the captain. " Would you be 
 afraid ? " 
 
 " Afraid ! why, papa gave the message." 
 
 In a moment there was a silence, and with 
 his face modestly bent upon the tablecloth, the 
 little man repeated the same words, and gave 
 them his papa's message. 
 
 **Papa is so much obliged for your kind 
 reception of his name — those were his words — • 
 and wishes he was here himself to thank you 
 all." 
 
 " Ah, listen to the darling ! " was said among 
 the maids at the door ; " listen to him now." 
 
 *' Shure he's wiser," said Andy, almost con-
 
 64 PUPPETS. 
 
 temptuously at their surprise, "than a grown 
 Christian ! " 
 
 But the hour had now come. There was a 
 general rising up — a rushing away for some last 
 preparation — and more tears and embracing. 
 The carriage was there, and they were all out 
 on the steps. There is the last embracing and 
 last good wishes ; and Lucy, in sober travelling 
 dress, yet magnificent, stoops down and lifts her 
 veil to kiss the little man, who has put up his 
 face. Now they drive away, and the "' old 
 shoe," searched for and found with difficulty, 
 flies into the air after them. A cluster of faces, 
 half sorrowful, half pleased, looked long after 
 them. 
 
 ■Then came the lull — the sudden prostration 
 which sets in after all such excitement. That 
 day becomes of a sudden purposeless — a day 
 for weary and vacant wandering, when no one 
 can settle himself to anything. It was felt, too, 
 that the light of that house had gone out, and 
 that there was a change. 
 
 The Colonel, however, was not mending, and
 
 THE WEDDING. 65 
 
 they were beginning to be in serious concern 
 about his state. And about four o'clock his 
 brother said he would go over to the doctor's 
 house, not two miles away round by the lake, 
 and see if he had returned. The doctor knew of 
 some greater doctor whom he had to meet not 
 far away that very day, and who might be 
 readily secured also. It was determined not to 
 say a word of this little plot to the patient, who 
 would raise difficulties, and protest he was 
 Sfettinfi^ well. 
 
 The little man soon heard of this projDosal, 
 and saw in it at once a plan for advancing his 
 own little interest and pleasure. 
 
 " Oh, then, I can go too," he said, " and see all 
 the telescopes again. I ^2,% promised, you know." 
 
 " The very thing," said Spencer ; " we shall 
 make an expedition together. But mind, now, 
 not a word to papa. We are going for a great 
 doctor, and if he hears it he will not see one, 
 and perhaps he will never get well." 
 
 "Never get well," repeated the little man, 
 anxiously. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 66 PUPPETS. 
 
 " I mean," said the other, "if he does not see 
 the doctor. None of us can be well unless we 
 see doctors." 
 
 He had still some mismvinc^s. *'But," said 
 he, wisely, ''it is all for papa's good ; and I cwi 
 dtjing to see those telescopes again. Whisper ; 
 I'll not tell papa a word." 
 
 Andy appeared suddenly. " Where are you 
 
 taking him to, Misther Spencer ? Have you 
 spoke with the masther about it ? " 
 
 " Oh, all right, Andy, and quite right of you. 
 But I'll make it all square. We are going for 
 a doctor, and not a word is to be said to Mmy 
 you understand." 
 
 Andy shook his head. 
 
 " Masther Neddy, you'd better go in and 
 tell the masther yourself. That's the raysonable 
 way." 
 
 " Now, Andy," said the young man, seriously, 
 "you mustn't interfere here; we want to get a 
 doctor. You don't understand these things. 
 And you know very well how hard^it is to get 
 my brother to take care of himself."
 
 THE WEDDING, ^7 
 
 "Oh, so be it; so be it," said Andy, coolly. 
 " Only," he added, muttering, " wait until to- 
 morrow next day." 
 
 " So we can, Andy, and till the day after too," 
 said the young man, laughing. 
 
 The little man laughed too. " Oh, Andy," 
 he said, " how funny. But / think, Andy, you 
 don't quite understand." 
 
 The young man went to his room to get a 
 coat and write a letter for the post. The little 
 man was wrapped up in his coat, and ready for 
 the road in a moment. He waited a little im- 
 patiently in the hall a few moments, and then 
 went out through the garden round by the back 
 of the house. Spencer Benbow had a longer 
 letter to write than he fancied, and took a 
 longer time over it, and then came out hastily. 
 He found the little fellow gone. 
 
 ''The impatient little rascal," he said. "He 
 is busy with some tricks in the garden." But 
 he v/as not in the garden. Then he hurried 
 across the field, and was greatly relieved by 
 hearino; the voice of the little man callinsj to 
 
 F 2
 
 68 PUPPETS. 
 
 liim cheerfully in a sort of chirrup of delight. 
 He was playing *' hide and go seek ; " was up in 
 a tree. 
 
 By one of those curious coincidences which are 
 almost unaccountable, the Colonel, almost as 
 soon as they had gone, thought of his little son 
 and rang his bell for Andy. The little secret 
 about the doctor was now sure to come out. 
 
 ** Sorra o' me knows where he is, Colonel. He 
 
 said he was to go with the brother over to the 
 
 docthor man." 
 
 " Gone with Spencer ! " repeated the Colonel, 
 starting up suddenly. " How dare you trust 
 
 him out of your sight ? Did I not depend on 
 
 you i 
 
 " Sorra a one o' me could help it," said Andy. 
 " Sure I thought Misther Spencer was noiv next 
 to yourself." 
 
 *' To be sure, to be sure," said his master, 
 colouring and letting himself fall back on the 
 sofa. ^' You did quite right, Andy. The poor 
 child can't be shut up altogether. But when 
 will they be back, Andy ? "
 
 THE WEDDING. 69 
 
 " Oh, be raysonable yourself now," said the 
 other, coolly ; *' you know they are only gone 
 
 now." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure. But mind, Andy, the 
 moment they come in send him to me." 
 
 Meanwhile Spencer had gone hastily towards 
 the lake, from whence the voice seemed to come. 
 
 *' What folly of me," he said, " to let him go. 
 Troublesome child ! " 
 
 In a moment he caught sight of the " trouble- 
 some child," standing in a little punt which was 
 drawn up close to the shore. He was in a 
 tumult of delight, and clapping his hands eagerly, 
 from sheer spirits. 
 
 " I found this," he cried. " Only think 1 We 
 must go in this ; it will be much shorter." 
 
 The bank overhung the river, and was very 
 steep. 
 
 " Take care ; do take care ! " cried his uncle, in 
 an agony of terror. " How did you get there ? 
 Stay where you are till I come down." 
 
 ** But we must go in the boat, mustn't we ? " 
 said the little fellow, standing in the bows with
 
 70 PUPPETS. 
 
 one of the small oars in his hands. " We will 
 brini^ the doctor over in it to papa, and lose no 
 time." 
 
 *' What folly of me ! " said Spencer to himself, 
 hurrying down the little side-path which wound 
 down to the water. The water was concealed 
 from it by some furze-bushes. He long after 
 recollected that picture of the jSne little fellow 
 standing at the bow of the boat, flourishing 
 the light oar. Long after, also, he recollected 
 the wild start he got when he reached the 
 edge and saw that the boat seemed to be empty, 
 and was moving slowly away from the shore. 
 He could not reach it ; he was quite helpless, 
 and the little boy had not strength to manage it. 
 
 " He must be hidinor at the bottom of the 
 
 o 
 
 boat ! " he said, for so he thought he was. 
 
 He called out to him frantically, " Come back. 
 Give up nonsense, pray, dear child, for your 
 father s sake. We shall not be able to get the 
 boat back without all sorts of trouble." 
 
 He paused, but there was no answer. 
 
 He called again. The boat was gliding
 
 THE WEDDING. 71 
 
 further away ; and then a sudden chill struck 
 to his heart. He was near faintins^ with the 
 bare idea. He climbed up the bank, not by 
 the path, struggling up with his hands and 
 feet, and then he saw that the boat was empty, 
 with a solemn emptiness that made his heart 
 shrink. The sight of his eyes seemed to leave 
 him. Down below him the water was black, 
 and dark, and deep, and weedy ; and though 
 he could not swim, his impulse was to fling 
 himself down, cast himself in at all risks, and, 
 if he could not save, hide himself from the world 
 for ever. But a happier glimpse of reason came 
 to him, and gasping, and staggering, he climbed 
 up the bank yet higher on to the road, and 
 shouting, made for the house. 
 
 There was now a figure actually coming down 
 towards him, sent, as it seemed, by Heaven. 
 "Oh, Andy, Andy!" he shrieked. He could 
 do no more, and pointed back. The faithful 
 retainer understood enough (he had been 
 "rared'' on the Donegal coast). He was past 
 Spencer in a second, and in another was at the
 
 72 PUPPETS. 
 
 waters-edge. A little cap was floating there, 
 aud told him the story and the spot. The boat 
 was drifting; far out, and seemed a fi<iure of 
 all chance and hope drifting away also. With 
 a " Holy Mother !" on his lips, Andy had gone 
 in head-foremost among the weeds. He had 
 once made one in a life-boat crew on that 
 Donegal coast. He was sure to succeed in what 
 he had tried, and he dived, and searched, and 
 explored, and at last came upon the little help- 
 less figure, bound up tightly in a mass of cruel 
 weeds. Andy had now hard work to set him 
 free. But he did so at last. But one so 
 young and tender as the child was, and now 
 so many minutes under the water — there he 
 w^as now, on the bank, limp, saturated, and 
 his soft hair covering his face ; and as for 
 life 
 
 Andy had him in his arms in a moment. 
 
 Not knowing what he was doing, Spencer 
 put out his hands to help ; but Andy shook him 
 off with a fierce " Stand back ! " 
 
 " What shall I do ? " said the other, wildly.
 
 (( 
 
 THE WEDDING. 73 
 
 Will he live ? Have I killed him ? Tell me. 
 
 Tell me something to do." 
 
 Andy was struggling up the bank with super- 
 natural strength. 
 
 *' There, run, run round for the doctor for 
 the bare life, if you do care for Ms life at 
 all." 
 
 In the kitchen, before the great fire, was a 
 strange and terrified group round their insensible 
 figure. No one knew what to do — hot water 
 and hot things were the only resource until the 
 doctor, whom God sent quickly, should arrive. 
 But up-stairs the quick ear of the father had 
 heard the rustling and rushing, and the half 
 cry and half whisper. A yet quicker instinct 
 made him associate this disorder with somethinof 
 connected with his child. Weak as he was, he 
 had risen and come out into the hall. He 
 heard the quick voices — the confusion below — 
 and rather staggered than walked to the top 
 of the stairs. At the same moment, he met 
 Mrs. Winter ; her pale face and despair told 
 him everything.
 
 74 PUPPETS. 
 
 *' Where is he ? " he said, in a trembling voice. 
 " What is all this ? " 
 
 " Oh, come, come ! " said she, bursting into 
 tears. "You must prepare yourself — the poor, 
 poor darling — the boat " 
 
 He could not answer her, but stood looking 
 at her with a fixed stony air, swaying from 
 side to side as if about to fall. 
 
 *' No, no ; you must not — not that way ! " 
 And she caught him in her arms, and tried 
 to stop him. But he put her aside, almost 
 roughly, and went down. 
 
 The wretched brother was the first that met 
 him, who shrunk away as though he wished 
 the earth to cover him. Then the miserable 
 father put aside the group that was humanely 
 striving to hide what was lying there from him, 
 and fell forward on the floor beside the helpless 
 body of his " little man." 
 
 But the faithful Andy had great " sinse," as 
 he called it, and good practical skill for the 
 common emergencies on that Donegal coast. 
 *' Many and many's the time " a poor fisherman
 
 THE WEDDING. 75 
 
 had been carried ashore in that poor way, and 
 they had got him round. And here now, as 
 he was working himself, and making them all 
 work, rubbing, fomenting, and warming, the 
 sounds of wheels came most gratefully to their 
 ears, and made Andy break out into a hearty 
 " Glory be to God for all his mercies ! " In 
 another moment a doctor was stamping down 
 the stairs, swiftly as if on life or death ; and 
 " Glory be to God," as Andy would again say, 
 another doctor was following. What they had 
 come for, though, there was no one up-stairs to 
 tell them, and no messenger could have reached 
 them. 
 
 But the unhappy father, removed from that 
 place up-stairs, had come to himself. His grief 
 had taken a new shape — of vengeance. " I 
 knew it ! God's justice may overtake him. 
 The villain plotted it. God punish him for it ! 
 He came here for it. And you brought us to 
 this wretched house for the same thing. But I 
 shall live to be revenged. I told you so. The 
 vile black villain ! He murdered my poor wife.
 
 "70 PUPPETS. 
 
 and now comes to destroy my poor, poor child. 
 Let him come and kill me— now— no, but he 
 sha'n't ; I shall live, live to destroy him, if only 
 for that. Where is he ? where is he '? Let me 
 find him ! "
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCER BENBOW. 
 
 One of the characters in this little rural 
 piece was that worthy Doctor Legge, who had 
 now arrived, a curious compound of jollity 
 and mechanical science. He was ingenious in 
 manufacturing telescopes and other astronomical 
 instruments, the discoveries which these enabled 
 him to make he was fond of exhibiting to his 
 young friends. He declared he was for " spying 
 out the nakedness of the land." Notwithstanding 
 his " observations," and his jollity, the practice 
 of the pleasant doctor did not sensibly increase. 
 He had a family to maintain, and on the shutting 
 up of the " big house," after Mr. Benbow's death, 
 had seriously thought of emigrating or going 
 away to New Zealand. When lie was offered
 
 78 PUPPETS. 
 
 the post of surgeon to one of tlie vast ocean 
 steamers, he accepted it with eagerness and 
 alacrity, on the ground that " it would give 
 him time to look about him." 
 
 The day of his departure was at hand, and 
 indeed he only waited for the wedding. His 
 present, on this auspicious occasion to the bride, 
 was a handsome opera-glass. 
 
 When it became known in the parish that the 
 doctor was leaving, there was much concern. 
 But, as he pleaded, '^ a man can't support a family 
 on surgical and optical instruments exclusively." 
 He thought himself lucky enough to be able to 
 remain for Lucy's wedding, though, as he said, 
 he was running it far too close for comfort or 
 safety, and that evening was to set off by the 
 evening express. His farewell to his family was 
 warm and touching ; but our doctor said he would 
 soon be home again, and with them all in ten 
 months. On this night of departure, as there 
 was an hour to spare, he went up to his " ob- 
 servatory," so he called it, to have a farewell look 
 at his instruments, and get his large telescope
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCER BENBOW. 79 
 
 into position for ** one last look." He seemed 
 to take farewell of them as he would of his dogs 
 and other favourites. He busied himself putting 
 away these precious objects carefully, for fear the 
 children should damage them. 
 
 While he was thus enoraged there entered to him 
 of a sudden Mr. Gordon, who was still in office. 
 
 " This is a day of festivity," he said bitterly. 
 " What jollity and merry-making I] Yet they 
 did not think fit to ask me. But my enemy 
 was there." 
 
 ** My dear friend," said the other, " I haven't 
 a moment to speak to you — only half-an-hour to 
 catch this train, so don't interrupt me." 
 
 " Happy man," said the other, " going to seek 
 your fortune." 
 
 " Pretty fortune," said the other impatiently ; 
 " a ship's surgeon ; but don't talk to me now. 
 Amuse yourself ; look through that telescope ; 
 only don't worry me now." 
 
 The other did as he was bidden to do. And 
 in a mechanical sort of way put his eye to the 
 telescope.
 
 80 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " the old place. There it lies 
 — where I spent so many happy hours. There 
 are the gardens — how neglected they are now ! 
 I dare not enter there — they would turn me 
 out like any tramp." 
 
 " Cheer up, old man," said the doctor, still 
 bustling about ; ^' there are good days in store 
 for you yet." 
 
 *' And there is the la,ke — on which I used to 
 row so carelessly, when I thought there were no 
 real cares in life. What a change for me ! " 
 
 " Well, you have your nice wife — and your 
 pretty little girl, and " 
 
 " Good gracious ! " he cried, '' why there's that 
 boy ! " 
 
 " What boy ^ " said the doctor. 
 
 " Yes ! he's getting into the punt, and by 
 himself. He'll be upset ! What folly ! " 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me the Colonel's 
 little fellow ? They ought to look after him 
 better than that." 
 
 "Ah, there's some one coming^ down now." 
 
 " Ah ! I knew they'd look after him," said the
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCER BENBOW. 81 
 
 doctor, impatiently. "Why, it's Edward, the 
 brother — he's calling him back from the bank, 
 and wavino; his hands. And now he's running 
 down through the trees to the edge. Good 
 heavens ! the child's tumbled over the side — 
 he'll be drowned. Help ! help ! " 
 
 The doctor called to his companion, as if both 
 were close to the scene. Such was the deception 
 produced by looking through so powerful a 
 
 glass. 
 
 " Oh, I forgot," he said in despair, '^ we are 
 a mile and more away. We can do nothing." 
 
 " Wait ! wait ! " said the other, who had now 
 his eye to the glass, " some one has now plunged 
 in — and he's got hold of the boy. There ! he's 
 safe." 
 
 " You don't say so," said the doctor, eagerly, 
 and turning back from the door which he had 
 reached. " Well, this is exciting ! " 
 
 " And he's swimming with him — and — he's 
 got to the shore now — and the other is helping 
 him out." 
 
 " Who's helping him out ? " 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 PUPPETS. 
 
 Gordon turned away, and in a low voice said, 
 '' Why, that Spencer ! " 
 
 " ril be wanted badly now," said the doctor. 
 *' I'd better run up as fast as I can ! Oh, but I 
 forgot ! I can't lose the train — as my ship — never 
 mind, you'll run as fast as ever you can, and 
 fetch my deputy — now mind — don't lose a second, 
 for time's vital. Now to say good-bye to all 
 below." And the good doctor, who was before 
 all a man of business, dismissed sentiment as 
 a thing he was not concerned with at that crisis, 
 and after his adieus rushed off to catch the nio^ht 
 express, which he accordingly did. 
 
 Nothing would do. Everything was tried. 
 • The faithful Andy even put his lips to the 
 luckless child's, and by inhalations tried his best 
 to restore him. But gradually, after a fiiint 
 flicker, life flickered out, and the luckless Colonel 
 stood there bereft of his treasure and his darlinor. 
 
 " JF/iere, then, is that murderer ?^'' were his 
 first words. " Let me see Lim." 
 
 His brother, blanched with terror and grief, 
 had in vain been telling to others all that had-
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCEK BENBOW. 83 
 
 occurred. The boy had escaped from him, 
 had got into the boat of himself, and despairing 
 of him he had shouted ; plenty of people must 
 have heard him. He had gone to his rescue. 
 
 There was a curious air of incredulity. It 
 was very awkward, and facts appeared strongly 
 against him. His brother in all his despair 
 found composure enough to denounce him thus 
 publicly. 
 
 " Look at him ! There he stands ! " he said ; 
 *'the murderer of my child. Was it not his 
 interest ? Who threatened me when he found 
 that I had been left my own lawful inherit- 
 ance ? Whose interest was it ? Before Heaven 
 I say there stands one that did it — the 
 Murderer." 
 
 Standing among those to whom this was 
 addressed — and he had come up in the hurry of 
 excitement — was Mr. Gordon. To him the 
 unfortunate younger brother appealed in his 
 despair. 
 
 " You know me well ; you do not think I 
 could do this ; say one word, — clear me ! " 
 
 O 2
 
 84 PUPPETS. 
 
 The other paused, and then turned away 
 silently. 
 
 The results of that catastrophe were most 
 serious for all concerned. Colonel Edward went 
 out on the world, crushed out of all life and 
 hope. For Spencer — no pariah could have 
 envied his condition. The denunciations of his 
 brother had been taken up by the whole district 
 and repeated. He was met with averted ej'es, 
 and with scorn shunned ; no one addressed him 
 word or letter. Then, after a time, general in- 
 dignation broke out loudly. The matter should 
 be taken up publicly, and an official investigation 
 follow. It was intolerable. As well mio-ht an 
 infected person be allowed to go about with 
 impunity. 
 
 Spencer Benbow's bearing under this treat- 
 ment was calm and courageous, and, as they 
 considered it, " worthy of a better cause." But 
 it was only defiance at best — the insolence of 
 guilt. He calmly told his story to the few that 
 would listen ; and many recalled the memor- 
 able day when the grand jury and magistrates
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCEE BENBOW. 85 
 
 being assembled for the assizes, a leading county 
 gentleman made a speech to his brethren, and 
 said he thought it exceedingly bad taste and 
 questionable policy, in one who lay under so 
 grave a suspicion, to associate with the gentle- 
 men of the place ; he should at least wait until 
 he had cleared his character. He would beg of 
 him to retire, and not come among them any 
 more. The face of Mr. Benbow grew pale. 
 In a low tone he could only protest his inno- 
 cence. He had no evidence ; how could he 
 find it ? He made a fervid and almost earnest 
 appeal to them against the treatment which he 
 had received, and was receiving. Nothing, how*- 
 ever, would do. He was pressed to go away, 
 as nothing he could do would restore him. 
 
 During the course of this treatment a strange 
 change seemed to be wrought in him. The iron, 
 in his phrase, had eaten into his soul. The 
 struggle against the injustice, as he conceived 
 it, was leaving many a line upon his face ; 
 where could be traced a bitter hostility. All his 
 old openness and cheerfulness seemed to give
 
 8 6 PUPPETS. 
 
 place to a cold, liarcl, and even desperate manner. 
 It was indeed no wonder. He was a ruined 
 man for life ; no one can fight successfully 
 against public judgment once it has condemned. 
 What were Benbow Towers and all his estates to 
 him ? The awful rumour pursued wherever he 
 went. First came the looks askant of those with 
 whom he worked in London ; then the awful 
 summons to the parlour where his chiefs sat in 
 council. 
 
 '*We cannot avail ourselves of your services 
 any longer, Mr. Benbow," said they ; " indeed, 
 were we inclined to do so it were impossible, 
 for your companions refuse to work with you. 
 These rumours may be untrue, and we devoutly 
 trust you will one day clear yourself, but under 
 the circumstances it is undesirable you should 
 
 remain." 
 
 Thus was he chassed ! 
 
 The same fate pursued him everywhere. The 
 dreadful story was in the papers, and furnished 
 a subject for a novel. There was no hope for 
 him and no outlet, unless indeed he would
 
 THE FALL OF SPENCER BENBOW. 87 
 
 change his name, as he was advised, and go and 
 hide in America. 
 
 This he disdained to do. He would wait for 
 his vindication — one day it might come. 
 
 No one would associate with him now. This 
 treatment, however valiant and courageous might 
 be his resistance, he was powerless to resist ; and 
 crushed by the neglect and open dislike of the 
 district and shunned like some pariah, he 
 quitted the place. He could never enjoy them. 
 His story — duly magnified — followed him 
 wherever he went, and there was clearly nothing 
 left for him but to hide his head in a foreign 
 country. • 
 
 This was a terrible thing for one so ambitious 
 and one just starting in life, full of hopes and 
 aspirations. He had tried every resource to 
 extricate himself, but there was no hope of that. 
 There were no resources that ingenuity could 
 supply, so he saw that he must only submit or 
 wait.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EEHABILTTATED. 
 
 A YEAR had passed away since the death of the 
 little boy, where there was great joy caused by 
 the sudden return home of the excellent doctor 
 after his voyage. The annual Dipchester Ball 
 was being given on the night he arrived ; and 
 the doctor, always ready for anything where fun 
 or spirit was concerned, set off at once, to show 
 himself to his friends and pick up all the news, 
 " from where he left off," as he said. 
 
 It was at the supper-table, w^hen after all the 
 greetings were over he gaily questioned his 
 friends. 
 
 " Benbow gone away, and under a cloud ; and 
 why ? " 
 
 There were significant looks and headshakings.
 
 REHABILITATED. 89 
 
 and it was not for some moments that the reason 
 was explained to him. He started. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " he exclaimed. " Don't you 
 know ? He wasn't near the boy. Why, I saw 
 it all. I know all about it ; and there's Gordon, 
 he saw it too, and knows all about it ! " 
 
 A large group had now gathered round him, 
 in utter astonishment, and eager to listen. He 
 went on : expressions of astonishment broke 
 out ! 
 
 " We were looking through the telescope, and 
 I was standing beside him packing as hard as I 
 could. I was as close to the whole business as 
 if it was going on in the street below there,. or 
 under the window. The figures and faces were 
 as clear and bright as yours there. But where's 
 Gordon ? Ask him. Send for him ; he saw the 
 most." 
 
 The doctor was a shrewd, sensible man — and 
 saw the necessity of acting with caution. 
 
 " Don't let this get about," he said suddenly. 
 " Good heavens ! what cruel injustice ! But we 
 must clear Benbow in the fullest and most
 
 90 PUPPETS. 
 
 satisfactory way. I must see him first. It's 
 quite clear. It's revenge for something." 
 
 In a week's time the assizes were to be held 
 at Dipchester. There was '' a heavy calendar," 
 and an unusual attendance of country gentlemen. 
 When they were assembled in the grand jury 
 room, rumour reached them that Mr. Benbow 
 was in the town, and was coming up to see them. 
 There was indignation loudly expressed at this. 
 But the doctor interposing, bid them wait, and 
 they would hear something that would surprise 
 them. He then w^ithdrew and presently entered. 
 Everybody was expectant. Suddenly entered 
 Mr. Benbow. He was stern and resolute. 
 
 " My brother is dead," he said. " The news 
 reached me a few days since." 
 
 This was an unexpected piece of news. Still 
 it was strano^e and rather undio^nified in the heir 
 to present himself in this hasty, eager way. 
 
 " I know," he went on in the same tone, " I 
 know your opinion of me. You think I am all 
 but a murderer — or that but a faint line separ- 
 ates what I have done, or am supposed to have
 
 REHABILITATED. 9 1 
 
 done, from murder. You also hold this view, I 
 presume?" he added, abruptly turning to Gordon. 
 
 The other turned away his eyes in a guilty 
 fashion. 
 
 " What ! you hesitate ? " said Benbow, sud- 
 denly, and with less of his old severity ; *' then 
 say out plainly that you do believe me innocent, 
 that you knew me innocent — me, your old friend. 
 Come ! •" 
 
 There was something so earnest, so pleading 
 in this appeal that it struck all with a strange 
 sense as of something dramatic being at hand. 
 They waited ; Mr. Gordon faltered, looked at 
 Mr. Benbow, then round at the rows of expect- 
 ant faces. What could he do ? How could he 
 retreat without disgrace ? He said : 
 
 "No, no ; 1 must think with the rest — at least 
 I know nothing to make me " 
 
 " Know nothing ! " said Mr. Benbow, in a 
 loud voice. " Sure ? — ^^certain % " He paused. 
 *' Then is Dr. Legge here ? " 
 
 The doctor entered suddenly. It may be 
 conceived what a scene followed this apparition.
 
 92 PUPPETS. 
 
 The doctor told his story. The wretched man 
 fell on his knees, and made an agitated confes- 
 sion. Nothing could be more clear or convinc- 
 ing, and from that instant Mr. Benbow was 
 restored to his old good repute. 
 
 A few weeks later, Spencer Benbow was 
 known to have returned to his castle. It was 
 noted that his hair had whitened. That was a 
 remarkable scene when the gentlemen of the 
 district — grand jurors, &c. — assembled at the 
 Town-hall and declared their deep regret that 
 any reports should have gone about affecting the 
 character of Mr. Benbow ; and declaring that 
 they had the completest confidence in his honour. 
 He was invited to receive an address to this 
 effect, and be restored to his position ; and he did 
 accordingly repair to the room in which they 
 were assembled. But they hardly reckoned on 
 the reception which this well-meant amende was 
 to receive. 
 
 ** This," he said, " I suppose, is your atone- 
 ment to me for your cruel injustice ; for your 
 destruction of me and of my house by these
 
 EEHABILITATET). 93 
 
 slanders ! You are sorry for it, are you ? Can 
 you repair the wrong ? — mend what has been 
 broken ? I can do all that myself. I ask 
 nothing from you — neither your sympathies, nor 
 your apologies, nor your regrets. I warned, you, 
 recollect, that you were destroying me ; but you 
 did not heed. You would not know me any 
 longer, you said. What if I do not hioio yofi ? " 
 
 These burning words, taken down in sliort- 
 hand by eager reporters, invited specially to 
 record something agreeable, were spread over the 
 county, and, it must be said, were generally 
 considered spirited and well deserved. No one 
 was more completely rehabilitated. Mr. Benbow 
 acted in the future as he had spoken, and very 
 truly cut the county people. " I banish you," 
 he seemed to say with Coriolanus, " from that 
 hour." The county had the disagreeable duty of 
 looking on while Mr. Benbow slowly built up the 
 fortunes of his house. The people of the place 
 were not his people. They saw others come in 
 their place, invited from great houses. Every- 
 thing he touched seemed to prosper. He had
 
 94 PUPPETS. 
 
 hosts of wealthy and titled friends to supply the 
 place of those who had rejected him — and whom 
 he rejected now. 
 
 One, and one only, was exempted from this 
 contemptuous indifference — viz. the man whose 
 silence had all but proved his ruin — and from 
 that hour a sort of blight seemed to have fallen 
 on him. Mr. Benbow spoke to him plainly. 
 
 '* Your act was diabolical and malignant, for 
 I've never injured you. I might as well compro- 
 mise a felony as pass it by. Punishment must, 
 and shall, overtake you. You know not what I 
 suffered during those wretched months — so pre- 
 pare. Vengeance shall come upon you and a 
 terrible chastisement." His voice trembled as he 
 spoke to him. "Go : you know you cannot remain 
 here. The office you enjoyed so long is taken from 
 you. But that is not all. I shall hunt you doivn. 
 Wherever you go, this story shall go with you." 
 
 " I have a family," he pleaded ; " my poor girl 
 — her mother — for their sakes be merciful." 
 
 " No," said the other. " At least you shall 
 suffer some of the agonies you made me sufier."
 
 REHABILITATED. 95 
 
 Mr. Gordon, shunned, pointed at, and having 
 lost all he had in the world, had to go out on 
 the wide sea of the world, to seek the fortune 
 which he was not to find. He was soon for- 
 gotten. Indeed in two or three years, when 
 Mr. Benbow was travelling on the Continent 
 with his new wife, this wretched, broken man, 
 almost in rags, found his way back, and came 
 to beg half-crowns from the doctor and other 
 good friends. At last he found his way back 
 to Dipchester, and then Mr, Benbow relented, 
 and e:ot him into an alms-house. There he 
 soon died, having left, it was said, an only 
 daughter, who had ran away long ago. While 
 Mr. Benbow's history was borne in mind, and 
 had all the attraction' of a romance. 
 
 Soon it was heard that a high and important 
 marriage had been contracted — important in 
 wealth, rank, and connection. Mr. Benbow had 
 married Lady Anne Durden, daughter of an 
 important Earl. He had an only son, who was 
 now a youth of nearly twenty. Spencer Benbow 
 was a great personage indeed, but known as a
 
 96 PUPPETS. 
 
 cold, hard, pitiless being, bent on the one aim 
 of advancing himself and his family. He was 
 never known to do anything kind or gracious, 
 though he gave charity abundantly after an 
 official system. 
 
 And now, while all these events have been 
 related, and we have been stretching back our 
 gaze into the past, Mr. Benbow has still been 
 in his pew — his mind, it may be, wandering 
 away also — skimming lightly over those grave 
 events that were so portentous for him. It 
 was like the Eastern who put his head for an 
 instant into the tub of water, and then saw 
 backwards through a whole life. There was 
 the little boy's tablet, seen so very often. But 
 it was only at the close of the service, and as 
 the organ was breaking out in jubilation, that he 
 noticed a new blueish marble slab on the wall, 
 low down, near the ground. It was strange he 
 had never remarked it, and through his glasses 
 he read the past name "James Gordon." He 
 started — forgot his august companions — and 
 even as they defiled out hastily whispered
 
 REHABILITATED. 97 
 
 the beadle, "Who put up that tombstone? 
 Quick." 
 
 *' A lady, sir, a daughter of the unfortunate 
 Mr. (jordon." 
 
 Mr. Benbow muttered : 
 
 "It should not have been put in such a 
 place." 
 
 Then he turned to his Duke, and attended 
 him to his carriage. 
 
 END OF PKOLOGUE. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DIPCHESTER. 
 
 The Benbow family, as we have seen, were 
 settled close to Dipchester, and, as it were, kept 
 that antique little town fresh and sweet. When 
 their great coach trundled in state through the 
 long street which was the spine of the place, 
 or their more quiet brougham, which had th^ 
 significant dignity of a nobleman in plain black 
 evening dress, the general pulse was much 
 stirred — it was like a king, or, rather, grand 
 duke, visiting his subjects. 
 
 Yet they were merely a private family, and 
 not very rich ; but there was an idea that they 
 had immense influence, thiough intricate con- 
 nections, which branched out like veins in the 
 human body, and the blood which all flowed 
 
 H 2
 
 100 PUPPETS. 
 
 from the great centre Benbow heart. Dukes, 
 marquises, prime ministers, were supposed to 
 consider any wish or any request of the head 
 of the Benbow family with respect and acquies- 
 cence. There were lords — old, as well as some 
 newly run from the heraldic mould — planted 
 about the district ; some more wealthy even ; 
 but they were felt not to have power, and Dip- 
 cliester did not abase itself before them. 
 
 The town itself, to the antiquary, was charm- 
 ins^ and inviting : to the bagman, or to the 
 soldier mind, only a poor sort of a place : geo- 
 graphically, very many miles behind the dis- 
 agreeable district of " Godspeed." There was 
 no railway, no amusement to speak of, and but 
 little business : all these flourished at the greater 
 manufacturing town, some eight or ten miles 
 away. Its one street wound, like a snake, in 
 pleasant bends, lined with low houses, some of 
 them overhanging the path, and of the genuine 
 framed pattern. The old Queen Anne's brick — 
 close, smooth, firm, and bright — asserted itself 
 everywhere with a bold independence, flourished
 
 DIPCHESTER. 101 
 
 in an honest- glowing health, like the cheeks 
 of a fresh country girl, and seemed to betoken 
 a fresh stirring circulation inside. 
 
 The old Town-hall, with a stone-be wigged 
 Koyal George in front, its pediment beams of 
 a dark- varnished oak, mixed with the cheerful 
 red ground, seemed as gay and as well burnished 
 as a Dutch house. The old inn, " The Swan," 
 was of the snug roadside pattern, with its 
 wooden banner hung outside. It had its par- 
 lour, with sloped sides, like a ship's cabin ; its 
 snug bar, low rooms, and alarmingly funereal 
 beds, which nodded and trembled as the guest 
 clambered in, and made him think uncomfort- 
 ably he was under a catafalque, and laid out 
 for the night. 
 
 But, in its own estimation, Dipchester was 
 raised to the dignity of a perfect metropolis 
 by one feature ; though in other points, the 
 inhabitants were accustomed to think and speak 
 poorly of themselves, with a sort of sad deprecia- 
 tion, owning their unhappy geographical position, 
 *'at the back of Godspeed," with a Heep-like
 
 102 PUPPETS. 
 
 humility. This was the little theatre — or rather, 
 the Theatre Koyal, Dipchester — which in such 
 a place, acrimonious in its religion and so con- 
 tracted in size, was a phenomenon. It, indeed, 
 owed its existence to an accident : in fact, to 
 an hilarious and enthusiastic subscription by the 
 gentlemen, years ago, who wished to "play" 
 themselves, and who had run up the little 
 temple. It was quaint enough in its way, 
 standing in a little bye-quarter, looking into 
 a patch of green common, and having ".Theatre" 
 more legibly written on its face, by its style 
 and bearing, than it is on such places now. For 
 it had a sort of jocund, irregular look about it, 
 and its wood-covered roof; while up to each 
 of its three doors arose a small ship-cabin stair- 
 case, with a little shed or porch over all three, 
 w^hich went up and down with the steps. There 
 were strange smells haunting the place, defying 
 control, most insubordinate on the grand nights 
 — or, the one grand night — of the year. This 
 dreadful enemy would rise slowly from the pit 
 about the middle of the performance ; but, with
 
 DIPCHESTER. 103 
 
 a gallant self-respect which deserved all praise, 
 was privately endured with a smiling conscious- 
 ness, and wholly ignored by the boxes. What 
 kept the little house was the tradition that 
 Mr. Kemble had performed there one night. 
 He was passing by on his way to " a gentleman's 
 seat" — so Mr. Haggerston, the lessee, would tell 
 the story — and was waylaid by an old comedian 
 and friend — then manager — Gubbins ; and in a 
 noble and gracious way consented to give " The 
 Stranger." 
 
 " And talk of generosity, charity, and doing 
 the handsome thing," said Mr. Haggerston, re- 
 lating the incident in his box-office as a sort 
 of bonus to the ticket-taker, "where will you 
 find 'em, except in the Profession ? A man 
 like that — that had kings and h emperors at his 
 feet — that had but to say, ' Give me a hundred,' 
 * two hundred,' aye, ^ ^ve hundred pounds, and 
 I'll play for you, but not till then' — to think 
 of his coming in, like you or I, in a simple, 
 unhorsetentatious way, with no more pride in 
 him than the commonest supernoomery ! He
 
 104 PUPPETS. 
 
 stood, sir, where you are standing at this very 
 moment, and held a conversation with Dumble- 
 ton, the previous box book-keeper ! " 
 
 Pretty walks lead into Dipchester ; and of 
 a fine morning, whether going or coming, we 
 meet along the high road the great waggon and 
 its four horses, the cheerful tramps, and, most 
 frequently, the travelling artists, who carry por- 
 tions of a divided show, the husband half, the 
 wife the rest — artists without a theatre, and 
 thrown more upon their own resources than any 
 other members of the profession. 
 
 Not very far away from the little town we 
 arrive at the gate of Benbow Towers — the 
 temple in which the great " Boss " of the 
 district is enthroned, and where he enjoys his 
 worship. This Spencer Benbow, Esq., was great 
 among the little squirelings of the place ; but 
 the feeling was as of strange, untitled influ- 
 ence among the mysterious dukes and marquises 
 before alluded to — this simple commoner, who 
 seemed to be as great as they, and even more 
 remarkable for his want of title ; as the black
 
 DIPCHESTER. 105 
 
 coat of Castlereagli made him more distingue 
 among the blaze of decorations about him. 
 What a wonderful match that was which he 
 contrived for his eldest daughter, nothing less 
 than the Marquis of Kimbury's eldest son ! For 
 his second, he found Lord Robert Purfleet ; but 
 for his own and only son, Charles Benbow, it was 
 known that he was planning, building, digging, 
 burrowing, and lying awake hundreds of nights, 
 to construct an alliance of the most splendid 
 sort, to which end he had selected a political 
 Duke's daughter — Lady Rosa Fulke, one of 
 three — and which alliance would be the crown- 
 ing of the edifice. All to this end, also, would 
 Benbow Towers, at fitful intervals, change from 
 a dignified and morose bearing — a kind of 
 grand, Manfred-like solitariness — into a gay and 
 splendid activity, glittering and sparkling with 
 lights, and teeming with life. 
 
 This almost pantomimic change would take 
 place in a night. It would be found, of a 
 sudden, that the great mansion was full of 
 noble company — seen dimly and afar off by
 
 106 PUPPETS. 
 
 the common herd. Sometimes it was a duke, 
 sometimes a political chief, or great general, 
 but always persons in whom power as well as 
 rank were joined. A smooth, reverend man 
 would be seen in the garden, in black felt wide- 
 awake, gaily chatting with Miss Lydia Benbow 
 — that was his Grace of Canterbury, come for 
 change of air for a few weeks. A jovial, burly 
 gentleman would turn into the avenue on one 
 of Mr. Benbow's horses — that was the Riofht 
 Hon. James Hoxter, Secretary for some *' Affairs" 
 or other, now exactly like a plain country squire, 
 which he was. Haughty and insipid dames, 
 beautiful girls, gallant youths, all seemed to 
 come and pass through Benbow House, as if it 
 were a douane, or customs, where all were to 
 contribute dues to the glory and advancement 
 of Pelham Benbow, Esq. 
 
 These gatherings, as I have said, took weeks 
 of painful gestation, and, though they cost vast 
 sums, had each some aim or end intended, which 
 more than repaid. If there was expense, there 
 was calculation and certainty of return for that
 
 DIPCHESTER. 107 
 
 expense. The man's — or gentleman's — whole 
 life had been a series of such measured calcula- 
 tions. So had he begun, so had he planned his 
 own rise, his own marriage with the Lady Mary 
 (she had been Lady Mary Tozer) ; so had he got 
 into Parliament ; so had he laboriously effected 
 those joinings or friendship with the great, which 
 he made as fast and firm as if diamond cement 
 had been used ; so had he obtained Benbow 
 Towers ; so had he " got on " his family not from 
 any affection, but from finding in them qualities 
 which were useful to him ; so had he married 
 his daughters ; and so was he now planning his 
 last grand scheme, the marriage of his . son 
 Charles with the political duke's daughter. 
 
 At this time, when the present little melo- 
 drama begins, Benbow Towers, like its servants, 
 was in a blaze of gala livery, and, full of 
 company, seemed to glitter in its windows and 
 gardens like a piece of silver cloth. The Duke 
 and his desired daughter. Lady Kosa, were there, 
 with many celestial political magnates, all chosen 
 with the greatest nicety, the most delicate
 
 108 PUPPETS. 
 
 anticipated care, the most tender laying of trains 
 — the lenorth of each fusee being: calculated with 
 a mathematical exactness, so that the motives 
 and baits should be touched at the precise 
 moment, and all should " go off " together. 
 
 The present house-filling was, as it were, the 
 loading of a piece of artillery, which, at the 
 proper time, was to be laid and discharged, with 
 a certainty of hitting what it was aimed at. 
 There we see him now, sitting in his study, a 
 general in a campaign at head-quarters, or a Von 
 Moltke in a cabinet, laying out on paper all the 
 operations. The rest of the family were carrying 
 out these plans, unconsciously, and the pleasant 
 entertainments of a country house were going 
 forward — most of them there thinking they were 
 asked but for their own merits, and to enjoy 
 themselves. 
 
 This was his portrait — at least, what could be 
 seen of him, from his desk upwards, where he 
 was swimming, as it were, on the surface of 
 paper billows, and waves of pamphlets. A long, 
 flat face, white and hard, which mental exercise
 
 DIPCHESTER. 109 
 
 had dried up and "taken down/' mucli as 
 training affects the body. His eyes were faint 
 and washy, instead of bold, bright, glistening 
 orbits ; his hair was a sort of spare yellow 
 covering. He was thin, worn wiry, always 
 exquisitely clean as to shaving, and which 
 seemed done by machinery; and as smooth and 
 level in all his surfaces and edges as though he 
 had been neatly cast in a mould. He spoke with 
 a quiet precision in his voice, but quite distinctly, 
 though a little husky. A microscope could not 
 detect a speck on his clothes — his rather spare 
 frock coat and light grey trousers — which always 
 seemed of the same age, and, as his valet found, 
 never could be got to grow old. 
 
 All this planning as time went on, grew into 
 his nature. He cared little for the plan after 
 all : it was the planning that was so fascinating. 
 Such was this Machiavel of Benbow, as seen 
 planning his great cast for the duke's daughter. 
 The House for himself, the Duke's daughter for 
 his son ! — these were the levers with which he 
 would prize open a peerage for himself, another
 
 110 PUPPETS. 
 
 seat for his son, then a fresh step up the baronial 
 ladder. In short, the perspective of advance- 
 ment he looked down was" endless. 
 
 There was time before him. He was not yet 
 forty-five. He all but doubled his life by rising 
 at six, and going to bed at twelve or one ; thus 
 having eighteen or nineteen hours in his day, 
 where most other men had but twelve or 
 fourteen. He had indomitable energy, tact, 
 and a quiet but irresistible force in all his 
 actions. 
 
 He has just got away from the Duke for a 
 short time — that magnate having despatches to 
 write — when a knock is heard at the door, and a 
 fair, tall, open-looking youth of eighteen stands 
 in the door. There is a girlish air about him, 
 from the pink and delicate colour of his skin ; 
 and there is a faint straw-coloured moustache, 
 like a bit of floss silk. 
 
 " I cannot speak to you now, Charles," said 
 the father in his low, measured tones — it was as 
 if he were reading from a book. " But why are 
 you not with Lady Kosa ? "
 
 DIPCHESTEK. Ill 
 
 " We are going out to ride in a moment ; hut 
 I came to tell you, father, that Haggerston has 
 come up about his * bespeak,' as he calls it. He 
 says he has got a wonderful actress — " 
 
 " Pray don't detain me with these childish 
 things. Is your mind ever going to rise to the 
 serious business of life ? I cannot see the man ; 
 give him a subscription." 
 
 " But, my dear father, Lady Eosa is quite 
 eager about it ; she says she is dying to see 
 a country town theatre. And Mr. Hoxter is 
 talking to the Duke now about it." 
 
 Mr. Benbow laid down his pen. ^ 
 
 " Oh, I must see about this at once, I fancy. 
 Send Haggerston to me in a quarter of an 
 hour. I shall speak to the Duke." 
 
 Mr. Haggerston, manager of the Theatre 
 Royal, was a burly man, in a tail-coat, which, 
 with his stoutness, gave him the look, as one of 
 the gentlemen said, of a river buoy. His cheeks 
 were flushed, and he had a cool, blunt, and 
 familiar manner, that no doubt came from 
 frequently addressing audiences. He was now
 
 112 PUPPETS. 
 
 in the library, with a party of gentlemen sitting 
 round, and who were glad of something to amuse 
 them ; for it had been snowing hard all the 
 morning, and there could be no hunting. There 
 was the Rio^ht Hon. Mr. Hoxter, chairman of the 
 committee, as it were — an impression to which 
 the solemn oak and the almost parliamentary 
 furniture of the room contributed. Other 
 members present : Mr. Joseph Benbow, the host's 
 cousin ; Colonel Hanly, *^ scion of a noble 
 house ; " a young and clever barrister who wrote 
 those smart and interesting letters in the * Times' 
 on clergy matters, signed '' Loaves and Fishes," 
 but whose real name was Addiscombe ; Lord 
 Alwyn Fox, and others. 
 
 " You have quite roused our curiosity, Mr. 
 Hao[gerston," exclaimed the chairman. " Tell us 
 some more about this wonderful paragon of 
 yours. Effingham, you say ? — not a bad choice 
 of a name to beo^in with." 
 
 " Mark my words, sir, when she gets to 
 London, she'll draw the whole town. Before 
 long, I know, we'll have the agents down here,
 
 DIPCHESTER. ] ] 3 
 
 trying her with ten and fifteen pound a week. I 
 know that sort of game pretty well by this time. 
 I saw her at a little twopenny-halfpenny theatre 
 on the circuit, and snapped her up at once." 
 
 " Well, you did the same as the agents, you 
 see, ha, ha ! " said Lord AJwyn Fox. 
 
 " Who is she, do you know % " asked Colonel 
 Hanly. 
 
 " I take her to he, gents," said Mr. Haggerston, 
 speaking in a low, mysterious voice and looking 
 round in a guilty manner, "something, 'ighly 
 tip-top, as has slipped .away from a noble family 
 of the 'ristocracy, sir. She has an air — a presence 
 — worth at the least five guineas and a half a 
 week." 
 
 *' And what piece have you chosen for us, Mr 
 Haggerston ? " 
 
 " An evergreen ! — a piece, sir, that will keep 
 the boards as long as the taste for Billy Shake- 
 spere reigns ; there's a British pit to pay their 
 money at the pigeon-holes. I allude to the 
 ' Lady ' — the ' Lady,' sir, of the immortal Lytton 
 Bulwer, Bart." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 114 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Ah, you mean * The Lady of Lyons,' " said 
 Lord Alwyn. " Dear sweet Pauline — what a 
 lovable creature — so womanly. She was thrown 
 away upon Claude, quite." 
 
 " A noble play, sir. Never knew it not to 
 draw money. I suppose it is acted somewhere 
 in the British dominions, every night. The sun 
 never sets on that piece, sir." 
 
 Here entered Charles. 
 
 " My father wishes to see Mr. Haggerston in 
 his study ; " and the manager hurried out. 
 
 He could not be free or familiar in that cold 
 presence, but remained awkward and silent 
 before the dry, cold potentate. 
 
 '' I have consulted with his Grace, and the 
 other gentlemen and ladies who are stopping 
 here, and it seems they all desire to see whatever 
 entertainment you have to offer. I must ask 
 you to do the thing as handsomely as it can be 
 done with your resources. Keserve a number of 
 the very best places." 
 
 '* I understand perfectly, Mr. Benbow, sir. 
 Leave it all to me. I'll make it a kind of state
 
 DIPCHESTER. 115 
 
 visit, sir — pink and white calico, take down 
 partitions between the boxes — " 
 
 " I beg — now really I heg^,'' said his ruler, 
 austerely, " there will be nothing so exaggerated 
 or ridiculous. Everything proper, but nothing 
 beyond. No — er — gilt chairs or, anything of 
 that kind. Now, do understand me, or .some 
 one shall go down and see that these instructions 
 are carried out." 
 
 " Depend upon me, Mr. Benbow. Everything 
 shall be in the nicest taste — and my eternal 
 gratitude, sir " 
 
 " Thank you. Never mind that, for you owe 
 me none. There, that will do, Mr. Haf^^gcrston." 
 
 I I
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 
 
 On the second day after the assembling of 
 the sfuests at the Benbows, when the distin- 
 guished forces were about forming in order of 
 battle for going down to dinner, there entered 
 two new arrivals. These were Lord Formanton 
 and his son Mr. Conway. 
 
 The coming of these personages had been 
 a matter of doubt ; for the uncertainty was 
 almost in proportion to their importance, and a 
 look almost of happiness was to be noted on 
 the lined- features of the host. For Lord 
 Formanton was a person in his eyes of exceed- 
 incr weig;ht and influence, with connections in 
 the Ministry, and who had shown a particular 
 liking; for Mr. Benbow ; while his son and heir
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 117 
 
 was one of those promising finished young men, 
 of whom great things are prophesied, and for 
 whom everything in the world was to run 
 smoothly. Tlie good fairy who looked after 
 him had indeed provided him — as such guardians 
 do their favoured wards — with all her treasures 
 of good health, good looks, good tastes, good 
 accomplishments and manners. There are many 
 young men of greater fortune and higher 
 positions, from whom society expects but little ; 
 while there are a few less favoured, whom 
 society follows with interest, having settled that 
 they shall rise in the world and do pleasant 
 things. This may be for some sympathetic 
 attractions, felt even by those who do not see 
 or come in contact with the person in question. 
 In short, he is interesting. 
 
 Lord Formanton, the father of Mr. Conway 
 the interesting, was a nobleman of great wealth, 
 a busy lord, with a fine park and estate — a 
 noble seat, Formanton. The rental was large, 
 and that curious, incomprehensible heir, whom 
 mammas could not make out, had been asked
 
 118 PUPPETS. 
 
 to this house and that, importuned to this castle 
 and that ; if he had made a point of it he might 
 have had files of young ladies of good birth 
 and condition drawn up for his inspection ; a 
 lane of rank and beauty down which he might 
 walk and choose. But nothing could be made 
 of the creature, though with unwearied perse- 
 verance they tried him with everything. He 
 gave them credit for cleverness, owning that 
 wdth a surprising instinct they had divined some 
 of his tastes. Nothing could be made of him. 
 He went about in an undecided fashion, half 
 dissatisfied, half seeking for that philosopher's 
 stone of the ideal soul above all the dross and 
 imperfection of this world, which, if really found, 
 would, by the fatal blight of familiarity and 
 restlessness, in a short time be found unsatis- 
 factory. 
 
 In every circle is to be found this being, 
 who indeed, as it were, drives " a good trade " 
 in the business, the good-looking " misunder- 
 stood one," who meets now and again one that 
 can understand him a little, who is always in
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 119 
 
 the end turning out a deception. Thus he has 
 to pass on to another. In his early stages such 
 a young man was Mr. Conway, but he gradu- 
 ally worked himself free of such affectation, 
 though it took a long, long time. When urged 
 to go into politics, the same nicety and hesita- 
 tion pursued him. No party was up to his 
 ideal : '' the representation of a vast number 
 of fellow-creatures seemed an awful trusty from 
 which a man might shrink." At least he must 
 try and fit himself for the solemn duty ; and 
 so the time, and worse, the opportunity, passed 
 by. Thus with the many advantageous alliances 
 that were proposed to him. That, too, was an 
 awful trust, alas ! not to be laid down, as could 
 be the parliamentary one. But what distin- 
 guished him from others, and saved him from 
 the category of "fop," ''ridiculous stuck-up 
 fellow," was, that all this was conscientious and 
 genuine. It would have worn off like bad 
 plating but for a calamity that really was to 
 colour his whole life. 
 
 The present Lord Formanton was twice
 
 120 PUPPETS. 
 
 married, as will be seen by turning to the 
 Golden Book. His first wife, Mr. Conway's 
 mother, was one of the most charming of 
 women : sweet and amiable, charitable and good, 
 as it were savouring the whole household with 
 a delicate fragrance of simplicity, which is known 
 and but to be described as " goodness." She 
 was very young when married, and when Mr. 
 George Conway was a youth, really looked like 
 his sister. Her husband, a good-natured, rather 
 foolish little peer, always fussy, but credulous, 
 was busy with a hundred little trifles in the 
 day, which, through the magnifier of a dull 
 simplicity which never left his eye a moment, 
 were enlarged to vast proportions. 
 
 They made a very happy trio. There was 
 a softness and sweetness about her which was 
 her special charm. The young worldling, her 
 son, became natural, soft, gentle, and loving, 
 when with her. Being with her, he thought 
 education, teaching, and reading were all in her 
 gentle face. She cared as much for him. 
 
 Conway had a friend a good deal older than
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 121 
 
 himself, for whom he had a sort of romantic 
 admiration, and with whom he exchanged a 
 good deal of his epicureanism and scepticism, 
 and whom he would force his friends to admire 
 rapturously. " I know no type of chivalry like 
 him," he would say ; " he is the noblest, most 
 unselfish fellow in the world : gentle as a w^oman, 
 brave as a lion. He was the first who really 
 said, ' Go, poor liy,' which that snivelling Sterne 
 only imagined his Toby saying." This person 
 was a tall, slightly stooped man, a little grizzled, 
 with a soft voice and eye. His gentle mother, 
 Mr. Conway insisted, should ap[)reciate and 
 admire this hero, and she would have obliged 
 him in a far more difficult thing than that. But 
 why dwell on that marvel of stupid blindness, 
 when all the town was looking on and smiling, 
 and shaking its head ? It duly prophesied, and 
 saw its prophecy fulfilled. Lord Formanton and 
 his son had gone away for a short voyage in 
 a yacht which the most chivalrous of men had 
 insisted upon lending ; and Eoch ester had been 
 conjured and implored, as he was a chivalrous
 
 122 PUPPETS. 
 
 mail, to look after the dear mother whom they 
 were to leave behind for a week only. The type 
 of chivalry wrung his friend's hand, and with 
 a certain reluctance, as thousfh he were makinor 
 a sacrifice, promised solemnly to do what was 
 asked. Then came the nine days' wonder, the 
 inquiries, the mystery, the telegraphing, and the 
 " I saw it all along." When husband and son 
 came rushing home, they found their house 
 empty, their hearth desolate. The death of the 
 erring wife soon followed. 
 
 In Mr. George Conway this blow caused a 
 surprising change. He could not at tirst believe 
 it. It was more likely that words had failed 
 of their meaning, and men gone mad. Nature, 
 life, religion, must have turned upside-down, 
 if such a terrible belying of fair promise and 
 innocence was allowed. When the truth at 
 last came home to him, it quite changed him, 
 and he had done with chivalry for ever. 
 Further, though he scorned revenge, he secretly 
 longed for an opportunity when he could strike 
 some blow, take some step which should commie
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 123 
 
 him, as it were, and show himself at least how 
 he despised his former chivalry. In his manner 
 and behaviour there was little changed : he 
 affected to be all politeness and graciousness, 
 but he was in a wary ambuscade, ready to 
 welcome the first opportunity. That done, he 
 felt that his soul would be more at rest. 
 It was in this temper that he found himself 
 at the Benbows, and in the humour also, that 
 if he found any girl likely to fancy him he 
 would enjoy tempting her to give him her heart, 
 and would then depart with as little mark on 
 his own as his yacht would leave on the waters 
 behind her. 
 
 The peer was crushed and overwhelmed. 
 Friends said, *' he was utterly broken." He 
 moped, took no interest in life, was out of gear, 
 and then, to the surprise of no one, married 
 again. His son made no protest, knowing that 
 his father was *^ weak," as it is called, and scarcely 
 responsible, as another would be. He saw, too, 
 that his father " wanted some one to take care 
 of him." But this new wife proved to be a lady
 
 124 PUPPETS. 
 
 of almost frantic extravagance. The castle was 
 refitted and refurnished. She was lavish in balls 
 and entertainments, jewels and dresses ; and the 
 Formanton estate, already heavily encumbered, 
 soon began to creak and groan, as it were, like 
 the great dinner-table at one of their banquets, 
 under mortgages and even bills of sale. Accord- 
 ing to the vulgar phrase, the Formantons were 
 ^' going it," almost galloping it indeed. 
 
 To complete the odd permutations through 
 which Mr. Conway had passed, he had been 
 married. This was known to very few, the 
 truth being that he had lived in that state of 
 life but a few months. He had been married 
 when very young, being not more than one-and- 
 twenty at the time. About this there was a 
 certain romance. His father at the time was 
 only a cousin to the reigning house of Forman- 
 ton, and had no reasonable chance of succession 
 — such a one, at least, as neither dowager nor 
 money lender of position would for an instant 
 consent to discount. The son of this gentleman, 
 and with but slight chance of advancement in
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 125 
 
 the world, Mr. George Conway would have to 
 fight his way through the world. This he was 
 quite prepaied to do, and had the abilities 
 certainly to ensure success. An early romantic 
 attachment to a beautiful young creature might 
 lighten the wearisomeness of the road ; but it 
 did not make it smoother when, after many 
 alienations and difficulties, it was known that 
 the handsome, penniless young fellow had 
 married. 
 
 However, as we have said, the material conse- 
 quences of the step were of little moment, for 
 the pretty young creature, frail and delicate, did 
 not linger very long in this world. A few years, 
 the direct line of Formanton became extinct, as 
 the two sons died within a few months of each 
 other, and Mr. George Conway's father became 
 heir to the titles and estates. 
 
 One of Mr. Benbow's reasons for desiring to 
 see much of this young man, was the hope of 
 stimulating his son by his example. He cor- 
 dially admired his easy degac/e manners and indif- 
 ference, which he held were of more force as an
 
 1 26 PUPPETS. 
 
 invitation, and as a lever in securing what you 
 wanted, than any laboured exertion to the same 
 end. But, alas ! as he reflected, ^' this sort of 
 thing" conies by instinct and nature ; when 
 assumed, though precisely the same to all appear- 
 ance, it somehow fails. The casual spectator 
 sees it is counterfeit. If a naturally weak man 
 assumes commanding tones, and requires place 
 to be given to him, the spell will not work in 
 his hands. 
 
 Another reason for Mr. Benbow's askino; the 
 Formantons, father and son, was, that they were 
 neighbours of his "errand Duke," or ^^ ires lies" 
 as some of the fashionable ladies declared it, 
 Formanton and Banff Castle lying close together, 
 the Duke and his Lordship holding the same 
 faith in politics. Both places were at " St. 
 Arthur's-on-Sea," a rising watering-place, created 
 and developed by his Grace, and which, one day 
 or other, would repay the pains and expense 
 bestowed on rearing. Mr. Conway had thus 
 opportunity for indulging in the luxurious taste 
 of yachting and yacht-racing, his boat being
 
 ENTER ME. GEOEGE CONWAY. 127 
 
 familiar at the various regattas ; while the Duke 
 aud his daughters moved about with a stately 
 swanlike dignity in their four hundred ton steam 
 vessel, * The Lurline.' 
 
 This arrival was an additional agrernent for 
 his Grace. He had often thought, how suitable 
 would have been an alliance between his Lady 
 Eosa and the young heir of Formanton, their 
 places and estates lying so conveniently together. 
 And he had done all compatible with dignity 
 and propriety to *' bring it about," as it is called. 
 The cold Lady Eosa, in her heart of hearts, was 
 more than kindled by the attractions of Mr. 
 Conway. Not one of her proposed suitors had 
 seemed to her so acceptable, and to have so 
 many gifts that she admired. His many-sided 
 and uncertain character attracted her and piqued 
 her. There wns nothing of the platitude that 
 she found in the other young men proposed to 
 , her. Unfortunately she had long seen that Mr. 
 Conway was wholly indifferent to her. Perhaps 
 he found in her that very platitude which she 
 objected to, and that she was but another casting
 
 128 PUPPETS. 
 
 from the invariable young lady mould. It 
 must not be thought that there was anything 
 of match-making, or the trying to secure a parti 
 in tliese wishes, or the steps taken for their 
 fulfilment. The noble father simply desired to 
 see his daughter established in life, in a suitable 
 station, where she would be happy. Failing Mr. 
 Conway, the Duke's eyes had rested on young 
 Mr. Ben bow, a worthy prosaic young fellow, who 
 would make his daughter happy, and would find 
 her a home when he had gone to repose in the 
 vault with preceding dukes. With a sigh, Lady 
 Eosa felt that this must be the course taken, 
 though secretly she hoped that some strange 
 turn might bring about what she wished. 
 
 The procession to the state dinner filed down 
 in this order : Mr. Benbow and Lady Eosa ; 
 Lord Formanton and the wife of a local baronet ; 
 Mr. Conway and the local baronet's daughter ; 
 ■ vouns: Mr. Benbow with the clersfvman's ; the 
 rest, Adelphi guests, according to their degree ; 
 and the Duke and a Dowager Peeress. It 
 was all very grand. The state liveries, state
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 129 
 
 plate, and state lights and flowers. They swept 
 down. The menials stood to arms as the pro- 
 cession entered those soft realms of delight — all 
 gleaming with gold and silver, and light, and 
 flowers. A handsome dinner thus laid out under 
 the best conditions in a noble mansion ; the 
 table lined with beauty, rank, and wit ; the table 
 itself supporting all that is choice in precious 
 metals, food and drink ; even in its wines stretch- 
 ing far back to some remote " laying down," and 
 thus keeping up the associations of ancestry : all 
 this combines to make an ensemble that, like the 
 opera, becomes one of the genuine shows of this 
 earth. The Duke of Banff'shire was indeed a 
 haughty noble. He was a stately man — sur- 
 prisingly young, and who, by extravagant pains 
 and diligence, kept himself young, where another 
 would have looked aged and dilapidated. His 
 hair was full, brown and curly, his cheeks covered 
 with a delicate bloom, and he had a haughty and 
 kingly walk. 
 
 Young Mr. Benbow, though " cast " with 
 another dame, was still placed beside the person 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 PUPPETS. 
 
 destined for him. Mr. Conway was opjjosite. 
 How agreeable he was ! How he contrived, with- 
 out effort, to deliver himself of reflections and 
 remarks which always interested ! He told stories 
 of himself and his yacht — and somehow there was 
 no air of selfish personality in these disquisitions. 
 Every one was amused or took interest. Mr. 
 Benbow would glance uneasily at his son as he 
 saw that he was eclipsed, and that the Lady 
 Rosa was neglecting her companion for her vis-ci- 
 vis. The young fellow was good-humoured ; and 
 seeing that he was not " making way," was 
 entertaining, as best he could, the clergyman's 
 daughter — and — quite happy. 
 
 " By the way," said Mr. Conway, looking 
 round him, " St. Arthur's regatta is coming 
 on, and will be very gay. We expect all 
 the great yachts. Of course you'll be there, 
 Benbow ? " 
 
 " I hope so," said he, " though the pretty little 
 place is getting spoiled — invaded by the holiday 
 crowds — betting men and riff-raff." 
 
 '* Ah ! that betting, it taints everything ; now
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 131 
 
 it lias come to rowing and yachting. Even the 
 pretty Henley is thus disfigured." 
 
 Now they are all at the work before them — 
 Mr. Ben bow in the centre of the table, so cleanly 
 cast and impassive as to seem above the necessity 
 of eating, and beyond the infirmity of getting 
 flushed or talkative. There is a clatter of gay 
 tongues, and every one is talking of the pleasant 
 party to the theatre to-morrow night. It was 
 pronounced a delightful opportunity, as it was 
 seldom now that one could see a play murdered 
 in the right raw, old-fashioned way. Acting was 
 now levelled up into a sort of stupid, unenter- 
 taining mediocrity. The worst actor could 
 contrive, by imitation, a tame, insipid perform- 
 ance, which would neither shock nor please. 
 There was an honest energy in the old, ill- 
 re ululated efforts. Claude Melnotte, however, it 
 was agreed, " promised sport," he being played 
 by Mr. Hulkes — the name being " a guarantee." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Conway, " Hulkes will mouth 
 it and rave it terribly. I shall certainly wait to 
 see Hulkes in ' the immortal Bulwer Lytton's ' 
 
 E 2
 
 132 PUPPETS. 
 
 play. The manager was very droll ; I think he 
 fancied there was a row of footlights between 
 him and ns." 
 
 '' You won't laugh at the Lady of Lyons," said 
 Colonel Hanly, " if she can act as well as she 
 looks." 
 
 " Oh, you saw her, then. For shame, Hanly ! 
 how sly too ! " 
 
 " I'll tell you how it was. I was buying a pair 
 of gloves in a shop when she came in with her 
 maid. I know the theatrical seal and hall-mark, 
 stamped on them, or as sheep are stamped. 
 * You are the Prima Donna,' I said." 
 
 *' Come, I say, that was free and easy ! " 
 
 *' Not to her, of course. Charming as an off- 
 the -stage face — a calm, innocent, round face, 
 with an extraordinary fascination. I should 
 have no objection to play Claude, instead of the 
 ranting, roaring Hulkes." 
 
 Young Charley Benbow, heir and hope of the 
 house, had been placed close to the Lady Eosa 
 Fulke. It was as though his father had marked 
 out the path to the possession of that lady by
 
 ENTER ME. GEORGE CONWAY. 133 
 
 stages — so many to be cleared each day. That 
 very dinner was an opportunity, and so much 
 amount of work was to be covered. To say the 
 truth, the lady herself seemed conscious of these 
 elaborate opportunities, and welcomed them with 
 a calm tolerance — a cite far a sard air — as though 
 submitting to the decrees of fate and of her noble 
 father. 
 
 Her admirer, however, caught this description 
 of the charming Lady of Lyons from afar, and 
 he looked over to hear more. His curiosity was 
 stimulated. 
 
 " I heard her speak, too," went on the Colonel 
 — " a beautiful clear voice — and she had all the 
 shopmen at her feet. I saw her name — ' Miss 
 Lydia Effingham ' — of course a sham one.'' 
 
 «« Very likely a runaway clergyman's daughter," 
 said Mr. Conway. " They make up a sort of 
 peculiar class. Whenever you hear anything 
 adventurous, a clergyman's daughter is there. 
 Novelists, actresses, governesses, superior young 
 ladies in Jay's, or Sw^au and Edgar's, all are 
 generally clergymen's daughters."
 
 1 34 PUPPETS. 
 
 In short, this subject was pleasantly debated 
 and speculated over during that night. Any- 
 thing to look forward to in a country house is 
 always welcome, and this going in state to the 
 little theatre was already counted on as something 
 very piquant. 
 
 The young man, who had not as yet gone to 
 the university, and might, as one of his friends 
 said, haA^e passed for a fair girl if dressed up in 
 woman's clothes, was still eager and interested in 
 this theatrical programme. Through his father's 
 desire that he should learn the world rather than 
 books, he had been brought up chiefly at home, 
 with governesses first, then tutors, and finishing 
 with the discipline of a public school. From his 
 infancy almost he had been perpetually brought 
 down when the great magnates were in the 
 house, so that he should grow familiar with them. 
 In this schooliog he had seen little of the world 
 after all ; for his father considered that theatres 
 and shows of that sort were so many hindrances 
 to getting on. But still the youth, Charles 
 Pelham Benbow, was unsophisticated, rather shy,
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 135 
 
 and timid, and had not even learned the ABC 
 of the world's scholar — namely, not to blush. 
 
 Nay, his father, who considered that effects 
 in his diplomacy followed causes with accuracy 
 and certainty, gave him his lesson in portions, 
 as it were, guaranteeing the result — taking care 
 also to examine him closely afterwards. The 
 youth was astonished himself at the wonderful 
 fashion in which his father penetrated things. 
 
 The cold lady he was destined for was quite 
 indifferent as to his partiality or attentions. Her 
 noble father, who had so often dealt with his 
 tenants as chattels about election time, was noV 
 about to follow the same course with her. That 
 was all. She had gone through her curriculum^ 
 which had been a failure. Her glass told her 
 she could not afford to waste time in beo;inninoj 
 again, and she wisely preferred to retire with 
 dignity. 
 
 After dinner came one of the state evenings at 
 Benbow House. Spacious rooms, opening into 
 each other ; abundant, profuse wax lights ; com- 
 pany sitting, standing, scattered ; loud and
 
 136 PUPPETS. 
 
 boisterous talk from a group on the rug ; his 
 Grace sitting as on a throne, one leg out, the 
 other under his chair, his Thistle ribbon across 
 his chest, while two ladies sat one on each side. 
 He was the wonder of every one : his florid 
 Kubens-like face and beard, his '* young man's " 
 head of hair, divided in the middle, his good 
 eyes, erect carriage. Yet he had grown-up sons 
 and daughters, and was a grandfather many 
 times over. 
 
 Presently he rose and went over to join his 
 starched and bleached host, who still looked, and 
 always would look, as if cast in snowy papier 
 mdche, so clean and sharp were his lines ; and far 
 ofi", in the small card-room, there was presently 
 seen a trio — the Duke, the father, and the son, 
 talking ; the latter modestly looking down, while 
 the two parents spoke as if to encourage 
 him. 
 
 " Charles has promised to come back with us,*' 
 said the Duke, " and must stay six weeks or two 
 months. I mean you must first fix your head- 
 quarters with us, and come and go as you like. I
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 137 
 
 shall come and go myself sans ceremonie ; but 
 her Grace and Eosa will always be there." 
 
 Had Mr. Benbow's soul been cased in any 
 other material but papier mdche, a flush of 
 pleasure and delight would have found its way 
 to his face ; for this was one of the little explo- 
 sions for which his elaborate mine was laid. 
 
 The invitation was accepted instantly and 
 joyfully. 
 
 "We shall make a political man of him/' went 
 on the Duke ; " I shall do a little of his training 
 myself. The Duchess and Eosa are both poli- 
 ticians enragees. Nothing like being a thorough 
 * party-man/ even when you are not a man." 
 
 " Lady Eosa is looking for her fan, Charles," 
 said his father. " See there ! go and help 
 her." 
 
 When the young man had flown — " I like 
 your son," said the Duke, *' and shall like him 
 much more. I don't ask you myself to Banff 
 Castle this time ; you will come later, of course 
 — at your own convenience. As I told you, 
 I shall not be there ; but young men do not care
 
 138 PUPPETS. 
 
 if there is only a lady to do the honours. Rosa 
 and he get on very well." 
 
 " No one admires Lady Rosa Fulke and her 
 accomplishments more," said Mr. Benbovv, as if 
 he were making a legal statement. 
 
 "Yes, I hope they will get on well together.'' 
 
 Precious words these for Mr. Benbow — to be 
 eaten, drunk of, dreamed of — words long looked 
 for, thirsted for, and, to him, more than equiva- 
 lent to — " I have thought it well over, and have 
 decided to accept Charles as my son-in-law." 
 
 That night there was the usual 'ballad song — 
 the pianoforte piece from the clergyman's daugh- 
 ter. The Lady Rosa went to ^*the instrument" 
 also — (" Why is that called ^ the instrument,' " 
 said Mr. Conway, *' any more than the poker or 
 tongs, or the pier-table ? ") — and literally ambled, 
 in a very humble way over the keys, some little 
 thing which she had been taught by Pesca, the 
 nobility's own pianist, but who was instructing 
 the royal children. Then Mr. Charles, the candi- 
 date, stood by her side as an escort. It was a 
 very indifferent performance, but redeemed by
 
 ENTER MR. GEORGE CONWAY. 139 
 
 the calm, aristocratic repose of the player, who 
 made even her wrong notes with an air of self- 
 possession. 
 
 Mr. Conway appeared to appreciate and like 
 Lady Rosa, and praised her singing with cor- 
 diality. Had he really liked her, she thought, 
 one of his character would have been more 
 restrained and chary of his praise. 
 
 " I am glad it pleases you," she said. " I 
 know you are difficile!' 
 
 " That was the thought that was in my mind 
 about you, Lady Eosa," he said, laughing, 
 " about another matter. That poor young 
 Benbow. He really means his praises, and 
 speaks out of the fulness of his heart. I do 
 not — often, that is — though I do wish it." 
 
 " These refinements of yours are hard to 
 follow," she said. 
 
 " All my fault," he answered. 
 
 *' You are a puzzling character, it must be 
 confessed." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; indeed I am. I often wonder 
 how I shall end."
 
 140 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Oh, I suppose prosperously," said she, 
 lightly. '' Everything is sure to turn out well 
 with you. If things are not inclined of them- 
 selves to do, people will make them." 
 
 He drew his chair close to hers and sat down. 
 They often had these friendly confidential 
 *' talks " at Banff. 
 
 " No, no," he said seriously ; " I have no such 
 idea. People talk of fate, which is of course 
 absurd, meaning by fate a power compelling you 
 to take a course. But I believe there is a fate 
 in ourselves — in our own capricious moods and 
 tenses — which entangle us in strange ways and 
 places. I have always an idea that I may bring 
 distress and suffering to others if not to myself ; 
 how or wherefore I know not." 
 
 Lady Rosa answered him gravely : 
 
 " I should think that is not at all unlikely. 
 Indeed it has often occurred to me.'' 
 
 " If it has," he said, now interested, " there must 
 be a reason. Tell me, and you will oblige me. 
 Tell me frankly what you think of my character." 
 
 " I ! " said she, haughtily. " What ! flatter
 
 ENTER ME. GEORGE CONWAY. 141 
 
 you in that way. No, no. Excuse me. Go to 
 the phrenologists for that." 
 
 Here arrives Mr. Benbow, with his son. He 
 had been watching uneasily from afar. 
 
 " Charles is dying for another song," he said. 
 
 ** Yes, indeed," said the latter, *' if Lady Eosa 
 would be so kind." 
 
 And she was ; for she went over to '' the 
 instrument," and performed again. 
 
 But now it was growing late. The party 
 began to break up, as did also, strangely, the 
 young-looking Duke, as the late hours drew on. 
 Then trays and glasses were brought in ; powdered 
 menials flitting about, and a general uprising 
 and flutter as the personage left the room, 
 attended devoutly by the master of the house. 
 
 In the august chamber they had some talk 
 about " the party," and on wishing good-night 
 his Grace said : 
 
 " We must make a good party man of your 
 son Charles. We'll try and do that when we 
 have him at Banfi*. I assure you we all like him 
 very much."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DIPOHESTER THEATRE. 
 
 At Dipchester the Theatre Royal was a very 
 modest house of entertainment, and perhaps 
 deserved the term of contempt which some of 
 the profession were fond of applying to it — viz. 
 its being " a wretched band-box of a thing." It 
 had a pleasant, old-fashioned air. The boxes or 
 galleries had fallen rather out of shape ; the pit 
 was little bigger than a goodly-sized cockpit ; 
 and there was a genuine old green curtain, of the 
 true coarse tone, which has so long ago gone out. 
 But in full force there was the true bouquet or 
 flavour of rank gas, or sawdust, drifting down 
 little tunnels of passages, all ablaze with flaring 
 lights — a bouquet which is enjoyed most in 
 purely country theatres ; which, could their old
 
 DIPCHE8TER THEATRE. 143 
 
 walls speak, whether now turned into Dissenters' 
 chapels or corn stores, could tell of more real 
 enjoyment and heartier laughter than ever rose 
 through the stately " auditorium " of a London 
 house. 
 
 A little crowd was round the doors. A 
 meagre awning sloped down over the little cabin- 
 stairs of the chief entrance, and some tar was 
 blazing in bowls at each side. There was a 
 glimpse through the narrow door of some striped 
 red calico, and at times a glimpse of the interior 
 of the house itself; for one all but passed from 
 the street into the boxes. 
 
 Here at last was the sound of wheels, and here 
 were three carriages of company from Benbow 
 dashing up — their lamps like dragons' eyes, their 
 footmen in long cloaks, and panels gleaming like 
 armour. Out came Mr. Haggerston, bursting 
 from behind the pink and white calico— as he 
 had burst often before, on false alarms — and 
 received the august party at the foot of the little 
 cabin-stairs. Down they were set — the stately 
 Duke and his host, both — ribbons across, clouds
 
 144 PUPPETS. 
 
 of tulle and flowers on ducal daughter ; while 
 the cheerful young men of the party bounded 
 out of the small brougham that brought up the 
 tail of the procession, not caring about being 
 squeezed. The little steps — much decayed — 
 creaked under the ducal feet, while Mr. Hagger- 
 ston, in full dress, led the way round the 
 squeezed little passage to the extemporised 
 private box next the stage — striped calico at- 
 tending them all the way ; and there a gaunt 
 servant in a faded stage livery, who had brought 
 in more ** dummy " letters than he had ever 
 done real ones, crouched against the wall. The 
 little interior was crowded. Every eye in that 
 first curve — which held about six boxes — was 
 turned to the distinguished party, and the five 
 musicians in the little pen called the orchestra 
 struck up a complimentary tune. It was really 
 " a grand night" for the theatre, such as it had 
 never known before, and was fondly looked back 
 to by the manager and his company ; for what 
 with extra lighting, and cleaning, and calico, the 
 little house had never looked so festive.
 
 DIPCHESTER THEATRE. 145 
 
 The august — almost royal — party were late, 
 and had kept the audience waiting. So bills 
 were at once placed before them, when the party, 
 with many smiles, saw that their own names had 
 been made " to draw " as well as the players'. 
 It was all " under the distinguished patronage 
 of his Grace the Duke of Banffshire ; Spencer 
 Pelham Benbow, Esq., of Benbow Castle ; 
 Charles Benbow, Esq. ; and the Right Hon. J. 
 Hoxter." They also read that Pauline, in the 
 cast of the " immortal Bulwer Lytton," was to be 
 played by Miss Lydia Effingham, and Claude by 
 Mr. Hulkes, of the Theatres Royal, Plymouth 
 and Dorking. But where was the agreeable 
 Conway ? Alas ! " Loaves and Pishes " had a 
 headache, and could not go. Mr. Conway, 
 indifferent to the play and to Lady Rosa, de 
 clared he would stay. But the ladies were so 
 disappointed that he agreed to go. 
 
 The august visitors found great entertainment 
 in looking round the house, and in identifying 
 the curious figures that were clustered there. 
 Stalls had been laid out in even the pit, which 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 PUPPETS. 
 
 only left three or four rows of seats for the 
 regular clients ; but the people to whom they 
 were sacrificed had their punishment in strained 
 necks, twisted round all the nio^ht lonsr to the 
 left, to observe the movements of the august 
 party. There was no tendency to laugh at any 
 rusticity in these honest folk of the district, as 
 vulgar in great people as the vulgarity they are 
 amused at ; but young Charles Benbow, seated 
 by the Lady Rosa — carrying out his special duty 
 — gave the names of the figures seated round, 
 and little sketches. That night might have been 
 a favourable opportunity for completing his 
 father's darling scheme ; but that cautious diplo- 
 matist thought the aristocratic pear not yet ripe, 
 and had carefully warned his son not to preci- 
 pitate matters. It had been better had he let 
 events take their own course : all then had been 
 well for him, and this little narrative not been 
 written. 
 
 The youth, in truth, flattered by a consideration 
 which was new to him, was eager ; and in that 
 light, and the excitement of the evening, invested
 
 DIPCHESTER THEATRE. 147 
 
 her with charms which were not her own. She, 
 too, was pleased with his natural and boyish 
 homage, and smiled a natural smile as he gave 
 the names and recounted little histories of the 
 neighbours about them. Thus, in the private 
 box opposite, that florid-faced, coarse-lookiug 
 young man, with diamond studs, was young 
 Hunter, who' had not long come in for the great 
 cotton mills — a vulgar-minded upstart — who was 
 sitting there with two " flappers," run in the 
 same mould, beside him. His creed in life was 
 to get everything by paying, and by paying the 
 largest price. That large party in the centre 
 was the Muggeridge family, leading people of the 
 town : he, the rich local solicitor ; she, a great, 
 oval-shaped, crimson ^g^ — flaming in face, and 
 flowers, and opera-cloak — surrounded with a 
 family of coloured Easter eggs. Then there was 
 the doctor's family ; the clergyman's daughters 
 — w^ho, on this occasion, waived the severe 
 principles of their profession, and came to see 
 the rare spectacle of a duke in the theatre. But 
 hush ! now the curtain had gone up, and '' the 
 
 L 2
 
 148 PUPPETS. 
 
 immortal Bulwer Lytton" and his play set 
 iu. 
 
 The young and too presumptuous Claude — the 
 *' Gee-ardener's son," as he was called through 
 the piece, and he could not fairly complain, as he 
 so spake of himself — was discovered to be rather 
 elderly, his bare throat displayed in a boyish 
 fashion, which only exhibited a disagreeable, 
 crude redness, and the cordage of muscles. This 
 gentleman's rapturous juvenility and amorous- 
 ness were diverting enough, and a smile came 
 on the ducal features as he bade his mother 
 " embrace her boy." 
 
 But all was expectation as the scene opened 
 where the new Pauline was expected to come on. 
 Faces were turned eagerly to the stage ; and a 
 charming, distinguished -looking girl, with bright 
 eyes, and dressed with as much taste and pro- 
 priety as if she were going to a ball, came on 
 modestly and slowly. A torrent of applause 
 welcomed her. It was renewed as she made a 
 curtsey — half indifferent, half gracious, and 
 wholly unstagy. Her face beamed with a bright
 
 DIPCHESTER THEATRE. 149 
 
 intelligence ; and the contrast of her own pure 
 self with the tawdry dresses, the smirched faces 
 of those about, and even the dirty and rickety 
 background, made her look like a princess visit- 
 ing a hovel. 
 
 The Duke said to his neighbour, " Quite a 
 lady ! — you can know one when we see her." 
 
 The Lady Rosa's pale face bore a smile of 
 disdain and hostility, while Mr. Hoxter and the 
 gentlemen applauded boisterously. But the 
 young Benbow kept his eyes fixed on her, as on 
 some vision — his cheeks glowing, his pulses 
 fluttering. He had never seen or even dreamed 
 of anything so lovely or entrancing as she 
 appeared to him. 
 
 The play went on ; the Gee-ardener s son, now 
 all velvet and spangles, striding about and 
 mouthing round the beautiful heroine, seeming 
 like her groom — and a dirty one too — dressed up 
 in finery ; and General (Haggerston) Damas 
 delivered his military jokes with a strange in- 
 attention to his companions, always keeping his 
 face twisted round to the right, and addressing
 
 150 PUPPETS. 
 
 his speeches entirely to the Duke — the Duke of 
 the audience. When the attractive Pauline 
 spoke, what a tingling music rang through the 
 house ! how ears were drooped to catch every 
 sound ! In the scene where our groom " Gee- 
 ardener" had brought her to a home, which 
 corresponded to the one Mr. Hulkes personally 
 was more familiar with, what passionate upbraid- 
 ings, what charming gestures, as she covered her 
 face with her veil and sank down and wept ! 
 Then her cry of anguish, as Mr. Hulkes rushed 
 away to the wars, made Mr. Hoxter turn round 
 to the Duke, and say, seriously, " This is very 
 fine, really very fine " — much as he would turn 
 round in another House and praise a new 
 speaker. Young Benbow, as the act finished, 
 put his hands forward over the box and ap- 
 plauded noisily ; while even the Lady Eosa had 
 a faint flush on her cheeks, and said, " She 
 reminded her a little of Madalene Droze." One 
 only of the party was uninterested — Mr. Benbow 
 — whose quick, bright eye roved from face to 
 face of his party, and, noticing his son's en-
 
 DIPCHESTER THEATRE. ] 5 1 
 
 thusiasm, he moved quietly down into the seat 
 behind him. 
 
 " Nothing so wonderful, Lady Eosa," he said ; 
 " and Charles has seen little or no acting '' — and 
 at the same moment gave him a firm and quiet 
 pressure with his finger. 
 
 Now there is a roar of applause, demanding 
 the favourite ; while Mr. Hulkes, scowling and 
 in ill-humour, comes out by himself; and, when 
 he has disappeared, Mr. Haggerston, in person, 
 and in the full uniform of General Damas (which 
 suo^orests the idea that British officers were 
 serving with the French armies), leads in the 
 charming actress. She is now very different — 
 sweeps across with a chilling hauteur — a kind 
 of unresponsive indifference — as if she cared 
 nothing for them or their tributes. 
 
 A hurried dialogue passed in the " royal '* 
 box. 
 
 " We should throw her a bouquet," said Mr. 
 Hoxter. 
 
 The General Officer on the stage — who had 
 never taken his eyes off the distinguished party,
 
 152 PUPPETS. 
 
 in a fixed and stony gaze — guessed what was 
 passing, and lingered ; while the eager Charles, 
 standing up, frantically applauded. 
 
 She gave a gracious curtsey in acknowledg- 
 ment, and disappeared ; whilst the youth re- 
 mained standing — his hands on the front of 
 the box, he himself in a sort of enraptured 
 abstraction. 
 
 " How" splendid ! How magnificent ! " he said 
 at last. " Wasn't it ? I never saw anything to 
 approach it." 
 
 He then got up suddenly and left the box. 
 His father looked round hastily as the door 
 closed ; but he was too late. There was a 
 general chorus of approbation in that circle, 
 and Mr. Hoxter declared loudly she ought to 
 be " in town."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 The young man, once out in the corridor, 
 fanned his excited face with his handkerchief; 
 then, with hesitation, tapped at a side-door 
 which led on to the stage. He asked for Mr. 
 Haggerston, and found that gentleman still in 
 the full regimentals of a General of Division — 
 which seemed all tri-colour sash, boots, and 
 breeches — and giving impetuous orders to his 
 dependants, as if he were indeed upon the field 
 of battle. 
 
 " There's a triumph ! There^s genius ! Mr. 
 Benbow. That went home to my lord Duke's 
 soul. I saw it. I know it did." 
 
 *.' They were all delighted, Haggerston. By 
 the way, I was going to ask you, would
 
 154 PUPPETS. 
 
 you mind — " and he dropped liis voice and 
 whispered. 
 
 " To be sure. Perfect Lady, you know. Rather 
 touchy, in fact, about these sort of things though 
 But I'll speak to her." 
 
 Mr. Haggerston presently returned, and led 
 the way to a little crib known as the dressing- 
 room. 
 
 Pauline rose up to receive them ; while a 
 grave lady, older by ten years than she was, 
 looked on with suspicion. Mr. Haggerston then 
 performed an introduction after the manner he 
 knew best. 
 
 " Here you are, Miss Effingham, young Mr. 
 Benbow is dying to know you. Regular swell," 
 he half- whispered. 
 
 The lady started at the name. 
 
 The youth, now that he was close beside her, 
 saw that she had a natural, everyday loveliness, 
 far beyond what he had seen in her on the 
 stage. He felt the very blood rushing to his 
 heart and cheeks. 
 
 "I was so enchanted," he faltered, ''so inter-
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 155 
 
 ested, that I could not take my eyes away a 
 moment.' ' 
 
 " I remarked you," she said, smiling at this 
 natural confusion. " You were in that box to 
 the right. Your steady interested look made me 
 play better." 
 
 '' Oh, it makes me so proud to hear that, Miss 
 Effingham. I forgot the theatre, and where I 
 was, and who I was with." 
 
 " Who was that lady next you — so cold and 
 indifferent to my poor exertions ? Only for you 
 I should have been quite paralyzed by her." 
 
 "The Duke's daughter. Lady Rosa Fulke. 
 She has seen so many plays, you will under- 
 stand. Miss Effingham — " 
 
 " Yes. They all know the * Lady of Lyons ' 
 by heart. You have seen it a thousand times." 
 
 " No, indeed ; never before. But if you, Miss 
 Effingham, act it a thousand times here, I shall 
 go every night. How long will you stay ? " 
 
 "A fortnight. Of course, contingent — " and 
 she smiled. '' The doors of these country 
 theatres sometimes shut so very abruptly. But
 
 1 5 6 PUPPETS. 
 
 you are really pleased with me ? What can I 
 do here ? I might as well act in a drawing- 
 room. I want room, space, air — the vast stage, 
 like a great field ; and, far away, the dim, lofty 
 — not sea, but cloud, of faces rising up. Oh, if 
 I had that chance, Mr. Benbow, you would see 
 something very different from what you see 
 to-night." 
 
 " Oh, I have seen acting," the young man 
 said, eagerly ; " but could not see anything finer 
 than yours ! " 
 
 " There was one face besides yours that I 
 noted," she said. " It was the only one of the 
 rest that seemed to follow and sympathize." 
 
 " Oh, I know%" said the young man, eagerly. 
 *'It's just what I would expect. That was 
 Conway." 
 
 *' I shall remember his name," she said, re- 
 flectively, "with yours. He is your friend too, 
 I am certain." 
 
 " He is ; he is," said Charles, enthusiastically ; 
 " and you will like him when you know him." 
 
 Mr. Haggerston struck in — " Miss Effingham
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 157 
 
 literally brought the house down. I kept my 
 eye on his Grace when I was joking you in the 
 garden scene, and every point seemed to go 
 home to him, you know. I assure you, you were 
 tip-top; and — do me justice, Miss Effingham 
 — I led well up to you." 
 
 She seemed to shrink away from these com- 
 pliments. 
 
 " I was not thinking of any person — of dukes 
 or any one else ; and, to tell you the truth, I am 
 more pleased with the simple praise this gentle- 
 man has bestowed on me, than with any of the 
 compliments which I suppose will be sent to me 
 after this is over." 
 A tap at the door. 
 
 This conversation mig^ht, under other con- 
 ditions, have seemed a very strange and odd 
 one — Mr. Haggerston — wearing his false mous- 
 tache and beard — so palpably stuck on — his 
 coarse stage uniform, sash, &c. But Charles 
 was in a sort of dream, and even delirium — 
 his eyes fixed on the features of the beautiful 
 actress.
 
 158 PUPPETS. 
 
 The knock at the door was repeated im- 
 patiently. 
 
 General Damas leisurely went and " threw it 
 open," as he would call it. 
 
 The coarse young manufacturer stood there, 
 in the glory of his chains, rings, &c., and bowing 
 and smirking. 
 
 "Beg pardon, Haggerston," he said; "just 
 want you to do a bit of the polite. Introduce 
 me to the charming and fascinating young lady 
 who has been obliging us all to-night." 
 
 Mr. Haggerston did what was desired, with 
 intense enthusiasm. 
 
 " Delighted, my dear sir. Mr. Hunter, Miss — 
 a true patron of the drama, and of everything 
 that belons^s to it." 
 
 " Oh come, I say. Hag — put in discriminat- 
 ing. You never get a five shillings out of 
 me when you have any of your common lot 
 of people coming round. But I declare, when 
 you secure such an attraction — such as Miss. 
 Heffingam — '* 
 
 The haughty look, mingled with contempt,
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 159 
 
 which he received, checked this flow of compli- 
 ment. She then turned to Charles. 
 
 '* There, you hear the invariable sort of praise 
 I always receive. You would be surprised at 
 the number of times I have heard it." 
 
 *' I say, Hag," went on the other, not in the 
 least abashed, "you'll have to raise the pay 
 and allowances ; and don't you spare him, Miss 
 Efiingham — he's rolling in money." 
 
 "Mr. Haggerston's arrangements and mine 
 have been already settled," she said, quite 
 gravely. *'I have no wish to change them." 
 
 " Oh, that was only my fun, you know," said 
 the objectionable young manufacturer, "and 
 only what I would do if I were Haggerston. I 
 wish I was. I think a cool hundred a week 
 would be the least Td off'er you." 
 
 The young man had been listening impa- 
 tiently. He had the slight acquaintance with 
 the manufacturer which every one in or about 
 a country town has to form and keep up. He 
 could not restrain himself any longer; but said, 
 with flushing cheeks :
 
 IGO PUPPETS. 
 
 " No one is thinking of these commercial 
 views. Miss Effingham does not care about 
 them." 
 
 " It is rather hard," she added, *' considering 
 all that is before me in the next acts. This 
 gentleman takes away all the poetry of my 
 art from me." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Mr. Hunter, much put out, 
 ** that is what you all look to, you know, in the 
 profession." 
 
 '' Yes," said Charles, " by one sort — the people 
 who make it a trade." 
 
 ''Oh, I 'ate those chaffering, peddling fellows 
 that come to me sometimes," said Mr. Hagger- 
 ston, heartily endorsing this sentiment. "No 
 one has an idea the way we managers are 
 victimised ; we are literally poorer than the 
 fellow there that I employ to sweep my stage. 
 We never get a real good bargain ; for, if they 
 make ever so little of a success, then they turn 
 greedy — greedy ; want two pounds a week more 
 — may be, this very night before the drop is 
 down, on just some twopenny-halfpenny calls
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 161 
 
 which I here vow to you I get up myself. 
 I assure you, the meanness, the dirt — the abso- 
 lute dirt, sir — that's in the profession, you 
 wouldn't believe ! Bless my soul, but you can't 
 stay talking here, and keep his Grace waiting. 
 Now then. Miss Effingham, when you're ready I 
 am." 
 
 "Let me offer you my arm, Miss Effingham,'^ 
 said young Mr. Benbow, " and bring you to the 
 wing." 
 
 Mr. Hunter was abashed and angry. He 
 could buy and sell young Benbow, and, for that 
 matter — as he said to his friend later in the 
 boxes — any strolling actress like that. He was 
 dreadfully put out. 
 
 " I'll give her a lesson yet, and that cock- 
 sparrow too. But she is infernal, handsome ! " 
 And under his elaborately-worked shirt-front, 
 his swinging gold chains, and glossy suit, he 
 was mortified. Deeply touched with her charms, 
 he told his admiring friend and flapper — quite 
 after the nature of his kind — that " she was a 
 tip-top splendid girl." 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 PUPPETS. 
 
 '* And you made the running," said a flapper. 
 " Don't tell me — she was making e3^es at you 
 all the time of the play ! " 
 
 Clumsy as this sort of compliment is, most 
 men can understand it ; and, though his rebuff 
 was rankling in his mind, he gave way to the 
 pleasant delusion that some such gratifying 
 success as had been described had actually taken 
 place.
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 As young Mr. Benbow led the actress through 
 the dark places by the edge of the scenes, 
 peopled with what seemed unclean spectres, the 
 pride and fluttering of his heart was indescrib- 
 able. He felt that he was, as it were, leading 
 some rich and rare Queen, far greater than any 
 of the Deschappelles family ; and he found him- 
 self standino; with her, a sudden and dazzlinof 
 glare pouring in upon him. Then some one came 
 and whispered her ; and in a moment he found 
 himself alone — heard the sudden burst of 
 applause, as it were, at a distance — and knew 
 that the enchanting Pauline was again entangled 
 in that passionate love adventure, of which, 
 alas ! — and a thousand times alas ! — he was not 
 
 M 2
 
 164 PUPPETS. 
 
 the hero. That dreadful, dirty, scrubby, de- 
 graded Hulkes, to dare, even by the necessities 
 of stage action, to assume the character of even 
 a sham lover ! 
 
 In the o;lare of this coarse stag^e lio^ht he was 
 standing, his eyes fixed on her who now absorbed 
 his whole soul ; but he never thought that he 
 was in full view of the box where the august 
 party were sitting. When, for a moment or 
 two, he had withdrawn his gaze from the divine 
 creature who w^as so gallantly cleaving to the 
 absent " Gee-ardener's son " — then winning his 
 grade under the French flag — he became con- 
 scious that he had been in full view of the 
 distinguished persons in the box ; and thought, 
 with some confusion, of his father, who might have 
 seen him leading the charming actress to the wing. 
 
 He hurried round at once to take his place in 
 the box, and stole as softly as he could into his 
 own place. 
 
 " We saw you," said the Duke's daughter 
 frigidly ; " you seem to have acquaintances 
 behind the scenes."
 
 THE BOUQUET. 165 
 
 "Not at all," he said, hurriedly. "It was 
 only that Haggerston, who would introduce 
 
 me. 
 
 " Introduce you ! " she repeated, scornfully ; 
 " and is that done behind the scenes ? " 
 
 Without looking back, he felt — and felt most 
 uncomfortably — that his father's eyes were on 
 him, piercing into his very skull. He made a 
 feint at exaggerated devotion and eager atten- 
 tion ; but all the time the entrancing Pauline's 
 history was going on ; and here was that odious 
 Hulkes, returned from the wars, hiding his ill- 
 rasped cheeks — as every Claude invariably does 
 or tries to do — behind that enormous Colonel's 
 plume of white feathers. There had been a sweet 
 constancy about her, a gentle womanly tender- 
 ness indescribable ; filial to her parents — Mr 
 J. S. Webb and Mrs. Charles Walterby — and 
 enduring the hearty jesting of that old officer. 
 General HaofSferston Damas : and now she was 
 flying into the arms of Hulkes with a woman's 
 passionate enthusiasm. 
 
 Charles could not think of any Duke's daughter
 
 166 PUPPETS. 
 
 then. As the applause broke out, he forgot all 
 his father's splendid plans, and, turning eagerly 
 to his companions, said : 
 
 " And look, look, she only appears to embrace 
 him. How cleverly done ! She is a true lady, 
 and does not allow that fellow's dirty fingers to 
 touch her dress even. Haggerston assures me 
 that a real nice actress will not allow such a 
 thing. There is ' lady ' stamped upon her in 
 everything she does." 
 
 The Lady Kosa turned in her seat to look at 
 him, with a stare of astonishment. 
 
 '' Plow can I know anything of these people 
 and their ways ! You talk of ladies — I believe 
 no lady could bring herself to go on a stage 
 like that ! " 
 
 There, it was over — the curtain down, and 
 the audience calling for that divine creature. 
 Mr. Hunter was " roaring for her," and clapping, 
 standing up in his box, young Mr. Benbow 
 noticed, as she was coming out, led by Mr. 
 Haggerston. 
 
 Again an uprising — a cheering.
 
 THE BOUQUET. 167 
 
 Mr. Hoxter said again, '* I declare we ought to 
 throw her a bouquet. If Covent-garden were 
 near, she would deserve a guinea one." 
 
 Charles again forgot all that was about him, 
 and the duty before him. He heard these 
 words. " Oh, yes," he said, eagerly, " we must 
 throw her one. It will be too late, if we 
 are not quick." He stooped down, scarcely 
 knowing what he was doing. *' Would you 
 eternally oblige me — let me take yours 
 now, and to-morrow the finest that Covent- 
 garden — " 
 
 " By all means ; it was you who gave it to 
 me, so you have the right — " • 
 
 Only a second more, and the divine apparition 
 would have disappeared. Some one was holding 
 aside the old green baize **rag." He could not 
 have checked himself if it was to save himself 
 from death. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you," he said ; and, 
 seizing the bouquet, threw it. 
 
 It landed at her feet. Mr. Haggerston 
 bounded at it, and took it up in the laboriously
 
 168 PUPPETS. 
 
 gallant way which is de rigueur on these 
 occasions. It was presentecl to her, and she 
 curtseyed, as Mr. Hoxter owned, " like a lady. 
 Certainly a clergyman's daughter — commonest 
 thing in the world." 
 
 The Duke laughed — he was mentally short- 
 siofhted — and said, " See, Eosa has made him 
 throw her bouquet." 
 
 It was over. The august party were not 
 going to wait for the afterpiece, even though 
 the funny man — the leading comique of the 
 theatre — was going to give his Jeremy Diddler — 
 his great part. August parties never wait for 
 afterpieces — as, indeed, Mr. Haggerston good- 
 naturedly prophesied to his comique. As they 
 all rose — every eye in the theatre on them — 
 some of the local fashionables felt it would be 
 provincial and unbecoming to remain, and so 
 they began to rise also ; and the unhappy 
 comique had to play his great part to a very 
 thin audience indeed, chiefly aloft. 
 
 Mr. Haggerston was in attendance, having 
 made a frantic toilet to be in time ; the stage
 
 THE BOUQUET. 169 
 
 servant was in waiting, and unrolling an old 
 bit of stage-carpeting; there was the plunging 
 of horses and drawing-up of carriages. Then 
 they drove away ; and the great bespeak per- 
 formance, long talked of in the theatre, was 
 over.
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 IN MR. BENBOW'S STUDY. 
 
 After the distinguished party had reached 
 home, and retired for the night, Mr. Benbow 
 said quietly to his son, *' Come to my study, 
 Charles, before you go to bed ; " and then went 
 himself to hold communion with his papers, as 
 was his wont. 
 
 Those were strange, troubled vigils of his : 
 like some necromancer, he called up spirits, 
 and peopled the air about him with spectres 
 bearing coronets, and heard mysterious cries 
 of " Lord ! " and " Viscount ! " " Premier ! " 
 "M.P. !" and "Minister!" It was like the 
 dark cellars below the great electric telegraph 
 stations, where are the great troughs and 
 batteries, and from whence the fluid leaps away 
 to all the ends of the earth.
 
 IN MR. BENBOWS STUDY. 17 1 
 
 The young man, a little uneasy at this 
 appointment, kept his young men friends up 
 as long as he could — where he received that 
 most unwelcome " chaffing " on his visit behind 
 the scenes — then went and knocked at his 
 father's door. 
 
 That worn, restless face looked up from a vast 
 embankment of papers, and from overflowing 
 drawers. 
 
 *' Come in, Charles," he said ; " take a chair. 
 Have you shut the outside door ? " 
 
 The son, much confused, did so. He knew 
 that this was a fatal symptom of something 
 serious. When he had returned to his place, 
 the father sat back in his chair, and, putting 
 his fingers together so as to make his arms and 
 hands seem like a pair of compasses, began 
 quietly : 
 
 " You are a fool, I fear ! " 
 
 The son. hung down his head. 
 
 " Do you hear me ? Are you a fool, or are 
 you sensible ? Or are you resolved to take a 
 course of your own ? "
 
 172 PUPPETS. 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " See, I must have an answer to these two 
 questions, and a plain one. If you feel that 
 you are so imbecile as to be unequal to taking 
 your part in a scheme which I am arranging 
 for your good, say so distinctly, and save me 
 much weary trouble. I ask you again, do you 
 feel yourself a fool ? " 
 
 *' No, no, father ; I hope not.'* 
 
 " Then give some sensible explanation of your 
 behaviour to-night. Take your time." 
 
 " I assure you, my dear father — " 
 
 His father's eyes were fixed on him, with 
 a patient and hard air. He was really waiting 
 an explanation. 
 
 "It was only — that is — I just went behind 
 the scenes — as any young man would do." 
 
 *^ You are a fool," said his father, with strong 
 emphasis. "I see it — a great one." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not." 
 
 " Then you must not attempt to do anything 
 for yourself. You have nearly destroyed my 
 whole plan. Do you not know the cost, the
 
 IN MR. BENBOW'S STUDY. 173 
 
 labour, the anxiety of years — yes, sir, of years — 
 that I have been at, to bring matters to this 
 stage ? and you go on like a child with a drum 
 and a cart. Now, I have sent for you to give 
 you a plain warning. These are my plans, not 
 yours. If you oppose them in any way, I 
 shall do with you as I have done with every one 
 — in or outside of my family — who has dared 
 not to co-operate with me. I have turned them 
 out, cast them aside, and got others. And III 
 do it to you. I can get a substitute for you 
 any day. You know that I do what I say, 
 and have done what I said. Look at this 
 bundle of letters I came on to-night — -Vife 
 begging mercy, daughter begging — be himself: 
 all of no use. Go, now ; that's all. Do your 
 best to-morrow to repair your bungling of to- 
 night, or else Good night. Go ! " 
 
 The youth withdrew, much relieved. But 
 when he got to his room, the walls seemed 
 to open and float away to each side, disclosing 
 the scene of Paradise — the soft clouds which 
 encompassed that one divine figure — the sweet
 
 174 PUPPETS. 
 
 smile — the bright and glorious face, whose 
 glauce lit up his very soul. Her enchanting 
 tones still rang in his ears like music. Her 
 passionate gestures, her loving manner, her 
 devotion — when she rushed to the arms of the 
 gardener's son. But that he could not bear to 
 think of To be profaned by the touch of a 
 Hulkes ! Oh, that he could have been the 
 Claude — what fire, what passion he would throw 
 into it ! Let his father talk of striving for 
 peerages and political position for which he was 
 struggling — those miserable dry husks — what 
 were they to that prize ? As he pursued this 
 dream, watching that vision, listening to that 
 divine music, his father's stiff figure and cold 
 face passed away ; and he gave himself up to 
 a delicious rapture, and feasted again and again 
 on those Paradisaical visions. 
 
 His father, after some measured walking 
 round the room, came back to his interrupted 
 work. " How dare he ? " he said to himself, 
 as he sat down. "The idiot, tlie booby — with 
 his low music-hall fancies. Why, I don't know
 
 IN MR. BENBOW'S STUDY. 175 
 
 that he has not ruined everything as it is. No ; 
 but I cannot have mistaken him. His tutors, 
 all — I see it myself — they agreed that he was 
 a steady, plodding lad. He must be," added the 
 father, aloud, with a sort of agony ; *' it wants 
 little more to the end. Another day only. I 
 paved the whole road for him : he has but to 
 walk straight forward, and lean on me. Oh, he 
 must 1 " 
 
 He turned to his papers again. 
 **How curious my coming on these to-night." 
 And he struck the small bundle with the open 
 palm of his hand. 
 
 '* Ah, you, sir, tried the same game with me 
 years ago ; and I crushed you, just as I might 
 stand with my whole weight on some beetle. 
 Yes," he added, turning over one letter, " this 
 was his wife's appeal — a despairing one, I 
 recollect." 
 
 He then read it half aloud : 
 " * For God's sake, Mr. Benbow, have pity on 
 us, and let not his ruin be on your soul. After 
 all, it was but a moment's folly or sin ; and you
 
 176 PUPPETS. 
 
 ruined him first. He was weak, guilty, cruel ; 
 but has he not atoned for it ? Have we not all 
 suffered terrible privation ? I tell you we are 
 starving. I conjure you, leave us in peace, and 
 do not so pitilessly hinder us from living, or 
 drive us out like pariahs from every place where 
 we settle down. Surely, sir, you know that 
 men of the first rank, in all their bitterness of 
 hate, have never brought this animosity into 
 their private dealings. Oh, as you will be 
 judged hereafter, forget — forgive ! Think of 
 him — think of me — of my poor, beautiful, 
 tender girl 1 Don't hunt me down.' " 
 He paused, then said scornfully : 
 "His principles! Mine are those of justice 
 and no mercy. Every creature driven to the 
 wall, as it is called — the wretch who is to be 
 hanged to-morrow — is penitent enough : ' They 
 will never do it again! Of course not. But 
 they would. And here is your letter, sir : ' You 
 are too noble, and too generous, and have been 
 too successful in your career, to think of reveng- 
 ing yourself on one so humble as I am. We
 
 IN MR. BENBOWS STUDY. 177 
 
 have been enemies, and I have done my best — I 
 own it. You will respect me the more for 
 owning it. Further, you will respect me still 
 more when I tell you that I would have died 
 rather than submit to the humiliation of asking 
 you for anything ; but I am not stoical enough 
 to see my poor girl suffer. Now you have an 
 opportunity of being victorious over me, and of 
 using your victory generously. For the sake of 
 Heaven — in a lower degree, for the sake of pity 
 and humanity — not for me, for I shall not long 
 survive this part of the disgrace — spare us ! or 
 you will feel bitter remorse. More — our ruin 
 will rise up one day in another shape against 
 you, mark me ! We know it is revenge.' '' 
 
 He looked at it for a long time, steadily, then 
 laid it down. 
 
 " It would not — could not be," he said, slowly. 
 "As well stop the wheels of a Juggernaut. 
 Mine had to go over him ; and it was well I did 
 what I did." 
 
 He seized the bundle of letters, tied them 
 hastily, and flinging them into a drawer — 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 PUPPETS. 
 
 "heaping others over them — closed it with a crash. 
 Then the sject was gone from his mind; but 
 he remained — his head on his hands, his eyes 
 fixed on a spot of carpet near the door. 
 
 " If this boy of mine should fail me in any 
 way ! But not one of them can be depended on. 
 No one is like myself. All — all helpless, more 
 or less. The fool." 
 
 Then he remembered that there were letters — 
 meshes of various spiders' webs — to be written — 
 half-a-dozen and more — to go by the morning's 
 post. These he wrote. It was three by the 
 Benbow clock when he had done, and walked 
 into a little room off his own, where there was 
 a small brass bedstead, and then tried to sleep. 
 
 Such was Mr. Benbow, who, every one said, 
 was a very ambitious man. So he was. 
 
 With the morning, the master of the house 
 was up and abroad betimes — indeed, with the 
 gardener, giving him some most minute directions. 
 
 Just as the guests were coming in to breakfast, 
 he called his son to him again, and spoke to him 
 calmly
 
 IN MR. BENBOWS STUDY. 179 
 
 " Recollect I shall see and hear yovi, every- 
 where, and at any time," he said, " though you 
 may not think it." 
 
 When Lady Rosa came in, the young man 
 walked up to her, and, with the true blush of 
 the ingenuus puer, bent before her with a splendid 
 bouquet, and said : 
 
 " I hope you will accept this, Lady Rosa, in 
 place of the one I robbed you of last night. It 
 was a sudden impulse, and I was carried away 
 by the play." 
 
 His father came up softly. Her father smiled. 
 Mr. Benbow's arm went round the shoulders of 
 his son. 
 
 " Charles has been to few theatres. Why, 
 when I w^as his age I could hardly keep still in 
 my place when I saw the ' Castle Spectre.' 
 AVhat is like Hassan's dream, after all ? I could 
 say it now. I recollect I was quite dazzled by a 
 plain Miss Smith." 
 
 The dauQ^hter laus^hed. 
 
 " I envy you, if you have not seen plays. I 
 confess I am tired of them. When he is with us 
 
 N 2
 
 180 PUPPETS. 
 
 in town, he shall be taken to a regular course, 
 and disenchanted." 
 
 Mr. Benbow, the father, struck in again, 
 adroitly. 
 
 " His sympathies were so excited. And it is 
 an exciting story. He was talking of it to nie 
 for an hour in the study. He felt so for that 
 poor Pauline, separated from her lover." 
 
 Then Mr. Benbow turned to the Duke, to talk 
 of the distinguished author. 
 
 " What a very remarkable man he is — some- 
 thing of Sheridan about him. Dramatist, poet, 
 novelist, orator, diplomatist, and minister ! " 
 
 " Sheridan wrote no novels," said the Duke, 
 much pleased at the opportunity for correction, 
 which Mr. Benbow mio^ht have left for him 
 purposely. 
 
 "No; no more he did," he said, in surprise. 
 " That gives a superiority to Lytton." 
 
 " And I am not aware that Sheridan wrote 
 any parliamentary satirical poem — say of the 
 character of ' St. Stephen's.' " 
 
 " No ; he certainly did not. You are quite
 
 m MR. BENBOWS STUDY. 181 
 
 light, Duke. Oh, the modern writer is certainly 
 the most versatile." 
 
 Some such little weapons as these were always 
 ready in the Benbow armoury, much as some 
 careful lady would carry about a " housewife ^' 
 in her pocket. These and much more were part 
 of the laborious machinery he was working, to 
 try and repair the damage of last night. And 
 when, about lunch-time, the Duke, addressing 
 Charles, said good-humouredly, " I suppose the 
 attractions of the stage will not keep you away 
 from us," his father considered that all had been 
 restored . 
 
 He called Charles aside, and bade him go but 
 and ride, and never leave the side of Lady Rosa 
 for his life. 
 
 " There, you goose ! I have repaired the 
 mischief done by your folly of last night, and 
 forgive you ; but mind^ take care it never happens 
 again. I say, attend to me. Take care that 
 nothing like it happens again." This with a 
 fierce look.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A LOVER. 
 
 The young Charles, thoroughly scared, put on 
 a laborious devotion to the lady allotted to him. 
 But he was carrying about a leaden heart. All 
 about him seemed dark, and laid in dull, gloomy 
 colours ; but, as he would look out afar — beyond 
 — to where was the soft light, the white clouds, 
 the plaintive music, the bright angelic face, 
 he felt his heart aching and sinking, a sense of 
 despair and blankness coming over him, and he 
 loathed the part he was playing. He longed to 
 fling away all restraint, hurry out of the place, 
 rush to the stable, and ride off headlong to the 
 little town — to the theatre, where the play would 
 soon be beginning, and the divine Pauline having 
 her affections a second time won by the odious 
 Hulkes.
 
 A LOVER. 183 
 
 But he must do something to quiet his soul — 
 the aofitatirio: flutter in his breast. Action of 
 any kind in such cases is an advance forward, 
 and may bring something to disturb the wearing 
 monotony of expectancy. He would write some- 
 thing — something complimentary. It would be 
 next to sight or speech. It seemed like an 
 inspiration, and he wrote : 
 
 "Dear Miss Effingham, 
 
 " That delightful ' last night ' 
 is still before me. Your enchanting tones 
 are still in my ears. / never saw or heard 
 anytJdng to approach what I saw and heard last 
 night ! I never shall forget it. It seems like a 
 sweet dream. Here they are still talking of it. 
 All the judges say there was nothing ever 
 like it. You seemed the real Pauline ; and, oh ! 
 I think that odious Hulkes was very happy in 
 being allowed to imtate even one who was 
 allowed to adore you. If you would let me call 
 upon you, and tell you all I think, and how 
 delighted I was, it will be a great happiness to, 
 yours always, 
 
 " Charles Pelham Benbow."
 
 184 PUPPETS. 
 
 He felt much better and more at ease when he 
 sent this off by a secret hand — an uncouth stable- 
 boy, who was his serf. Now he had something 
 to look forward to — her answer. But none 
 was to come as yet. 
 
 His fatlier watched him the whole day. 
 
 In a sort of fevered flutter — half distressing, 
 half delightful — the young man endured this 
 espionage. Once more he thought of rushing 
 to the stable, leaping on hi.s horse, and galloping 
 off furiously into Dipchester. His blood was in 
 a fever ; he could not rest calmly in one spot ; 
 and his enforced squireship of the aristocratic 
 young lady was hateful to him. There was an 
 over-acting, an over- eagerness in playing his 
 part, which he made almost passionate in his 
 attention and devotion. 
 
 His plan at the beginning of the day, and 
 to which he always looked forward with a sort 
 of painful yearning, had been to absent himself 
 for two or three hours, and see his charmer. 
 But, with that ever vigilant police, it became 
 impossible. There was the morning, then lunch.
 
 A LOVER. 185 
 
 then the ride ; and his father, looking warily 
 to the grand object he then had on hand, posted 
 him duly, as a sergeant would sentries. And 
 so that wretched dragging day went by until 
 the dinner came round — the old regular state 
 form — a time of agony for him ; for he knew 
 that the curtain was up, and the enchanting 
 Pauline again showing her love for the sham 
 prince, and passing through those cruel trials. 
 
 Still, with this weight at his heart, he 
 acquitted himself respectably ; and his father 
 gravely commended him, made a sort of formal 
 apology for his words of last night, and now 
 said that he had a great deal of sense. • 
 
 ^^ My dear boy," he said, with some w^armth, 
 "wait — only wait until you see what I shall 
 do for you. We shall be the greatest family 
 in England yet. You don't know — it can't 
 enter into your head to conceive — all that I 
 have planned — all the engines working at this 
 moment. They little dream what schemes are 
 in this head. You shall be a marquis when 
 I am gone. Not that I care for a bare title ;
 
 186 PUPPETS. 
 
 hut POWER is the thing. Power, Charles — power 
 is only got by connection. This Duke is a 
 stupid man, but see what power he has : simply 
 by the force of accumulated connection. Once 
 let us weld on our family to his,, and his 
 connections are mine ! It wants a clever man 
 to put it all to use. I am that man. And 
 now, my dear boy, as you have shown sense, 
 I shall speak plainly to you. The sole and only 
 difficulty in the way is the girl herself. She 
 requires delicate management. Her father even 
 can scarcely control her. She is cold and 
 obstructive, and should she see the least back- 
 wardness or indifference in you, it would be 
 terrible ! Terrible for us both.'- 
 
 There was a strange tone in the way he 
 used this word, as if the thought was terrible 
 to him. 
 
 It was the longest of nights. These words 
 of his father had made some impression, and 
 he saw there was truth in them. So, with a sort 
 of spasmodic exertion, he really " made up lee- 
 way," as it is called, and strove to mend his
 
 A LOVEE. 187 
 
 fault of the night before ; and thus was laying 
 up fresh troubles and anguish for himself. 
 
 When the ladies were gone, there were the 
 men in the smoking-room, the noisy chatter ; 
 and the Duke himself, w^ho w^as in a chatty 
 humour, attached himself to Charles. 
 
 *' Yes, we shall have you at Banff. We 
 leave this the day after to-morrow, and I have 
 just settled with your father you must come 
 with us." 
 
 " Go with you ! " The young man gave a 
 start. '^Now?" 
 
 *^It will be no inconvenience, I assure you. 
 I should like to have you with us, and Lady 
 Eosa will like it too. And you must stay a 
 long time. I can give you capital deer -stalking 
 and shooting." 
 
 " It is so kind of you," the young man 
 murmured ; " but I know it will put you out. 
 Besides, I have preparations — " 
 
 The Duke laughed. 
 
 " A young man — preparations ! Oh, very 
 good. Not ball-dresses, wreaths, or flowers ?
 
 183 PUPPETS. 
 
 All ! no ; we can understand young ladies, and 
 their great black boxes, which take days to 
 get ready. No scruples, my dear fellow. We 
 shall be a little in the rough, and I shall expect 
 no ceremony." 
 
 At last, at about two o'clock, he had got rid 
 of them, and got away to his own room, where 
 he could be alone and think. Joy, rapture ! 
 On the table there was a tiny note, directed in 
 a lady's hand. He flung himself on it, opened, 
 and read — 
 
 "Dear Mr. Benbow, 
 
 " Your letter made me happy. 
 Such testimonials are always welcome, and en- 
 courage. I should be very glad to see you 
 any time you would like to call, and should 
 be glad to hear you tell me those things. Yes, 
 you pity me with Mr. Hulkes. I knew you 
 would. But this is one of the incidents of 
 the profession. If we had no more than tliat 
 to sufl"er ! But I am getting accustomed to 
 it all. But have you thought of this ? — your 
 family can hardly approve of you so honour- 
 ing a mere actress. Certainly not your father. 
 Believe me, it is better to look on from the
 
 A LOVER. 189 
 
 boxes, and think of me only as Pauline. That 
 distance lends such enchantment. Yes, come 
 and see me, and admire me if you will — on 
 the stage, and in my stage finery. Yours is 
 not the only letter of praise I have received. 
 I have two before me now, and set them side 
 by side : one is that of a gentleman, the other 
 that of a vulgarian. This last, another of our 
 trials. — Always yours, 
 
 "" Lydia Effingham." 
 
 This threw him into an ecstasy. It was the 
 most piquant, charming letter — nothing low, 
 everything not only ladylike — (a poor compli- 
 ment, after all, for " ladylike " stands for a dead 
 level, conventional thing) — but it was womanly, 
 heroic, noble, and like Pauline. And how full 
 of a proper reserve ! How charming that ! He 
 knew the dastardlv rascal that was troublinof 
 her — the low, vulgar scoundrel that was thrust- 
 ing his attentions on her, and with the lowest 
 motives. 
 
 That gave him a sacred trust ; he was bound 
 to shield and protect her — a dear, interesting, 
 divine creature, who had no protector. It was
 
 190 PUPPETS. 
 
 enoiitrh bliss for tliat nio;lit. Within the four 
 corners of the page he could see a small, glit- 
 tering view of the play — that blissful night : 
 the look of the writins^ brouo:ht the whole scene 
 before hiui. He could kiss its delicate characters 
 several times over ; he could lay it tenderly on 
 his dressinty-table — on a sort of throne of honour. 
 
 He had the sweetest sleep and the most 
 delightful dreams. In short, he was " a boy 
 in love," which means the * Arabian Nights' 
 Stories,' with all the treasures of enchantment, 
 jewels, gold, silver, and beauty, laid open. 
 
 On the next day he must see her ; he would 
 brave all that dukes, fathers, or high-born girls 
 would do to prevent him. He forgot all the 
 difficulties in the way, the " persecution " that 
 was likely to arise, and slept rapturously.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LYUIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS. 
 
 ■% 
 
 In the morning, what he thought persecution 
 began. His father called him into the study — 
 where, ind-eed, now actual meetings of the 
 Vehmgericht seemed to be held. 
 
 *' Well, you are going to the Duke. You will 
 return engaged. I tell you so. But wail a 
 day or so. See here, Charles," Mr. Benbow said, 
 taking out his cheque-book, " we must spare no 
 money on this expedition of yours. Take your 
 man with you. I shall write to Pitt in London 
 to send you down two of his best hunters — Lady 
 Rosa admires good horsemanship. In fact, draw 
 on me for what you like, and fill these two 
 cheques for whatever is necessary. It is false 
 economy, sparing anything on the last coiipr
 
 192 PUPPETS. 
 
 " But they are not going to-morrow, sir," he 
 pleaded ; " we could get them to remain longer 
 — such a short visit." 
 
 *'I wish we could," said the other, abstract- 
 edly. ^' For somehow I fear you won't do much 
 away from me. The Duke has business. But 
 try yourself with her. Then it would only make 
 the difference of a day or two." 
 
 *' But must I go now, sir ? Is it not too 
 sudden 'i I have nothing ready. I don't see 
 how it's to be done." 
 
 '' But, my dear boy, you — a young fellow — 
 don't want preparation — " 
 
 Encouraged by the good-natured tone, Charles 
 came up to his father. 
 
 " You won't ask me to go — al all at present. 
 You are always so kind. I shall make a botch 
 of it, I know, and — " 
 
 " Sir ! " 
 
 There was a pause. The young man shrank 
 away. 
 
 The father observed the effect, then said, 
 quickly :
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTEESS. 193 
 
 " You must go, sir. Send into the town 
 and get what you want ; and see, don't forget 
 my warning of last night. And see, again : 
 let me hear that all is settled finally within 
 the three days. Go, sir.'^ 
 
 Under this menace there was still a gleam 
 of comfort, which Mr. Benbow did not know he 
 was imparting — the expedition into Dipchester. 
 There was a chance there, an age, a reprieve ; 
 though the execution might come to-morrow 
 morning — execution, alas ! from which there was 
 no escaping. 
 
 So, after the usual spell of duty at lunch, 
 and talking and attendance, he eagerly told 
 Lady Kosa he must go and get some " things " 
 — to be ready to set out with them in the 
 morning, but would be back by dinner. 
 
 He had all but reassured that young lady, 
 and this eagerness for departure hel]3ed to fortify 
 the impression. She looked rather fondly on his 
 handsome face. 
 
 He ran to his room to decorate himself, then 
 
 VOL. L o
 
 194 PUPPETS. 
 
 rushed to the stable for his horse, aud in a 
 moment was galloping into Dipchester. 
 
 Dipchester has its lialf-dozen show -houses 
 of the old framed -house pattern, which hang 
 over the pathway, with shops below, and little 
 cottage-like windows. McCallum the draper's 
 was one of these, and over McCallum's the new- 
 actress had lodgings. In such a place there 
 is always repugnance to such a calling, attended 
 with something like a holy horror. But Mr. 
 McCallum had neat millinery young ladies — 
 nice and pretty ; and these soon made a party 
 in favour of the beautiful lady up-stairs ; who 
 had none of the forward w^ays of the profession, 
 but was interesting, polite, and ladylike, and 
 asked up the Janes and Fannys to look at her 
 dress when she was going out to do Pauline. 
 McCallum, though a stern Scot, could not resist 
 this popular feeling, and soon came round to 
 her, and also to the steady respectable sheep- 
 dog who guarded her (Miss Grant), and who 
 had teeth to bite, and who would bite a Scotch- 
 man too, if necessary. And very soon Mr.
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS. 195 
 
 McCallum, wife, family, and children, were seen 
 in the boxes applauding with delight — which 
 was not wonderful, considering that the admission 
 tickets were " orders." 
 
 When Charles rode up to the door of the 
 draper's shop and asked for Miss Effingham, 
 great interest was exhibited among the young 
 ladies of that house — to whom, indeed, he was 
 known, having often purchased gloves, &c., 
 there, by which patronage he conferred much 
 honour. Miss Effingham was out ; but one of 
 the young ladies, who admired the gallant youth 
 secretly, told him that the actress had gone 
 for a walk across the fields, and had taken "her 
 part " with her. The direction was described 
 to him, and, after some hesitation, he set out 
 and followed. 
 
 About Dipchester were all sorts of pleasant 
 lanes and turnings — short cuts with stiles — that 
 ran past plantations, and were really inviting. 
 He was fond of the country ; but on this day 
 it seemed to him more inviting than ever it did 
 — in fact, was it not her empire and dominion ? 
 
 O 2
 
 196 PUPPETS. 
 
 He had left his horse at the inn and wandered 
 on, with a secret conviction — it seemed inspir- 
 ation — that he would overtake her. Very soon 
 he did : at least he saw a lady coming along 
 swiftly, and attended, it would seem, by a 
 gentleman — an apparition that made his cheeks 
 flush, and the blood rush back to his heart. 
 Who could this man be ? He stopped to watch, 
 and then noticed that she was in front, walking 
 very fast, and that there was some sort of 
 dramatic action going on. Impelled by a sort 
 of fate, he hurried to meet her. Then she 
 cried, tremulously, *' Oh, Mr. Benbow, I am 
 so glad — you will protect me ! " 
 
 He saw it was Mr. Hunter, the manufacturer 
 — who was much discomposed at his arrival. 
 
 " Protect you," said the young man ; " who 
 has dared — has this fellow — " 
 
 " Oh, come, I say, none of that," said Mr. 
 Hunter. " There's no harm — what's all this 
 fuss ? It's all very fine ! There are lots of 
 actresses who come here, and are only too glad 
 to get any notice."
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTEESS. 197 
 
 *' You had better go away," said Charles ; 
 *' you are not desired here ; and for the future, 
 too, if anything of this sort is repeated, you'll 
 bring about something very unpleasant." 
 
 " Oh ! what will you do, Mr. Benbow ? " said 
 the other, in a fury. " Do you threaten me ? 
 I'm as good as you. Who are you, I'd like to 
 know, that give directions to me ? " 
 
 " Never mind that," said the young man. " I 
 only warn you ; and, as I stand here, if you dare 
 to annoy this young lady again with this per- 
 secution, you shall have a sound thrashing J 
 There." 
 
 Never did Miss Effingham seem so lovely to 
 him. She was excited ; and there was a charm- 
 ing Hush in her cheeks from the excitement. He 
 was " her preserver " — that new character the 
 actino^ of which, thoug^h lastincr but a few 
 moments, is equal to an attachment of years. 
 
 " What are you threatening me for ? " said 
 Mr. Hunter, in an insolent way. " What are 
 you talking about thrashing, and that sort of 
 thing ? Miss Effingham didn't ask you to be her
 
 198 PUPPETS. 
 
 policeman and bully, did she ? How dare you 
 talk of thrashing, and that sort of thing, to me ? " 
 
 " You had better give over all this, and go 
 your own way, and let us go ours." 
 
 " I sha'n't. Who are you, and your lot, and 
 your Dooks, up there ? You're all gentlemen^ I 
 suppose. We've put up with too much — far too 
 much of all your airs — from you and your set up 
 there. I can tell you they're all sick of it about 
 here, and it won't be stood much longer. There 
 are better men about who could buy and sell 
 every one of you and them." 
 
 " No doubt," said the other. " That is quite 
 another question. But I tell you distinctly, 
 your buying and selling notions won't do in this 
 case. So, for the future, take warning." 
 
 " I intreat you, Mr. Benbow," she said, in the 
 sweetest tones, " to let the matter be. This 
 person, I am sure, will not trouble me any 
 more." 
 
 " He had better not," said the young man, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " Do you suppose I'll put up with this ? " said
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS. 199 
 
 j\Ir. Hunter, quite furious at this coiiterapt. 
 " The road is open to me, and I'll walk on it ; 
 and T shan't go away at your bidding, nor at 
 any one else's. This lady don't want you either. 
 What damned work it is ! " 
 
 And, putting his arms a-kimbo, he planted 
 himself on the other side of Miss Effing;ham. 
 
 In a moment he was on his back in a con- 
 venient ditch. The young man was a skilful 
 boxer. They were walking on ; and, before Mr. 
 Hunter could struggle out, the pair had reached 
 the high road. 
 
 Charles was now indeed her protector and 
 champion. How happy — how triumphant, the 
 feeling ! There was a tie to unite them. He 
 was quite agitated at the thought. She was 
 grateful, profusely grateful. It was such a happy 
 walk home. He trod upon air all the time, 
 walking side by side with his enchantress. 
 
 " How fortunate I am,'* he said, over and 
 over again. *' This is the luckiest day ! How 
 fortunate that I came on to-day instead of 
 yesterday. Something really impelled me. It
 
 200 PUPPETS. 
 
 looks like a providence that I should have been 
 sent to save you from that fellow." 
 
 " Indeed, I want a protector. If you only 
 knew the persecution I have to endure from 
 him. He tries to get into the house. He 
 pursues me at the theatre. I cannot endure 
 it. 
 
 *' It will be different now," he said, eagerly. 
 *' I shall take care he never troubles you any 
 more, and if he does " 
 
 He stopped. He suddenly recollected that 
 he could not remain, and must go to-morrow. 
 
 " Oh, but what shall I do ! What am I say- 
 ing and promising ? " he exclaimed. " I have to 
 go from this. You must be left here unpro- 
 tected. Oh, it cannot be — it must not be ! " 
 
 He then told her how his father required him 
 to go on this visit. Forced him, in fact. He 
 had done everything in his power. He would 
 give the world to stay. She listened eagerly. 
 
 " It cannot be helped," she said ; *' I must 
 only bear my lot — the actress's lot. AYe have 
 no privilege, no protection, once we exhibit our-
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS. 201 
 
 selves on the public stage. That takes us out of 
 the rank of ladies. Yet I was born and brought 
 up a lady ! No ; I must only bear my lot like 
 the rest. This man will, of course, continue his 
 persecution — nay, will revenge himself on me 
 for what you have made him suffer. But I 
 must bear it." 
 
 They were now at her house. The young 
 man was in a strange state of doubt and distress. 
 He knew not what to do for this noble young 
 creature, brought to such distress. And a lady, 
 too ! How delighted he was to hear that 
 news. He could fling it in the teeth of 
 those who slandered her. For her he co^ild 
 be well content — and proud, too — to brave 
 them all. 
 
 " So your father wishes you to go," she said, 
 as they entered. " Has he any special reason 
 for this expedient ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course he has some plans — some 
 miserable plans that I am to carry out — a 
 wretched mercenary marriage : to sell myself, 
 in short, to buy rank and influence."
 
 202 PUPPETS. 
 
 "And why should you not do this?" she 
 said, calmly. " It is a prudent thing, and what 
 we are all taught to do by our parents." 
 
 " Pauline would not say that," he said, 
 bitterly ; " but that is only in a play, of course. 
 You do not care one way or the other. I sup- 
 pose you have so much indulged in these 
 imitative emotions that you have grown tired 
 of all sentiment." 
 
 They were now up-stairs in the little modest 
 apartments over McCallum's. There he found 
 seated the elderly lady who seemed to be 
 eternally knitting — Miss Grant, her aunt — and 
 who, it was known, always attended her like a 
 mother. It was a very happy evening for him. 
 Tea was poured out for him by those enchanted 
 fingers ; and, gradually, she gave him scraps 
 and hints of her history — how she had been, as 
 it were, forced on to the stage ; her father had 
 died and left them all in distress ; and then she 
 had felt it her duty to turn her talents to some 
 profit. Thank God, she had helped them a 
 great deal ; her poor talents had brought in
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS. 203 
 
 somethirjg — at least, more than the miserable 
 alms a governess receives. 
 
 " Going on the stage ! Mr. Benbow," she went 
 on, like an inspired Corinna ; " I know what is 
 thought of that. What eyelids are raised ! 
 What shoulders shrugged ! It is a noble pro- 
 fession, if you have genius and brilliancy, and 
 feel that you can move the crowd. Oh ! what I 
 pine for is the great audience, the grand theatre, 
 the thousand and one faces all turned towards 
 the amphitheatre of intelligence, converging, like 
 rays, to you as the centre ; the playing upon that 
 vast and noble instrument ; the extracting of 
 the faintest and most delicate tones, up to a 
 crash loud as that of an organ ; the making 
 them thrill and flutter ; then the turning them 
 wild and delirious all at once, as if you were 
 touching keys — what is there on earth approach- 
 ing this ? From a child this dream has always 
 been before me. And London 1 London ! Shall 
 it ever be realized ? " 
 
 He looked at her with admiration. She 
 seemed inspired.
 
 204 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Whatever I can do — " he said, eagerly. 
 " We have friends — influential friends — in town 
 — that is," he added, hesitating, " my father 
 has." 
 
 " Ah, I know," she said, gently. " I under- 
 stand all that. He wishes you to get on — is 
 ambitious. Even if he knew that at this 
 moment you were w^asting your time with a 
 poor actress, instead of waiting on the great 
 lady who despises me, who feels more contempt 
 for me than she would for her maid — yet I am a 
 lady, too, as I would prove to you ; and my 
 poor murdered father was a gentleman." 
 
 He started. 
 
 " Murdered." 
 
 '' Not with knife or poison. There are other 
 ways of murdering just as villainous. Never 
 mind. Well, you are going on this visit, and 
 you will know other actresses, and be as 
 rapturous over them." 
 
 '' No, never," he said. '' I am not a child 
 that thev can send to school and order about. 
 No, T must wait now ; for that fellow would say
 
 LYDIA EFFINGHAM THE ACTRESS. 205 
 
 I fled from liim. You must have some one to 
 protect you, and it would be my glory to do so. 
 Yes, I shall remain." 
 
 '' What ! and briug you into a quarrel with 
 your father ! Never ! At least, not for me. I 
 shall never see you again if you do. No one 
 shall suffer for me." 
 
 " You cannot hinder it. Where you are, Miss 
 Effingham, I shall be." 
 
 " Then you will drive me out of this place. 
 I shall bring no one into trouble. I have 
 enough trouble of my own on my head. No, 
 you must go. Why should you stay ? " 
 
 " Because I love — I adore you ! " *
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 The companion had left tlie room a little time 
 before. She was not to hear this passionate 
 declaration. 
 
 The actress started ; then an expression of 
 exquisite and tender sympathy — so it seemed 
 to the adorer — came into her face ; a sort of 
 pity. 
 
 " What is this ? what do you mean, my only 
 poor boy ? Do you know what you are saying, 
 or going to do ? " 
 
 ^* I am prepared for anything," he said. *' I 
 would face them all — face the world 1 " 
 
 " Marry an actress ! You ! They would 
 think you would disgrace them."
 
 LOVE. 20 7 
 
 '* Marry a lady — a peerless lady — fit to place 
 beside queens ! I shall not rise till you consent.'^ 
 
 *' It would be the most cruel folly in the world, 
 did I do so. You do not know — ^you cannot see 
 the difficulties. It is hopeless. You would only 
 be sorry for it later." 
 
 " Never — never I I am yours — yours always, 
 till death. If you do not consent, I shall go 
 back, and before them all renounce all their 
 plans publicly — then my father will turn me 
 out of doors, and I shall be ruined : be ruined 
 without you ! " 
 
 She paused, and thought a moment. A 
 curious look of triumph came into her eyes. 
 It disturbed him. 
 
 " I am thinking," she said, in answer to his 
 look, *' what a glorious compliment this love of 
 yours is to me. It is worth the applause of that 
 great house which is my dream. It is the first 
 gleam of sunshine I have had for years. I 
 am proud of it. Indeed I am. After all, why 
 should I punish you, or make you wretched ? 
 There is a fate in these things ; and — let me
 
 208 PUPPETS. 
 
 confess this much to you — I do like you. Stay ! 
 But — but — this is all too hurried. I must make 
 conditions." 
 
 He was in a rapture — in a tumult of gratitude. 
 But she stopped him. 
 
 *' Listen, and sit down calmly beside me while 
 I speak. Think of me, if you like, as Pauline, 
 and of yourself as Claude." 
 
 " As your Claude." 
 
 " Hush ! This is only the second time you 
 have seen me. Now, you must wait, and pro- 
 mise me to wait patiently. Indeed, I am serious 
 in this — I must protect you. And, if you are 
 advised by me, and are patient, 1 may f)romise 
 that, after a time — " 
 
 He would agree to anything, if only she 
 promised. 
 
 *' You must stay here." 
 
 " That is fixed as fate. Only help me to do 
 it. I am so inexperienced, and my father knows 
 so much more. Your surpassing cleverness will 
 show me how." 
 
 *' There is only one way that I see. Go to
 
 LOVE. 209 
 
 the Duke ; tell him you have had a quarrel with 
 this man ; and that, as a gentleman, he will see 
 how strange it would look your flying away. It 
 seems a subterfuge ; but I think of your interest." 
 What an inspiration ! how clever ! It seemed 
 ever brilliant. It would have been years before 
 he could have thought of it. 
 
 " It will not be much gain," she went on ; 
 " but still it will give you three or four days, 
 since that is what you desire. Meantime, you 
 will think all this over. Both of us shall think 
 it over, and you will have time to repent of 
 what you have said to me." 
 
 " Oh, but you will promise now. I rely on it 
 — it is the only thing that will keep me up. 
 You will not go back of your word ? '' 
 
 "I never go back of anything," she said. 
 " But you must wait : indeed, yes ! I know 
 more of the world than you — even the stage 
 world has taught me something. We learn 
 something from plays ; for those who wrote 
 them knew the world very well. This is all too 
 sudden — far too sudden, my dear Mr. Charles ; 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 210 PUPPETS. 
 
 and, for my own sake as well as yours, I make 
 conditions. How could I tell that I could like 
 you ? " 
 
 " Oh I Miss Effingham," he exclaimed, in 
 despair, "do you wish to crush me alto- 
 gether ? " 
 
 " We have only seen each other twice, recollect 
 that. You would despise me if I were won in a 
 moment — brought to your wrist by a single 
 invitation, as if I was a hawk. Hawk, yes I I 
 know who would call me that. No ; I should 
 like to learn to like you, and to teach you to like 
 me. Violent and sudden affection never lasts. 
 At the same time, I own that I like you ; and 
 will not deny that it is nearly certain that I 
 shall come to love you." 
 
 What more could he desire ? It was eminently 
 complimentary. He was being dealt with as a 
 man. 
 
 " Now," she went on, " let us talk of some- 
 thing else. Will you come and see Mrs. Haller 
 to-morrow night ? No ; I had forgotten — you are 
 ordered away."
 
 LOVE. 211 
 
 ^ " Yes," he said, pettishly. " Oh, but I ain to 
 stay now." 
 
 *' No, you must not — I cannot allow it. 
 EecoUect now vou take orders from me. You 
 envied the Claude of the other night — that 
 terrible Hulkes ; well, do you know who is to be 
 my Stranger ? — Mr. Haggerston ! " 
 
 The young man almost groaned. *' Awful ! " 
 he cried. 
 
 " And I am expected to play, to do grand 
 things with such people. It is enough to chill 
 all the poetry, the animation, the dramatic feel- 
 ing in my heart of hearts. That vulgarian will 
 vulgarize me. Oh, that I had some one of gentle 
 blood, some one of refinement — then you would 
 see me act, indeed." 
 
 " I should not like to see that," he cried, 
 eagerly ; " and yet I suppose it will come to it 
 one of these days. Up in London there are 
 such noble, handsome actors ; yet I could not 
 wish to see you with them, unless — Oh, I wish 
 I could play with you ! " 
 
 " I do, indeed, wish you could ; and you 
 
 P 2
 
 212 PUPPETS. 
 
 could do it, even this very night. Proficiency, 
 even without training, would make itself felt. 
 If you acted as you did to-day, as you have 
 always acted during the time I have known you 
 — not very long — you might win a reputation." 
 
 " I would give the world," he said, " to have 
 that privilege. If you would teach me — let me 
 sit at your feet — " 
 
 " What are we talking of? " she said, smiling. 
 " Bringing young Mr. Benbow on the stage — 
 that would be, news ! We are indeed planning 
 out a new life." 
 
 When young Mr. Benbow returned home, he 
 found the Duke in the library, reading the 
 * Times.' In a few minutes, a sudden idea 
 occurred to him ; he had taken that august 
 person into confidence. The young man's love 
 had given him, of a sudden, tact, earnestness, 
 and a sort of winning persuasiveness. He re- 
 lated his adventure with Hunter. The great 
 man listened with interest. 
 
 " A young girl of this place — and who is 
 she?"
 
 LOVE. 213 
 
 Charles adroitly turned this inquiry aside by 
 loud denunciation of the vulgarity, the coarse- 
 ness of " that Hunter ; " in which the other 
 agreed. 
 
 "Oh, certainly, I see it," he said; "if you 
 left with us, at once, it would be said that 
 you showed the white feather. Oh, no ; that 
 would not do at all. Not that I think the 
 low rascal will take any notice — he has had 
 enough." 
 
 " But my father, Duke," said the 3^oung man, 
 growing more artful with his success, " he must 
 not know ; and yet how are we to account for 
 my not setting off with you ? There is the 
 difficulty." 
 
 "Leave that to me," said the other; "it will 
 only make a difference of a day or two, and 
 we shall spare you for that time." 
 
 In a short time Mr. Benbow came in. The 
 great man took him aside. The Benbow fore- 
 head grew wrinkled and disturbed. "What did 
 this mean ? 
 
 " We won't have him for a day or two yet,"
 
 214 PUPPETS. 
 
 said the Duke ; *' we may have to stop in town, 
 and he can then follow us on. I have settled 
 it all with Rosa." 
 
 '* Ah, yes ! " said Mr. Benbow, eagerly, as if 
 that arrangement were after his own heart ; 
 " nothing could be better ; we can send him to 
 you then." 
 
 But grave suspicion and troubles began to fill 
 his soul. This idiotic boy had been at some 
 of his tricks. He must see to it at once. 
 
 The young man was in overpowering spirits. 
 He was flying about "on air." He was so 
 happy. He had succeeded ; and she — so won- 
 derful, clever, brilliant — had directed him. It 
 was like an inspiration. But his father had him 
 by the arm. 
 
 "I want you. Charles, what is the meaning 
 of this ? " 
 
 " I thought, sir, the Duke told you." 
 
 " Where were you after lunch ? " 
 
 " Out riding, sir." 
 
 "By yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I went into Dipchester to buy
 
 LOVE. 215 
 
 tMngs for the journey, as you agreed I was to 
 do, sir. Really, I don't understand — I do all 
 you tell me to do — " 
 
 Again this was her inspiration. She was 
 teaching him, he felt, many things. 
 
 His father thought a moment. Then said, 
 " No doubt ; I dare say you may be right. But 
 I hope, Charles, you will bear my words in 
 mm.^, for your own sake^ 
 
 It was now about five o'clock. The sound 
 of wheels was heard outside, and a servant came 
 to say that Dr. Fearon, the Dipchester doctor, 
 whose visits were very frequent when there was 
 company at the Castle — liking to make connec- 
 tion, under the mask of professional attendance 
 — was come. Mr. Benbow was impatient when 
 he heard that the Doctor wished to see him. 
 
 " What does the man want ? Tell him there 
 is nobody sick in the house." 
 
 The servant was going with this communica- 
 tion, when he was called back. 
 
 " I suppose I must see him, or he will take 
 offence."
 
 216 PUPPETS. 
 
 Young Mr. Charles had hurried away to his 
 duties, and was very empresse in attention to 
 the fair object who was laid out for him. He 
 could afford to be so. For he had now coined 
 a sort of fiction for himself that she was deputy, 
 or in the place of the other. It was to her, the 
 absent one, he seemed to be paying all these 
 attentions. He was full of spirits and vivacity, 
 and seemed to be really making way with that 
 cold, haughty dame. Love was furnishing him 
 out with spirit, energy, wit, or goodwill, which 
 makes up for much that is wanting. Nothing 
 could be better than the way everything was 
 going off. There is a Providence that shapes 
 our ends — " when we are all in love." 
 
 As he was dressing for dinner, the door was 
 opened suddenly, and his father rushed in, pale, 
 his face contorted with anger. 
 
 *' What is this ? " he said at once. " How 
 dare you attempt to tell me falsehoods ! I have 
 heard the whole thing. It is over the place, 
 this low adventure. How dare you attempt to 
 deceive me with these falsehoods ? "
 
 LOVE. 217 
 
 " Falsehoods, father — that is a very strong 
 word." She was giving him courage. 
 
 "Yes, falsehoods. I see your low con- 
 temptible game ; and it has shocked me and 
 made me ashamed. I tell you this solemnly, sir, 
 on this spot — you shall pack off to-morrow, and 
 with them ! " 
 
 '* Father, you mistake the whole thing. The 
 Duke knows all. How could I help meeting 
 Mr. Hunter, or avoid interfering ? " 
 
 *' Knows all ! Another falsehood." 
 
 ** Yes, all : I told him everything. I saw 
 Miss Effingham coming across the fields, and 
 this man pursuing her — persecuting her with his 
 low attentions ; and I did what any gentleman 
 would have done — what you must have done 
 yourself, father— gone up and protected her, and 
 thrashed the fellow. The Duke says I would be 
 showing the white feather and disgracing us all 
 if I went off in the morning." 
 
 This was such a new strain for his son — the 
 argument was so well put, and so forcible and 
 reasonable in its tone— that the father was
 
 218 PUPPETS. 
 
 pleased in spite of himself. Love, wonderful 
 love ! — rhetorician as well ! 
 
 " I don't care. It's most unlucky and unfor- 
 tunate. I can only give you my old caution, 
 Charles," he said. " Make what pretexts and 
 ingenious excuses you like — indulge yourself in 
 what fancies you please ! but this matter must 
 go on. Now, come down to dinner."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EIVALS. 
 
 The Dipch ester doctor was kept for dinner, 
 according to the form in that case made and 
 provided. It was an honour, and he was de- 
 lighted that it had been paid to him. In the 
 course of that banquet, however, he thought he 
 could best recommend himself by bringing round 
 the conversation, in a complimentary way, to 
 the " fracash " — so he styled it — which had taken 
 place that morning. 
 
 " And, indeed," he said, " we are all glad of 
 it down there ; for that Hunter wanted taking 
 down a bit — always bragging of this thing and 
 the other, and of his money — of which he is 
 close enough." 
 
 The Duke was listening. " And this young 
 lady, Dr. Fearon," he asked, " who was she ? "
 
 220 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Oh, the actress, my lord Duke, Miss Lydia 
 Effingham — a fine handsome woman, that's turn- 
 ing half the young fellows' heads in the place. 
 We can't blame Mr. Charles, after all." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the Duke, with some astonish- 
 ment, looking^ over at Charles. " You did not 
 tell me that." 
 
 His companion turned to him with scorn. 
 
 " This is like a dramatic surprise out of one of 
 their plays. We shall begin to understand it 
 all by and by." 
 
 *' It was merely an accident," said the young 
 man, confused. "I was passing through the 
 fields, and came upon the scene at the very 
 moment. I could have made no appointment — 
 you must see that." 
 
 " I really cannot say," replied the young lady 
 haughtily ; " and I did not think so ; qui s excuse^ 
 you know. I don't understand this sort of 
 thiner." 
 
 Women have much instinct in these matters, 
 and that moment Lady Rosa was convinced of 
 what she had before suspected, even so early
 
 EIVALS. 221 
 
 as the incident of the bouquet, that her young 
 admirer was false, was playing a part, and fascin- 
 ated by this actress. She turned from him 
 haughtily, and answered him in a cold dry 
 fashion for the rest of dinner. This Mr. Benbow 
 saw with something like anguish. It was a 
 miserable dinner for him, and all the fine baked 
 meats and juices were so much chewed ashes in 
 his mouth. He too had his mistrust that the 
 plan would somehow or another fail. 
 
 When the ladies went up, the doctor, feeling 
 that it was a point upon which he was very 
 strong, brought the subject back again. 
 
 " I don't think Hunter will take any notice. 
 I hear he says Mr. Charles is too young, and that 
 he would make himself ridiculous. But I must 
 say, my lord Duke, the actress is worth it in 
 every way — the finest woman you ever saw in 
 the whole course of your life." 
 
 " I have seen her — we have all seen her," said 
 the great man, with dignity. " But I can hardly 
 join in all that high commendation. Is she 
 drawing in your town ? "
 
 222 PCJPPETS. 
 
 ** Oh, Haggerston is making money out of her ; 
 the place is half full every night." 
 
 " Half full ! that can hardly pay," said one of 
 the gentlemen. 
 
 " Lord bless you, sir, yes ; it keeps all going, 
 you know, when there's about twenty people 
 scattered about the house. At least, there's little 
 loss; but benefits and bespeaks bring it up. 
 She's to have one." 
 
 ".How long," asked Mr. Benbow, abruptly, 
 " does this engagement go on ? " 
 
 *' Oh, as long as it pays, Mr. Benbow, Mr. 
 Haggerston told me : and he means to work her 
 out SO long as there's a sixpence in her." The 
 doctor was a very awkward gentleman, as it has 
 been seen. 
 
 " She's coming out in Mrs. Haller to-morrow 
 night, with Haggerston as the Stranger," cried 
 the young man, forgetful of everything in his 
 eagerness. " She will play it superbly. You 
 know the story, Duke. I can see her pathetic 
 face now as the poor woman deserted by her 
 husband. We might all go again. It would be
 
 mvALS. 223 
 
 well worth it. Only fancy ! It seems like a 
 sacrilege to have to play with a ruffian of that 
 sort ! Why, it will be a burlesque, and chill 
 every feeling of poetry and sentiment in her. 
 How can she be expected to throw herself into 
 the part, with a coarse fellow of that kind before 
 her ? How can — " 
 
 " No more wine, Duke ? " said his father, 
 abruptly ; '' then we may join the ladies." 
 
 Strange to say there was no interview that 
 night between father and son.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ACCEPTED ! 
 
 The next morning the august ducal party 
 went away, in solemn state. Great benefactions 
 were distributed, almost regal in tlieir magni- 
 ficence ; and the exact figure was known in Dip- 
 chester before the day was over. Mr. Benbow 
 was calm, and appeared satisfied. 
 
 " You must wait at home, Charles," he said, 
 "in case that fellow should come out here to 
 look after you. You are clever enough to deal 
 with him, whatever purpose he may have in 
 view. Fighting, of course, is laughable ; espe- 
 cially with a fellow of that sort. If he is insolent, 
 give him another thrashino^ and kick him out. 
 In fact, if I were to advise, I would try and 
 bring it to that. No man, by whatever bluster,
 
 ACCEPTED ! 225 
 
 could get over a double beating. I am driving 
 to the agent's house, to look over the books." 
 
 This was delightful : this absence was certain 
 for three or four hours. He could seize the 
 opportunity ; but then, something whispered to 
 him, like Sir Lucius, '* Your honour, your 
 honour ! " He was a gentleman, and certainly 
 not inclined to sacrifice the credit of his family. 
 Better still, should he not wait until evening ? 
 when he must see the divine Haller or die — i. e. 
 be miserable. 
 
 He waited in, therefore, all the morning ; but 
 Mr. Hunter never came. He was, then, going 
 to take no notice. Young Benbow was a mere 
 boy, and beneath his contempt. He was not 
 going to get into a quarrel about a mere strolling 
 actress. And so the nine hours' wonder dropped 
 there. But it was a long, weary, dragging 
 time. 
 
 This he was not entitled to assume was the 
 real reason. Mr. Benbow had actually driven 
 to his factory and called on him, and after an 
 interview, which was of a good-humoured sort, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 226 PUPPETS. 
 
 from the loud laughter that came from the 
 room, retired, having made all up in a light 
 way. 
 
 "He is a foolish boy," said Mr. Benbow, 
 " and should not attempt to interfere with you 
 and your actress, whom you think of as a man 
 of the world should." 
 
 " A regular schemer, Mr. Benbow," said the 
 manufacturer. 
 
 " Exactly what I set her down for," said Mr. 
 Benbow. 
 
 It was settled that Mr. Hunter should come 
 and dine shortly, and Mr. Benbow left him 
 much gratified by the visit. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Benbow senior returned 
 — his face smooth, his air calm and cheerful, 
 though the agent's books, &c., had not been very 
 satisfactory. Money would have to be got in 
 the market to defray the heavy cost of the recent 
 entertainment. It was screwing and pinching, 
 and fresh encumbrances ; and it was wonderful 
 he was not anxious. But it was so much money 
 on zero. That figure would surely turn up : he
 
 ACCEPTED ! 227 
 
 had covered it again and again. Only wait : it 
 was coming now. 
 
 Towards night, Mr. Benbow — who, when alone, 
 often ate his meal standing — partook of a frugal 
 repast. After he had snatched a few scraps he 
 withdrew into his own study, where, with his 
 arms out, he plunged into the angry billows of 
 papers and business. It seemed a little curious 
 that he should exercise no jealous watch over 
 his son, who was not a little surprised at this 
 indifference, and who, leaving word that he was 
 " gone out for a stroll," set off with exultatipn, 
 and in full dress for Dipchester. 
 
 As he got to the town, the sight of the 
 coarsely-done posters with — " Eenewed Triumph ! 
 Great Success I First Night of ' Guilty Love 
 and Christian Forgiveness ; or, the Stranger ' " — 
 country managers are fond of thus intensifying 
 the titles of too familiar plays — made his heart 
 flutter. A great band of red letters, looking like 
 a belt of gore, told the world that Mrs. Haller 
 was to be sustained by the " unique " actress, 
 Miss Lydia Effingham ; while Mr. Haggerston, 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 PUPPETS. 
 
 for this night only, would give his great im- 
 personation of the Stranger. He hurried on, 
 fearful of being late ; reached the little, old- 
 fashioned house, which, though lit up, to his 
 wonder and indignation, had a sort of illuminated 
 desertion. 
 
 He entered. It was a very thin house indeed. 
 
 Five or six people in the boxes, a dozen or so 
 in the pit, and what seemed scattered videttes 
 all through the galleries. A kind of solemn, 
 cavernous declamation was travellino^ throuo;h 
 the house ; and Charles saw a stout gentleman, 
 in a high-collared green frock coat, with cape 
 and brass buttons and hunting-boots, sitting 
 down on a long box covered with green cloth, 
 and indulging in his sorrows. Mr. Haggerston 
 seemed to address his remarks with equal im- 
 partiality to different persons in the house, and 
 took note of Mr. Charles Benbow as he entered. 
 The latter paid him the courtesy of sitting down 
 for a few seconds and listening ; and, looking 
 round the house, saw that Mr. Hunter was also 
 present, in a box close to the stage. Charles
 
 ACCEPTED ! 229 
 
 presently rose, full of impatience to be with her 
 whom he so passionately loved, and who, from 
 Mr. Haggerston's remarks, was not to appear 
 for some time. He went round and tapped at 
 the door in the box-lobby, which led on to the 
 stage. It was opened by a villager, the same 
 who wore Mr. Haggerston's' state livery on that 
 famous occasion of a ''command nio-ht." 
 
 " All right,'' said Mr. Charles, with a smile, 
 and advanced ; but the door was kept nearly 
 closed. 
 
 *' Can't come in, sir. No one admitted behind 
 the scenes." 
 
 '^ Rubbish ! " said } Charles, angrily. " You 
 know me — there, let me pass." 
 
 " Can't indeed, sir ; I'm very sorry — against 
 the rule." 
 
 " I'll complain of you to Mr. Haggerston, and 
 get you punished for your impertinence. Go 
 and tell him that I am here." 
 
 " It's 'is hown borders," said the villager, 
 heedlessly, or from agitation, multiplying his //s. 
 
 " His orders ! nonsense ! Here — " and the
 
 230 PUPPETS. 
 
 usual convincing syllogism in the shape of half- 
 a-crown was laid down. 
 
 " Indeed, sir/' said the man, in a low voice, 
 answering the call, ** he said particular I wasn't 
 to let you pass. But he is off now, and* you can 
 speak to him yourself, sir." 
 
 " What's this ? " said the Stranger, roughly ; 
 "who is this trying to force their way behind 
 my scenes ? " 
 
 " Mr. Haggerston, is this impertinence 
 directed by you ? What is over you to-night ? " 
 
 The manager, in his green coat and boots, 
 stood in the doorway. 
 
 " Young sir," he said, " I can't have it, and it 
 can't be. The regulations of my theatre must 
 be enforced. That is to say — ah, how d'ye do, 
 Mr. Hunter ? " 
 
 That gentleman was behind, listening with an 
 enojamuo^ smile. 
 
 " I wanted to speak to you, Haggerston," he 
 said. 
 
 *^ Certainly, Mr. Hunter, if you have business 
 with me ; but I can't turn my ' 'hind scenes '
 
 accepted! 231 
 
 into a lounge for all the idle young men of the 
 place." 
 
 '' Let me pass at once," said Mr. Benbow ; 
 " turn me out if you dare. I wish to speak to 
 Miss Effingham. Lay your hand on me, one 
 of you ! I gave this gentleman a lesson 
 yesterday." 
 
 There was something in his manner, as well 
 as in this reminder, which had its effect. He 
 pushed by them both, and was beside the lovely 
 Mrs. Haller in a moment, pouring out his 
 complaint. 
 
 " The man is mad," he said. '' What can be 
 the meaning of this insolence ? I suppose he 
 wants to take part with tliat low Hunter." 
 
 " I can explain it," she said, more simply. 
 " It is directed against me. Your father was with 
 him to-day r 
 
 *' I see. The venal wretch has been bought. 
 Never mind, we can despise him." 
 
 '' He has been strange in his behaviour to me 
 also, and — " 
 
 '' What ! has he dared — "
 
 232 PUPPETS. 
 
 Mr. Haf][<:]:erston was now before them. 
 
 '^Now see here. This won't do at all, Mr. 
 Benbow. I don't, of course, want to make con- 
 fusion ' 'hind scenes ' " — a favourite word of his — 
 '*by turning you out; but, understand, I won't 
 have it again. And you, too, Miss Effingham ; 
 I trust 7/0 uil conform to the regulations, and not 
 be encouraging all the young men of the place 
 to come here. The engagement is not so profit- 
 able to me as to entitle you to take such 
 liberties." 
 
 "You fellow, don't da.re to speak to this lady 
 in that style, or I'll give you a lesson — " 
 
 " Take care, you, sir," said Mr. Haggerston, 
 clapping his hand on his stage sword. '*No 
 bullying to me, sir. Raise your hand to me, 
 and I'll have in the police." 
 
 *' Hush," said Miss Effingham, " I see what 
 all this means, and will simplify the matter 
 immensely. I know the whole reason of your 
 behaviour to me and to this gentleman, and can 
 save you a great deal of trouble. You wish to 
 end my engagement."
 
 ACCEPTED ! 233 
 
 " I don't say that, ma'am. It has turned out 
 most unremunerafcive to me, but — " 
 
 " Then we shall end it. When you please. 
 Now — on the spot. Give out after the play 
 that it is the last night of the engagement." 
 
 '' Oh, that will hardly settle it," he said ; '* I 
 ought to have some indemnity for what I have 
 lost by it. But you are too hasty, Miss Effing- 
 ham. I don't mean to go quite so far as that." 
 There's your ben. yet, and my ben. Oh no, I 
 won't be taken so short as that." 
 
 " But I do. He is afraid," she said, with a 
 smile, to her lover, *'that those who set Him 
 on in this matter may not be so liberal in their 
 intentions as to cover all loss in the affair." 
 
 " Leave all that to me," said the young man, 
 eagerly. '*I am witness. I heard him agree to 
 it — indeed, he proposed it." 
 
 Mr. Haggerston was furious. But the audi- 
 ence were growing impatient, and the Stranger 
 and Mrs. Haller had to go on. Charles went 
 into the boxes, and looked on, enraptured. He 
 thought she never played so magnificently, and
 
 234 PUPPETS. 
 
 that she was playing to him. Perhaps she was. 
 It was all only too short, and he was grieved 
 when the play was done. 
 
 He walked home with her — her friend keep- 
 ing close to them. He told her that this now 
 brought matters to a crisis, and he was not 
 sorry for it. "It is I," he said, "who am the 
 cause of this. Not only honour, but simple 
 justice, require that I should stand by you. 
 There is no compliment in the matter. I am 
 yours for ever and ever. AVe must look the 
 thing in the face : difficulties are gradually 
 encompassing us ; and this night settles our 
 destiny. You must decide — oh, you must ! 
 You are thrown on the world. It is idle 
 opposing me ; for I shall follow you wherever 
 you go, even if I ruin myself with my father. 
 Better now make me some promise — agree that 
 you will be mine ; and then I shall agree to 
 obey you in everything, and be guided by you 
 in everything." 
 
 She paused, and thought a moment. 
 
 " I have wished to save you from this, but it
 
 ACCEPTED I 235 
 
 is not my doing. Your father has hurried on 
 whatever is to happen now. You must at 
 least consent to a few days' interval. Recollect 
 this is the tUird time you have seen me, and 
 you want me to be yours for eternity, I must 
 think — ponder it over, before a decision. You 
 would despise me yourself if I took any im- 
 portant step without deliberation. In the 
 morning I shall tell you." 
 
 " No, no, no ! I may be going in the morn- 
 ing, and I must know now." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Come here, then, before you go, and then 
 you will learn my final determination. You 
 will grant me this little delay, will you not ? 
 It is for your good — all for your good. Indeed 
 it is. I like you too well to let you ruin your- 
 self; and, if we must yield to the inevitable, 
 let it be borne without mischief if we can." 
 
 '* I care not what may happen so that I shall 
 win you ! " 
 
 " Ah, you little know — you have not been 
 tried yet. Once let your father reallij exert
 
 236 PUPPETS. 
 
 himself in this matter, and you will find your- 
 self weak before him. You know you will. 
 You cannot deny it. He is not alive yet to 
 the danger ; but, if he were to set himself 
 seriously to crush you — you without means, 
 money, power — w^iat could you do then % " 
 
 Her foolish boy looked a little scared at this 
 picture. 
 
 " Crush me ! But he would not. He likes 
 me. When he sees my heart is set on this 
 matter, I know — I am sure — he will give way." 
 
 *' What ! and allow you to marry an actress 
 instead of a duke's daughter ! Ah, you know 
 it will be hard to resist him. Never mind ; we 
 shall see in time. You shall know it all from 
 me in the morning."
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 REJECTED. 
 
 But in tlie morning the young man had to 
 set off, equipped, money in his purse, and more 
 promises for the future. 
 
 His father was very kind, and he was touched 
 by the kindness ; so much so that he felt not a 
 little ashamed of his selfishness. 
 
 " I have been a little harsh and peremptory 
 to you of late," he said, ^' but I have been sadly 
 worried. It is hard to find a favourite scheme 
 not going well. This \ittle jienc/iant of yours is 
 well enough for amusement ; but business is 
 business. I must tell you, you have, so far, 
 behaved in a rather unmanly and ungentlemanly 
 way to Lady Rosa. Her rank and the Duke's
 
 238 PUPPETS. 
 
 should have protected her from being played fast 
 and loose with in this way." 
 
 '* I did not mean it, indeed," said the young 
 man, rather shocked at this new view. 
 
 " Well, you must really make up for it — I 
 insist on it — and do away with the impression. 
 It is a mortifying position for a young person of 
 such rank, especially, to hear you openly puff- 
 ing a common peripatetic creature — at thirty 
 shillings a week. However, to leave it to your 
 good sense and honour, at least, remove the bad 
 impression." 
 
 " After all," he thought, " there was no hurry. 
 It might never come to anything." Meanwhile 
 he could be rapturously happy for the time ; 
 never looking forwards or backwards ; giving 
 himself up to the exquisite dream ; and reckless 
 of the consequences. He was driven in a dog- 
 cart ; and, when he got to Dipchester, he 
 stopped at the inn, and walked away to see her 
 who was now his all. 
 
 As he walked through the town he passed by 
 a flaming orange poster, which was headed by
 
 REJECTED. 239 
 
 the words which to him had the look of a 
 talisman — the chime of the most exquisite music 
 — '* Theatre Royal, Dipchester ; " and, feeling 
 his very heart stirred, he stopped to read. He 
 was filled with fury and amazement as he read — 
 
 THEATRE ROYAL, DIPCHESTER. 
 
 Mr. Haggerston, while returning thanks to 
 his patrons for their ever generous support, and 
 while wishing to merit future favours by an 
 unflagging zeal, begs to inform them that, as 
 Miss Lydia Effingham, with whom a costly 
 engagement had been effected, has chosen, in 
 an abrupt and unwarrantable way, to terminate 
 her engagement, he has been compelled to 
 secure, at a moment's notice and enormous 
 expense, other talent ; and has succeeded in 
 catering for his friends the services of that 
 eminent tragedienne, 
 
 Mrs. hector MANFRONE, 
 
 Who will make her first appearance in 
 
 THE MURDERER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Anne Redman (the murderer's daughter) Mes. Hector Manfrone. 
 John Redman (the murderer) .... Mr. Haggerston.
 
 240 PUPPETS. 
 
 He was furious at this scandalous libel. The 
 bill was still damp, and he indignantly tore 
 it down and trampled it under foot to the 
 astonishment of some Dipchestrians. He then 
 hurried away to the draper's shop. The young 
 lady at the shop who so admired him came to' 
 meet him. 
 
 " Oh, she is gone, sir ! " 
 
 " Gone ! Where ? When ? What does this 
 mean f 
 
 '' I don't know, I'm sure, sir. She left this 
 note for you." 
 
 And one w^as handed to him, w^iich he tore 
 open and read : 
 
 " Thinking of your interest more than my 
 own, I have thought it best to save you from a 
 storm and a persecution which it would be cruel 
 to ask you to face. I own to you that this is 
 my reason, and this alone. You have not seen 
 the world ; you know not your own strength or 
 weakness. The whole would end disastrously 
 for us both. Should I be induced to invest all 
 my love, my afiections, in one whom I do like 
 and admire, I might find myself deserted ; and 
 there, where ' I have garnered up my heart,' as
 
 REJECTED. 241 
 
 they say in one of the plays, I would find a 
 snare and unsubstantial support — not being able 
 to trust myself or to trust you. Do not be 
 angry. I have resolved to fly and hide myself. 
 You will not find me, so do not try. I would 
 not entail misery on you for the world. You 
 would be persecuted to death. As I told you 
 before, if you are constant, and, after a lapse of 
 time, feel that you cannot live without me, per- 
 haps — but it is right that you should know this, 
 and I give it by way of warning : it will be 
 better for you to have nothing to do with me. 
 My life has another purpose than to be devoted 
 to all that is loving or afiectionate. To that 
 purpose 1 am hound to sacrifice everything — nay.^ to 
 turn everything ; and, if that purpose required it, 
 I should have to sacrifice one I loved. Accept 
 these words of warning, indeed extorted from 
 me» They will make you hate me ; but that 
 would be better than your ruin. Do not try and 
 find me. You will, of course, if you try ; for by 
 love I know all difficulties are overcome. But I 
 had rather that you should forget me. 
 
 "Lydia Effingham. 
 
 " Think of this, too. What do you know of 
 me — ^or who I may be ? Whether this be my 
 real name or no ? Think of all these things, and 
 
 VOL. I, R
 
 242 PUPPETS. 
 
 see how hopeless the matter becomes, and how 
 much better it is that it should end here for 
 ever." 
 
 He read this with a despair and wonder mixed. 
 The arguments in it, as might be expected, had 
 not the least effect on his mind — the appeal it 
 contained not the least weis^ht. It is strano^e 
 how, with some minds, always a different conclu- 
 sion is drawn to that which is intended. 
 
 The milliner's girl read in his agitated face the 
 whole story, and understood it as well as if it 
 had been told to her. 
 
 It was not very difficult for the distracted 
 youth to discover her track. It seemed to him 
 that he was a miracle ^of cleverness when he 
 bethought him of asking at the railway what 
 special ticket she had taken. The clerk, one of 
 histrionic tastes, was able to tell him. It was 
 a through ticket for one of the great manufac- 
 turing towns. It would take her the whole day 
 to get there. Something could be done by 
 telegraphing. 
 
 His father knew an important person in that
 
 REJECTED. 243 
 
 place ; and to the son of this gentleman he 
 telegraphed, begging him to watch the motions 
 of a person who would arrive by that train. 
 
 All thought of the Duke and the Duke's 
 daughter ; all thought of his father's brilliant 
 plans and hopes — those anxious dreams which 
 the son w^ell knew, at that very moment, were 
 wearing away the father's brain, and very heart 
 — all were forgotten in this infatuation ; and, in 
 a few minutes, he was seated in a train that took 
 another direction to the one which was to have 
 brought him to the palace of enchantment, of 
 dazzling hopes, of wealth, of power, " and 
 happiness. 
 
 R 2
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DISAPPOINTED. 
 
 Mr. Ben bow, when his son had left him. had 
 a light heart and a smoother brow. He became 
 complaisant. The visit, he had settled, should 
 last a fortnight ; but the great potentate had 
 made a significant speech, as he shook hands 
 with his host : 
 
 " It, indeed, rests with himself how long he 
 shall stay with us." 
 
 Not that Mr. Benbow was wholly reassured. 
 His confidence in the sense of his son had been 
 greatly shaken. He was, indeed, a little scared. 
 For the young fellow had never been put to such 
 a test before : had always seemed a sort of hum- 
 drum, average, guidable disposition, which, if it 
 could not lead, could at least be led ; now he 
 was changed.
 
 DISAPPOINTED. 245 
 
 All this was alarming. Still, so far he had 
 made all sure ; and all would go well. He went 
 into Dipchester at his leisure, and contrived 
 to meet Mr. Haggerston. That manager was 
 exuberantly obsequious. 
 
 " I think we managed well, sir — dissolved the 
 engagement at a heavy sacrifice to me ; a very 
 heavy sacrifice ; but we have saved your son 
 from the siren " 
 
 " I hear you had a succession of bad houses," 
 the other said, coolly. ^' I am sorry to learn it ; 
 but shall not forget what you have done, Mr. 
 Haggerston." 
 
 " Yes, sir, we drove her out of the town — 
 regularly routed her." 
 
 " What, has she gone ? " 
 
 And Mr. Benbow started. He thought there 
 was some indistinct symptom of danger in both 
 going on a journey at the same time. Could 
 there be any relation between these two move- 
 ments ? 
 
 Still, she was gone. She was out of his path 
 — a poor strolling actress, obliged to earn her
 
 24 G PUPPETS. 
 
 " bit and sup " — nothing more or less than a 
 scheming adventuress. 
 
 He knew boys well. The dazzling attractions 
 of the Duke's " palace ; " the charming girls ; the 
 attentions, and even flattery, which his son 
 would meet with from some ; above all, the 
 Duke's daughter tendered for his acceptance ; the 
 state, the magnificence of Banff Castle — all this 
 he knew quite well. He himself had been love- 
 sick once in his bovhood, when he had been 
 . passionately attached — he was ashamed as he 
 thoug^ht of it — to a curate's daus^hter. Ah ! the 
 pang ! A curate's daughter ! A prudent father, 
 bless him for it, had behaved with stern cruelty 
 — torn him from her savagely. It had been the 
 blessing of his life. Where would he have been 
 at that moment only for that ? 
 
 Altogether he was content, and went home 
 happy. En attendant, he busied himself with 
 minor plots and schemes, which filled up his 
 mind. 
 
 Thus two days went by, and a third day and 
 a fourth ; when he began to wonder that he had
 
 DISAPPOINTED. 247 
 
 not received an account of the progress made. 
 But he knew his son well. The lad had no 
 business habits ; answered letters fitfully ; and 
 scarcely ever volunteered them. Two days more 
 had passed ; then an entire week. 
 
 This silence actually gave him hope. Every- 
 thing had been settled, and would burst on him 
 with all the suddenness of completion. But then 
 another week began to glide by ; and, finally, on 
 one morninof he received a letter with the Duke's 
 name outside, in the corner. It contained the 
 following astounding news : 
 
 " Dear Benbow, 
 
 " We have been expecting your son every 
 day. I suppose we need not expect him further. 
 His room has been waitins; for him all this time. 
 Still, it is strange that neither he nor you should 
 have written. Pray let us have a line to explain 
 this singular delay, and believe me, yours 
 since:ely, 
 
 " Banffshire." 
 
 M\ Benbow tottered — in fact, was nearer a 
 stiote than ever he wa^ in the whole course of
 
 248 PUPPETS. 
 
 his life. All he could gasp out was, " The 
 scoundrel — the low, hypocritical scoundrel ! — 
 where is here ? where is he ? " No one coukl 
 answer him this. He could utter no other 
 question, for his voice was failing him ; but he 
 was answered by another letter, which he saw 
 lying on the table before him, and on which he 
 pounced. He tore it open. It ran : 
 
 "My dear Father, 
 
 " You will be surprised to hear that I 
 have not been at the Duke's after all ; but I 
 must tell you that important reasons may pre- 
 vent me going to him — reasons which I know 
 your good sense, kindness, and generosity will 
 approve. I think it would be idle to enter on 
 them now" ; more idle to present myself at Banff 
 at all. I have thought the matter deeply over; 
 and, after calm deliberation, have come to the 
 resolution that it would be dishonouraKe to 
 introduce myself into a house, or try and win 
 the affections of a young lady to whom I could 
 offer none in return. I scorn to do so ; aad I 
 beg you will not ask me. j 
 
 *' Under these circumstances I have not oeen 
 able to summon courage to go on with my
 
 DISAPPOINTED. 249 
 
 journey ; and submit to your better judgment if 
 it would not be more for our advantage to think 
 no more of the plan. Waiting your commands, 
 I am, my dear father, your affectionate son." 
 
 He fell back speechless ; crushed with disap- 
 pointment — despair, rather — and rage. But his 
 character had always been of the sort that rises 
 with an emergency. In a moment he was coolly 
 considering what was the next rigorous step he 
 should take. 
 
 This fool, this child — infant, rather — who 
 should be treated as such. Never mind ; he 
 who had never been baffled by strong men-»-men 
 of intellect and genius, — should not be opposed 
 by a poor creature of that sort. Before an hour 
 was out he had determined on his plans ; and 
 before the expiration of two hours he was on his 
 road to that far-off manufacturing town from 
 which his son had written.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A HEROINE. 
 
 Leaving Mr. Benbow in his trouble we will 
 shift the scene to the Ducal district at St. 
 Arthur's-on-the-Sea, wliere much festivity was 
 about to set in. 
 
 St. Arthur's-on the-Sea was a bathing town 
 combined with a packet station : and a harbour 
 that, to any one looking from the inland hills, 
 seemed like a loop of delicate ribbon floating on 
 the water. It was a granite district, and the 
 abundance of plaster, frosting over villas as 
 though they w^ere bride-cakes, made the place 
 glitter and shine in the glare of the sun, like an 
 Italian bay. 
 
 It was also a yachting station, and two clubs, 
 the Royal St. Arthur's, and the Royal Burgee,
 
 A HEROINE. 251 
 
 frowned and scowled at each other from opposite 
 sides of the jetty. The St. Arthur's was select, 
 and, though founded on a broad platform, by- 
 and-bye began to black-ball various local persons 
 as " low " and " not the sort of person." But 
 the famous rejection of Mr. Littlejohn, the 
 solicitor, whom every one knew, and whom 
 many of the "fine" party — men, for instance, 
 like Foljambe and Knox, ruthless " beaners " — 
 were willing to admit, brought matters to a 
 crisis. Then it was determined to found the 
 Royal Burgee. 
 
 Once every year a regatta was given by both 
 clubs, conjointly — an act, however, in which 
 there w^as no amity or cordiality. It was 
 imposed by sheer necessity, as neither could have 
 separately borne the cost of entertaining. They 
 gave plates and prizes together ; but somehow 
 the St. Arthur's contrived to bear off any honour 
 or profit that was to be got out of the strangers 
 "of rank, much as a lady of condition will ignore 
 the client to whose party she has undertaken to 
 ask guests. The distinguished strangers always
 
 252 PUPPETS. 
 
 chose the St. Arthurs, when offered honorary 
 membership. They were " put up " to the 
 matter almost before they touched shore by the 
 Reverend Doctor Bailey, who was for '' keeping 
 the club pure, sir," and threw out, in a careless 
 parenthesis, that " the other place " was " a kind 
 of poor thing, you know," mostly " brokers and 
 the shopkeepers," well-conducted and respectable, 
 and all that ; but scarcely the sort of thing. 
 "And it is gratifying for me," continued the 
 doctor, a very enormous clergyman, six feet two 
 in height, and portly and weighty without 
 absolute corpulence, " to see persons of that 
 class, banding themselves together for rational 
 relaxation. If they want their club, why 
 shouldn't they have it ? and Heaven speed their 
 work ; and I am told it is exceedingly w^ell- 
 conducted, but it is scarcely the place, you see. 
 You are a man of the world, Sir John." 
 
 The Reverend Doctor Bailey, thus mentioned, 
 was the recently- appointed vicar of this import- 
 ant and fast-rising watering-place. In appear- 
 ance, he was a very remarkable-looking man of
 
 A HEROINE. 253 
 
 great height ; he had a vast broad chest ; a 
 flourishing umbrella ; a broad-brimmed hat, and 
 an unhealthy florid face ; lips that were made for 
 sauces and wines ; with a high stiff wall of a 
 white tie, which came up at the side of his neck, 
 and seemed bent on cutting off his ears. The 
 hat lay very far back, and the Eeverend Doctor 
 Bailey, stalking along, his head back, his "snub" 
 nose to the clouds, was as well-known an object 
 as the spire of the church he served. That 
 church, with a wise forethought, he had accepted 
 when the place was a poor one. With a true 
 instinct as to its future, he had asked his patron, 
 Lord Frogmore, for the living, and it had been 
 worked up into a most profitable '* berth." He 
 was a good preacher, or had the reputation of 
 being one, which did as well ; and during the 
 season the doctor contributed much to its 
 success by his genteel sermons, in which there 
 was none of that vulgar conventicle language, 
 which he called mere " low poking the fire," and 
 which he said fretted unnecessarily the nice and 
 good people who came to hear him. " Not that
 
 254 PUPPETS. 
 
 I would compromise the truth," he said, " one 
 hair's-breadth- I shall do my sacred work 
 always faithfully and to the best of my power : 
 but the roaring vulgarity of such fellows as that 
 Buckley, who has the little Bethel yonder, does 
 no good." 
 
 There was a parsonage next the church, a very 
 small apostolic mansion. Long ago it had been 
 given over to the curate at a rent, while the 
 doctor gave his dinner-parties up at the Beeches, 
 a handsome gentleman's seat which he had 
 purchased. There he lived with Mrs. Bailey, 
 whose little shrunk figure no one was familiar 
 with, with his daughter Jessica and his son Tom 
 — a young fellow in the army, often spoken of as 
 ''the captain." These children had unhappily 
 been born when Doctor Bailey was " a mere 
 working curate," and had not yet established his 
 connection ; he often regretted that one had not 
 been christened Constantia, after " dear Lady 
 Frogmore," and the other St. John, a family 
 name of the same house. Nay, turning his 
 regrets still further back, the doctor would bewail
 
 A HEROINE. 255 
 
 his excessive haste in the matter of marriage, 
 when he might have chosen something far more 
 " suitable ; " the truth being that Mrs. Bailey's 
 origin would not bear heraldic tracing, nor was 
 she even fortified with useful connection. But, 
 with a venial exaggeration, if not untruth, the 
 doctor devised conversational pedigrees, spoke of 
 Mrs. Bailey's " family," and very largely of " the 
 Bakers of Blackforest." 
 
 Thus much for allusion to the doctor, who 
 was, as it were, viceroy of the place, and was 
 really allowed to take on himself all representa- 
 tive duties. He was, indeed, described 9,8 an 
 "overbearing, choleric, insolent fellow," by one 
 of the radicals of the town, and, " a clerical 
 bully," who, at home, roared at his family, 
 though he was a little afraid of his daughter. A 
 selfish schemer, with no more religion about him 
 than was confined strictly to his Sunday plati- 
 tudes. Then, it was owned, he shone, working 
 his arms vigorously, and having a tremendous 
 pair of lungs. Thus much for the doctor's 
 house. But there is a family, whose heiress
 
 256 PUPPETS. 
 
 daughter is a heroine of this little piece, who 
 must be noticed before the figures themselves 
 enter from the wing. 
 
 Panton Park lay well back in the country, 
 and the owner, Sir Charles Panton, a true squire 
 and hunting man, boasted that the sea could not 
 be seen from his top windows. Yet it was not 
 more than a mile and a half from the bathing 
 town, down in a rich bowl of grass and planting. 
 There, in a great stone palace which the late 
 owner had built fifty years before, literally not 
 knowing what else to do with his money, lived 
 Sir Charles and daughter. She was heiress — 
 magic title of honour, that has made many 
 hearts thrill more than the loveliest faces on 
 this earth. More conjuring has been done with 
 that spell than wdth any other, which brings 
 with it beauty, grace, wit, honour, virtue, and 
 accomplishment. And Miss Laura Panton was 
 an heiress combining the blessings of fifteen 
 thousand a year, with "savings," a park and 
 mansion, with a town house in Brook-street, and, 
 what was not the least of all in the eyes of
 
 A HEKOINE. 257 
 
 matrons with young candidates, a father, grey, 
 rather stricken in years, though wiry. Such 
 rare attractions soon became well known, and 
 indeed it was said that St. Arthur's-on-the-Sea 
 owed as much to them as to its other natural 
 advantages of fine air and bathing. But she was 
 delicate ; had a weak fragile chest, and, though 
 small and refined-looking, with a well-bred 
 haughty air, seemed bloodless, and was said once 
 to have broken a blood-vessel in her throat. 
 Hence she and her father had to pass each 
 winter at one of those hiding-places where poor 
 invalids run timorously from Boreas and Eur us. 
 The gossips also said she was flighty and 
 fanciful ; gay, too ^gay, and, for all her delicacy, 
 passionately fond of the world and its delights. 
 
 Sir Charles had been originally a Mr. Wright, 
 a plain unassuming gentleman of very moderate 
 means. He had sent his only child to a 
 " finishing " school, where also the parson's 
 daughter, Miss Bailey, had been placed by her 
 father, not from any paternal anxiety to give her 
 the best, that is, the most costly, education 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 258 PUPPETS. 
 
 possible, but because it might lead to acquaint- 
 ances, " nice connection, you know," for himself. 
 How simple, having thus laid a foundation, to 
 proceed in this way, with an engaging smile : 
 '' Not Mr. Dash wood, surely ? Might I ask, any 
 way connected with a charming young lady that 
 was at Dampier House with my little girl ? 
 Wonderful ! My dear sir, I am the clergyman 
 here, &c." It was while this delicate Miss 
 Wright, whose health was so precarious, was 
 here, that the two girls first met. 
 
 The truth w^as, the school had accepted Jessica 
 at a reduced premium, for a mere trifle : in fact, 
 the doctor valuing his position and possible 
 recommendations at the difference. Their view 
 was that he would surely do them mischief, and 
 injure the school, if they refused his terms. 
 And it is certain the doctor would have steadily 
 shrugged his shoulders, and pished and poohed 
 the establishment into ruin. '* A very poor sort 
 of place, sir ; all sorts of paw-paw people. A 
 lucky escape of sending my girl there ! " But 
 the lady directors, true to the instincts of their
 
 A HEROINE. 259 
 
 kind^ "took it out" of the unhappy little 
 hostage thus confided to them, and they had 
 instinct to see that from that indifferent father 
 would come no protest. She was kept there for 
 six years, going through the whole " curriculum,^' 
 such as it was, and going through a course of 
 steady mortification, bitter drudgery, with that 
 hot iron of dependency which the Misses Proud- 
 foot forced steadily, day by day, and hour by 
 hour, to enter into her child's soul. The vicar's 
 daughter could not be treated with open dis- 
 respect ; but it was known to every one that the 
 pale, and worn, and studious child was • '^ on 
 charity," more or less. So pale and thoughtful 
 she was now, having been slowly changed from 
 the gay, romping, rosy-cheeked "little thing" 
 which she had been when she arrived. 
 
 When the new girl, just come, " Wright," was 
 known to be the daughter of a gentleman of 
 slender means, the Misses Proudfoot had some 
 reluctance about accepting her, owing to a 
 possible uncertainty about the premiums. From 
 parents of this undesirable sort the moneys had 
 
 S 2
 
 '260 PUPPETS. 
 
 to be dug out, must be, as it were, crushed and 
 broken up from quartz masses, collected in 
 grains, after long delays, excuses, appeals, &c. 
 But the references were genteel. She w^as a 
 curious girl — delicate, peevish, fretful, full of 
 humours, ready to complain of her companions, 
 and to turn away from the excellent fare pro- 
 vided for them. She took as many airs as a 
 bishop's niece whom they once instructed, and 
 whom the bishop, an " honourable and reverend," 
 came to see in full apron. They hardly knew 
 how to deal with her, for she seemed dangerous 
 and vindictive, and could injure the school. 
 
 She had one friend among the girls, who 
 clung to her with a romantic friendship and 
 adoration. This was the parson's daughter, who, 
 from the moment of her arrival, had become her 
 jackal and defender, her admirer and worshipper. 
 It was inconceivable, the services she rendered, 
 the devotion she paid. She was more useful 
 than an Eton fag, because her service was vol- 
 untary. She shielded her from punishment 
 when the other could not shield herself; she
 
 A HEROINE. ^ 261 
 
 followed lier with loving eyes, like a faithful 
 dog ; and when " Wright " (for the young ladies 
 spoke of each other in this gentlemanly way) 
 was sick, stole off to watch her, in defiance of 
 the rules of the establishment. The determined 
 breach of these laws brought a tart letter to the 
 doctor, who came off in an angry fluster, blowing 
 and puffing, and began to revile his child for 
 her scandalous ingratitude for the blessings of a 
 good education. " I am told you are going 
 after low mean creatures, sticking to them with 
 a disgusting familiarity, separating yourself from 
 the nice young ladies of the establishment. Do 
 you suppose, girl, I can pay for you here, stinting 
 myself in common luxuries, all for you to follow 
 your grovelling whims and these vulgar tastes ? 
 There are plenty of nice, well-connected girls in 
 the house whose friendship would be useful, and 
 useful to me too ; and you choose to go puddling 
 in the gutter, making dirt pies I Faugh ! It's 
 disgusting." The reproof had no effect, and the 
 father even remarked, from the first, a cold in- 
 sensible look in the eyes of his child, fruits of
 
 262 PUPPETS. 
 
 the excellent training he had been passing her 
 through. 
 
 The young girl recovered, "joined her com- 
 panions," more pettish and helpless than before, 
 and was received with affectionate rapture by 
 her faithful henchwoman. What was the secret 
 of this singular devotion ? Possibly there was 
 none. It was her humour, or there was in the 
 fretful eyes of the other girl a faint expression 
 of suffering which drew her pity irresistibly. 
 Sometimes a look of this sort has strong and 
 permanent fascination. The other showed 
 neither gratitude nor love ; but Jessica was quite 
 content.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 
 
 Suddenly, one fine morning, there was a 
 flutter £ind bustle at Dampier House, and it was 
 known that strangers had arrived : a gentleman, 
 a carriage, and four posters. Miss ProudfooJ;, in 
 agitation, had come herself to fetch Wright from 
 the play-ground, calling her " darling.'' There 
 was a sweetness and obsequiousness in her 
 manner that was bewildering to the boarders. 
 " Come, darling, your dear father is longing to 
 see you ! " And she gave her — unaccustomed 
 luxury ! — a glass of wine in the " study." For 
 with school-boys and school-girls wine is the 
 symbol of unutterable glory and even apotheosis. 
 The chaise and four had spread the news ; all 
 was wonder and speculation. Miss Ventnor,
 
 264 PUPPETS. 
 
 the genteelest, and therefore the haughtiest, 
 girl in the school, who thought the other girls 
 mere " scum," whose sister had married a baronet, 
 was awed and even curious. Our aflfectionate 
 little jackal was in a tumult of delight. Cinder- 
 ella's carriage and four could not have given 
 much more joy. It betokened something good 
 for her friend and idol. 
 
 In the parlour — chamber of horror or of joy, 
 where severe or doting parents sat alternately — 
 she was caught in the arms of her dear father. 
 He was come to tell some great news. Their 
 old cousin Panton had died, that rich, cross old 
 man, and had left them a great fortune, and the 
 beautiful castle by the river, which she could 
 see from Miss Proudfoot's. They were now 
 rolling in wealth, he and his little girl. At this 
 the delicate girl slid off, and tossed back her 
 head ; a curious look of exultation and pride 
 came into her eyes. But they must both lose 
 their dear old name, the name their mamma 
 bore, and take another, which was quite as good, 
 however.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 265 
 
 "What matter," she said. "Who would 
 €are ? but was she to be an heiress ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And to have it all one day ? " 
 
 The new Sir Charles was disturbed at this 
 question, and looked at her thoughtfully. 
 
 "Oh yes," he said with a smile, " after me, of 
 
 course." 
 
 It was explained to her that the doctors found 
 the air of St. Arthur's so good for her chest, 
 she must remain a little longer under Miss 
 Proudfoot's kind care. (How gladly would that 
 lady, had she been permitted, have engraved 
 that high testimonial on her programme : "In 
 testimony of the healthy and salubrious air of 
 her establishment, she is permitted proudly to 
 refer to her distinguished pupil," &c.) 
 
 She drew back pettishly at this scheme, but 
 it was shown to her that her stay was to be 
 under quite altered conditions. She was to have 
 a room to herself, no lessons, wine every day, 
 doctors every week, to walk in the garden by 
 herself or with any young friend whom she
 
 266 PUPPETS. 
 
 preferred to keep her company. She reflected : 
 these bribes were not to be resisted. Miss Proud- 
 foot had in the kindest manner given permission. 
 It was not mentioned then that Miss Proudfoot 
 had in the kindest manner also agreed to accept 
 double the usual payment, in return for these 
 privileges. She called it being a " parlour 
 boarder." 
 
 In future that name of Panton made the 
 whole glory of that white plastered house, with 
 " grounds " at the back overlooking the sea. 
 This was a kind of melodious bell, of gold or 
 other precious metal, on which the Principal 
 rang with never - flagging vigour triple and 
 quintuple bob majors on the subject of their 
 former illustrious pupil. They were privileged, 
 in their programmes, to refer to Miss Panton of 
 Panton Castle, who had received instruction in 
 the establishment. Keference was also permitted 
 to Sir Charles Panton of Panton. On Tuesdays 
 and Saturdays the pupils were accorded the kind 
 permission to take recreation in the grounds of 
 Panton Castle. To the parents and guardians
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 267 
 
 who had audience, the Misses Proudfoot, with 
 most ingenious powers of apropos, contrived 
 continually to draw in Sir Charles Panton and 
 his daughter, met every doubt and objection 
 with the same august names, and illustrated 
 the progress of the studies, by scenes from the 
 happy era when Miss Panton pursued her studies 
 there ; and a favourite tableau, as it were, often 
 brought forward for the visitor, was one in which 
 was grouped their illustrious pupil and that 
 other young lady. 
 
 The change in Laura from this hour was 
 scarcely conceivable. The new wealth of a 
 sudden made her healthy, animated, and also 
 inexpressibly arrogant. She rose into a sort of 
 queenship, taking indescribable airs, which, alas 
 for the sycophancy which repeats itself even at 
 this small end of the worldly telescope, was 
 accepted and endured by the school and its 
 heads. But the worst feature was this : it was 
 noted that she rather '' dropped " her old friend 
 and worshipper. This conspicuous ingratitude 
 even surprised these other worldlings, for they had
 
 268 PUPPETS. 
 
 been saying to each other, " That now Wright 
 (or Panton) wouki settle half her money upon 
 Bailey." For a long time the clergyman's 
 daughter herself could not see this strano^e 
 conduct, marked as it was, and unmistakable 
 even when she ran up to her idol at first, 
 scarcely able to contain her delight, and was 
 repulsed pettishly. For this and for many more 
 instances of ungracious behaviour she could find 
 excuses. It was so natural now that Laura 
 should have much to think of; how could 
 she think of her in this turn of fortune ! Any 
 over- looking was almost proper. When Miss 
 Panton was seen "walking" with a new 
 friend, suddenly elected to intimacy, no other 
 than the young lady w^hose sister had married 
 the baronet, she was not staggered. The public 
 understood it perfectly : the new heiress was 
 growing " fine ; " but her young worshipper 
 alone could not believe it, and would not. She 
 would sooner disbelieve her senses or suppose 
 that two and two made three, than accept the 
 possibility of suc.h an ungrateful change. She
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 269 
 
 returned again and again, the other grew more 
 and more arrogant ; and from her new "nice " 
 friend she was inseparable. 
 
 One day when they were engrossed in talk, 
 and the future heiress was explaining what state 
 they would have at Panton, how many horses 
 she would keep. See. (her favourite theme), 
 Jessica approached humbly. 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " the other said, peevishly. 
 *' / don^t tvant you. You are always persecuting 
 me. 
 
 Each of these nine words was a stab, each 
 went deeper, until at last she could have ^ given 
 a scream. Some date a whole changfe in their 
 system, their life itself, from a fit of sickness, 
 from some shock ; and it was so with her. She 
 retired almost reeling. What she could not see 
 before she was forced to see now, as though 
 some one were thrusting the flame of a candle 
 close to her eyes. From that moment she shrank 
 from Laura quite scared ; though she was still 
 open to explanation of some kind. But the gap 
 or chasm opened finally when the time came
 
 270 PUPPETS. 
 
 for the heiress to go away home, when she heard 
 some of the pupils talking over every incident 
 of the departure as though it were that of a 
 royal personage. Her father, Sir Charles, had 
 given her leave to choose a friend "whom she 
 liked " from among the girls, to take home with 
 lier to amuse her during the vacation. This 
 news produced the most tremendous excitement : 
 some even said that Miss Proudfoot herself 
 nourished faint hopes of being the selected 
 companion, having performed prodigies in the 
 way of obsequious adoration of her pupil, fawn- 
 ing on her, and plying her with praises of herself 
 and of her " dear good father." The young girl, 
 quite overset with her sudden turn of prosperity, 
 did not care to restrain herself from any extrava- 
 gance, and behaved with an amusing wantonness 
 of arrogance, holding out hopes to some, but 
 all the while pledged to her dear friend the 
 baronet's sister-in-law. To others she made 
 promises, but the faithful worshipping Jessica 
 she passed over. When the morning came, and 
 the carriage was waiting at the door, and the
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 271 
 
 whole house was obsequiously gathered to see 
 her go forth with her chosen companion, the 
 baronet's sister-in-law, there was prodigious em- 
 bracing all round ; the clergyman's daughter 
 standing at a distance, with a strange look upon 
 her face, a kind of bewildered stare. It at last 
 came to her turn, and with a sort of constraint 
 Laura turned to bestow her parting accolade. 
 But, to Miss Proudfoot's horror, Jessica, cold, 
 stiff, and with a steady stare in her eyes, drew 
 back. 
 
 " No," she said ; " I cannot. I could not 
 touch you — not for the whole world." 
 
 " As you please," said the other, coolly, and, 
 getting into the carriage, drove away in her 
 glory, the principals and scholars being inexpres- 
 sibly shocked at this conduct. But from that 
 hour all noticed a most singular change in the 
 parson's daughter, who advanced at one stride 
 half way on her path to womanhood. That 
 discovery made her cold and hard, as she was 
 before impulsive and affectionate ; calculating 
 and distrustful, a most " disagreeable creature,"
 
 272 PUPPETS. 
 
 it was pronounced, but far more able to hold 
 her own and. get on in the world. 
 
 In the carriage which was taking Laura away 
 that happy day there sat a young man of thirty, 
 with very dark eyes, a forbidding, uninviting 
 expression, w^hich some w^ould have called " a 
 scowl." People would have passed him by with- 
 out sympathy ; but any one who came in 
 contact with him in any trifling contention, 
 say about a seat, went from him flushed and 
 put out, and saying, " That ill-conditioned 
 fellow ! " This gentleman, a friend of her 
 father's, was Mr. Dudley, a distant cousin, who 
 came very often to the school to see his relation. 
 It was known even to the girls that she did 
 not relish these visits — " He was so dark and 
 ugly," she said to her friends — and that every 
 time he brought her presents she always seemed 
 merely to endure him. Some of the girls, 
 however, thought him ''deeply piratical" and 
 interesting, and also that he could smile sweetly. 
 
 But when she had thus left the school, and 
 was established in all her splendour, as Miss
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 273 
 
 Panton, of Panton Castle, her proceedings became 
 of profound interest to the neighbourhood. As 
 the schoolgirl became a " young lady/' it seemed 
 to be her humour to exhibit that strange fitful- 
 ness and uncertainty of humour which wealth 
 and indulgence had now made her character. 
 It was seen also that Dudley was always about 
 the place, either staying at the castle, or in 
 the town, where he would appear in a small 
 yacht at unexpected seasons. For him her 
 father had a curious pity or partiality, and 
 was ever saying, " Let us have that poor fellow 
 Dudley here. He's your terrier dog, your 
 worshipper." At which she would protest fret- 
 fully that she hated and loathed him, and would 
 almost cry if the plan were persisted in. And 
 yet, as a curious trait in her character, when 
 her father at first would yield to her, thinking- 
 he was gratifying her, there would come another 
 turn, and she would be fretful again at being 
 taken at her word. To both he was very use- 
 ful, almost necessary, because he was eager and 
 willing. People wondered at this unmeaning 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 PUPPETS. 
 
 alternation in so " ordinary " a girl, a girl, 
 too, who had none of the redeeming virtues of 
 spoiled or ill-regulated minds, namely, a wild 
 and generous impulsiveness which hurries them 
 into what is right. She, indeed, had more of 
 the qualities which belong to the meaner 
 animals ; the uncertainty and spitefulness, in 
 small matters, of the monkey. But there did 
 at times come in her face a strange expression 
 of desertion, of questing and seeking for help, 
 which set every string in Dudley's heart a 
 jangling. 
 
 He was half indignant with himself for this 
 unmeaning partiality, and at first struggled to 
 free himself ; but, like a true spoiled child, when 
 she saw he had nearly succeeded, she exerted 
 her powers, and made him her slave again. It 
 was about that era, when she had left school 
 some three or four years, that she took a freak — 
 for it was no more — of exhibiting this power in 
 a most singular way. She had with her, on a 
 visit, that baronet's sister-in-law, who had gone 
 away from school with her, and whom she had
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE VENDETTA. 275 
 
 treated in her favourite fitful way. This girl, 
 it occurred to her one day, should marry Dudley. 
 She set her heart on it ; it was a new whim, 
 and it should be done, just as she should have 
 that horse or dress from her father, though it 
 cost a thousand pounds. And to this task she 
 set herself so petulantly and so desperately that 
 Dudley saw he must gratify her, or else incur 
 her bitter dislike. He was well off, the baronet's 
 sister-in-law was not, and was eager to be 
 married. To the surprise of his friends, to that 
 of Sir Charles, and to the overflowing triumph 
 of Miss Panton, this extraordinary marriage 
 was actually brought about ; though almost at 
 once the new wife found that she had not 
 her husband's heart, and, being impetuous and 
 passionate, they separated within a few months, 
 and Dudley came himself to tell Laura Panton 
 the news. 
 
 " I hope you are satisfied with your handi- 
 work," he said bitterly. " You can do no more, 
 now — at least to us ! " 
 
 She laughed lightly, and from that time — 
 
 T 2
 
 276 PUPPETS. 
 
 about four years before this story begins — 
 treated him with more gentleness and toleration. 
 She seemed to consider him promoted to a 
 responsible station, and herself privileged to 
 consult him and make him useful. He seemed 
 to be quite happy in this mastiff-like office, and 
 came and went as he chose ; and any new guest 
 at Panton often wondered at the dark, moody 
 and scowling man, whose eyes glared so, and 
 who spoke so little, save when he, the guest, 
 touched on her^ and the scowling man became 
 eloquent. ''Yes, look at her speaking face. 
 There is a whole world behind it. They think 
 here, because she will be so rich, and all that, 
 that she has no other title. I know her well, 
 and tell you there is a strange charm about this 
 girl which would attract if she had not a 
 farthing. Look, look at her now ; see, as she 
 turns her face to the lamp ! I cannot tell you 
 the effect on me." The guest cannot see it, 
 but thinks privately this is a very strange wild 
 'creature of a man.
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING. 
 
 Dr. Bailey was walking home by himself full 
 of a sort of iinusual excitement. The shops in 
 the little new town were lighting up, lazy bands 
 of sailors in the trim, dandy, yachting-dress, 
 and with golden names of nymphs and goddesses 
 on their hats, were strolling, lounging through 
 the place, gathering at the Eoyal Yacht Tavern, 
 and other sailors' houses, or were grouped in 
 crowds in the centre of the street. Lights were 
 twinkling "every where, and converging to points 
 at the end of long avenues. There was a hum 
 and chatter of voices abroad, and yet with a 
 general atmosphere of calm and rest, such as 
 comes at the close of a day that has been busy 
 and sultry. For this was a quiet June evening.
 
 278 PUPPETS. 
 
 and a June Saturday evening ; and it was also 
 
 all but the eve of the St. Arthur's-on-the-Sea 
 
 Eegatta, which was to commence on the Monday 
 
 morning. The tiny harbour was already crowded 
 
 with little black dashes surmounted with spiders'- 
 
 web work. The yachts, which had come stealing 
 
 in during the daytime, had now folded up their 
 
 white wings for the night. Far off little white 
 
 splashes could be made out on the purple-grey 
 
 clouds of the horizon, fast becoming black, which 
 
 were other yachts posting up, as it were, to reach 
 
 an hotel, and get to bed comfortably. Down at 
 
 the jetty's edge were other groups of seafaring 
 
 men, sitting on benches or turned- over boats ; 
 
 whilst the most eloquent proclaimed the merits 
 
 of " our craft," and boasted how the ' Diver ' could 
 
 beat the ' Mary Tanner ' any day — names which 
 
 figured in the yachting list as * La Diva ' and the 
 
 * Maritana.' 
 
 In accordance with the delightful vagabondage 
 of yachting life, the St. Arthur's Eegatta, at this 
 time in its infancy, and " good-naturedly encour- 
 aged," had drawn many noble strangers, noble
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING. 279 
 
 creatures, the beauties of yacht creation, elegant 
 symmetrical beings, to contend with each other ; 
 but, as with the beauty of the ball-room, no 
 matter how fine the lines of her neck and figure, 
 no matter what the Lapthornian milliner may 
 have done for her, this year's belle is certain to 
 give place to the new one of next year. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, the existing queen will 
 not give way without a petulant and spiteful 
 struggle, disdaining to be vanquished by a mere 
 chit of a thing just out. And once, perhaps, it 
 is positively a pleasure to see an almost veteran 
 stager like the ' Alarm ' hold her own for season 
 after season ; lead off every ball triumphantly, 
 and draw away all admirers from generations of 
 younger rivals. 
 
 Down below could be seen indistinctly the 
 huge 'Morna,' a boat of surprising reputation, 
 and whose vast mainsail it took twenty men 
 to get in. It was thought greedy on her part 
 to come to snatch up the St. Arthur's prizes, 
 and as nine o'clock came that nio^ht it was 
 thought they were saved from her. But a little
 
 280 PUPPETS. 
 
 white speck began presently to enlarge and grow 
 larger again, with such speed that the angry 
 yachting men found themselves stamping fret- 
 fully, and saying, " that's her," or something like 
 her. In a few minutes she was rolling in among 
 them, her great sail like a vast cloud, which in 
 a few moments more seemed to dissipate like a 
 vapour, sending consternation and disgust among 
 the yachtsmen on shore. 
 
 But well in the centre of the little haven re- 
 posed a handsome schooner, which lay haughtily, 
 sullenly, and in the place of honour. She in- 
 spired respect, and belonged to the peerage of 
 the craft. For from her bows floated the white 
 flag, which translated, means R. Y. S., and over 
 her bulwarks were seen little white dots, the 
 clean and snowy uniform of her crew. She was 
 known to be the 'Almandine,' one hundred and 
 seventy, and belonging to Lord Formanton, 
 though she had not the noble owner on board. 
 His son, however, the Honourable George Con- 
 way, was there with a very distinguished nautical 
 party. His Royal Highness the Prince of Saxe-
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING. 281 
 
 Groningen, with Baron Bachmann, Lieutenant 
 Bruce, and others. It was from this august craft 
 that Doctor Bailey was returning on this fine 
 Jane evening. He had gone on board to pay 
 his respects, just as Her Majesty's consul goes 
 on board at some foreign port. The German 
 prince, indeed, from his imposing presence and 
 manner, at first took him for some such public 
 officer; but the doctor soon opened his pro- 
 posals. He came, he said, to give them a cordial 
 welcome to their regatta, and they would try to 
 make everything as agreeable as possible during 
 their stay. Two years ago, Count Laland^, of 
 the Paris club, looked in on them, and was 
 delighted. He (Doctor Bailey) did everything 
 for him. Now to-morrow was Sunday — a dull 
 day. Would they so far honour him by coming 
 to take a bit of lunch with him and Mrs. Bailey 
 si The Beeches ? They could walk about the 
 grounds afterwards. Count Lalande had done 
 so. Then, by the way, there was to be an appeal 
 made by his unworthy lips for a meritorious 
 charity — The Disabled Yachtsmen's Fund. In
 
 282 PUPPETS. 
 
 a place like this a little religion was no harm ; 
 but, of course, administered with discretion. No 
 one had more experience among seamen than 
 he had, but there was an art in insinuating the 
 Word among them. He hoped Lord Formanton 
 was in good health. 
 
 The Honourable George Conway and the 
 German prince listened to these proposals. The 
 truth was the foreigners rather shrank from the 
 dull Sunday, and their pleasant wandering ways 
 made a sudden introduction and acquaintance of 
 ten minutes' ago quite familiar. They accepted 
 the doctor's invitation as a matter of course, 
 and promised to attend both lunch and sermon. 
 The doctor strode home very happy and com- 
 placent, planning his lunch, looking at it fixedly, 
 as though it were " laid " before him, up in the 
 welkin. He stamped and creaked into his hall, 
 letting the door slam behind him, then turning 
 angrily as though some one else had done it. 
 The contrast between his deferentially persuasive 
 manner on board, and his loud, rough words of 
 command in his own hall, was really startling.
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING. 283 
 
 *' Here, come down — come here, quick ! " A 
 pale, fluttering, elderly little woman appeared 
 before him, old-fashioned and pinched. She 
 knew her inferior caste. '"'Hark, woman!" he 
 said, ''and see to this ; and get those sluts below 
 to do their work. They're coming to lunch, 
 prince and all. So, see there's no bungling this 
 time. Now, go along, and don't stand staring 
 at me ! " 
 
 Then this good doctor sat down to his desk 
 to get ready for his sermon, which, indeed, was 
 not difficult. He always had a few by him in 
 stock on various models. There was what might 
 be called the Al mack's pattern — refined, oily, 
 sweet-scented doctrine, that trickled over the 
 edges of the pulpit, and flowed gently in the 
 direction of the select pews. There was a good 
 common-day pattern of the curate sort, which 
 did well enough for the Sundays, at the dead 
 level of the season, before Lady A. or Lord 
 D. arrived. For these were ''gala sermons." 
 Finally, there were the " crowd sermons," when 
 the place was very full, and quantity, if not
 
 284 PUPPETS. 
 
 quality, was present. On this night he took 
 down a sermon preached one lucky Sunday when 
 a royal duke had found himself there, and which 
 "a little touching" could make just the thing 
 for a German prince. Having got through this 
 work he ordered his two women to write all out 
 '* legibly," and " see that they did so before going 
 to bed." He went to his own, and slept there, 
 whalelike in look, and making awful and cow- 
 like sounds. He had an implied consciousness 
 that he was sleeping a just man's sleep. 
 
 The harbour of St. Arthur's looked very bright 
 on that Sunday morning. The yachts — pretty 
 creatures, like pretty creatures on shore — had all 
 their finery on ; gay caps and ribbons, and 
 snowy petticoats. The rival clubs flourished 
 scarlet bunting at each other, as though offering 
 a challenge. Tiny boats were rowing backward 
 and forward; and from the 'Almandine' a barge, 
 manned by six white-shirted rowers, was pulling 
 in state for the stairs — alas ! it was seen from 
 the Eoyal Burgee, for the stairs of the Eoyal 
 St. Artliur s. His Royal Highness the Prince of
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING. 285 
 
 Saxe - Groningen, with the Honourable George 
 Conway, ascended and walked to the church. 
 At the door they were met by the vicar him- 
 self, who led them up the aisle, and shut them 
 securely, and with a snap, into the large box 
 of honour at the top. How happy would he 
 have been, could he have thus treated all his 
 friends of condition — above all, that wandering 
 cabinet minister, who had been there for one 
 day, and whom he might have never released 
 till a promise of a bishopric had been extorted ! 
 It was crowded indeed : '^ hundreds had to be 
 turned from the doors," as a gentleman of the- 
 atrical tastes said to his friend. All the lead- 
 ing people were present ; and on a line with 
 the august strangers were the baronet and 
 his daughter, the heiress. The prince obtained 
 much attention, far more than did the dull 
 curate ; and was observed to look round gaily 
 and with curiosity, attending very little to his 
 devotions : a fair sandy youth, perfectly self- 
 possessed. But his companion excited more ad- 
 miration. Even the devout noted how handsome
 
 286 PUPPETS. 
 
 and " thorough-bred " was the Honourable George 
 Conway. This much may be said, that he was 
 known among his friends as a ^'rock of good 
 sense," thous^h it was a little uncertain as to 
 where he would finally fix that rock for good. 
 
 The doctor's heavy tread seemed to make the 
 church quiver, and his gown, &c., clattered and 
 flapped like the mainsail when going about. 
 Indeed, it occurred to one of the Jack Tars 
 that he was " carrying on " with too much can- 
 vas ; and the pulpit creaked and strained as 
 ^*that ere heavy gafi"" was hoisted up. Then 
 the doctor gave out his text, and made his Eoyal 
 Highness of Saxe-Groningen start with his loud 
 round tones. There was nothing passionate in his 
 appeal, and nothing threatening or ''bullying like 
 that ranter Buckley." It was a pleasant, kindly 
 invitation to ''Give, give" — the doctor pronounced 
 it "gee-iff" — out of all that we could spare. 
 We were not called on to abridge a single super- 
 fluity ; on those in the higher stations pressed 
 many claims and calls which seemed to those 
 below luxuries. No ; let us all give what we
 
 YACHTSMEN AREIVING. 287 
 
 could spare. Again, the doctor drew an elBfective 
 nautical picture. . " As in that contest, my 
 brethren, which to-morrow will thrill every heart 
 and kindle every eye, the proud skiff goes forth 
 in all her beauty, drooping before the breeze, 
 every sail set ; suddenly comes on a storm — we 
 are taken aback — we fly to the ropes, the hawsers 
 — but it is too late. The squall is down on 
 them — in a second the whole is a po-oor helpless 
 wreck ! " All the nautical men remarked con- 
 fusion in this nautical description, and pointed 
 out the mistake, and the mate of the * Alman- 
 dine' was heard to say, as he came out, that 
 ''that ere must have been a clumsy crew, mate,'' 
 while a second, with some vehemence, " that that 
 ere skipper had best stick to his own business, 
 seeing as how he didn't know a rope from a 
 hawser ! " while a third, afi'ecting to see an allu- 
 sion to the ' Morna,' said, '' It was unfair for a 
 parson to be prejudicing the race. But she'd 
 beat in spite of all the black gentry that ever 
 rode in a pulpit." 
 
 On coming out the doctor received com-
 
 288 PUPPETS. 
 
 pliments from the distinguished party. At the 
 same moment a tall good.-looking man, in a 
 yachting surtout, came up. He had a hard face, 
 and was bald. He seemed as though he had 
 " lived a great deal," and was greeted by the 
 young man. 
 
 " Hallo, Dudley, what you coming to church ? " 
 he said good-humouredly — ^' Prince, let me 
 introduce Colonel Dudley." 
 
 The doctor was beside them already, an im- 
 provised equerry. The crowd of fashion lingered 
 reluctantly, and the doctor's open carriage was 
 waiting. 
 
 " The Prince and Mr. Conway are coming up 
 to lunch," said the doctor, in a voice that could 
 be heard beyond the church. '^ If you will come, 
 Colonel Dudley " 
 
 The other was looking back to the church 
 door, expecting some one to come out ; then, 
 without answering, broke away, as it were, and 
 went to join the baronet and his daughter. 
 
 The doctor " blew " a little, and got red. " A 
 man of no manners, as you know, Mr. Conway,"
 
 YACHTSMEN ARRIVING. 289 
 
 lie said. '' Lives altogether a vagabond 
 
 life." 
 
 " Oh I see," said Mr. Conway, with interest ; 
 '^ those must be the people he is always talking 
 about." 
 
 " You see how it is, Mr. Conway," said the 
 doctor. *' A true Formanton, sir. Yes, a vulgar 
 longing after the heiress. Will you get in. 
 Prince ? " 
 
 " But, your daughter and family ? " said the 
 Prince, politely. 
 
 "Oh, pooh !" said the doctor, as if to the 
 servants ; " they've got home someway, never 
 fear." 
 
 The three gentlemen got in, and the carriage 
 drove away to The Beeches. The doctor talked 
 all the time, and described — for he knew the 
 country as well as a " lecturer " does his pano- 
 rama. Sometimes Mr. Conway questioned him, 
 and seemed to reflect on what he said. 
 
 '' Curious," he said, after a pause, " Dudley's 
 turning up here. We last saw him on the 
 Nile." 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " said the doctor, bursting with 
 enthusiasm. " There are wheels, you see, dozens 
 of 'em within each other. That's his cousin, our 
 heiress, the future baronetess, as my son calls 
 her." 
 
 *• But he's married," said Conway, gravely : 
 " it seems strange, does it not ? " 
 
 " My dear sir, there's no being up to men of 
 that sort. He quite hangs about Panton — a 
 cousin, you know. And she, the wife, was such 
 a strange, ill-regulated, dreadful person." 
 
 " Here we are ! " said the doctor several times, 
 almost at each sweep of the avenue. *' Here we 
 are," is always accepted by the person to whom 
 it is addressed with a sort of surprise and 
 gratitude, though he is already in possession 
 of the information. At the hall door, the doctor 
 said " Here we are," for the last time, and got 
 out.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE LUNCH. 
 
 Dr. Bailey led liis two guests in, and as lie 
 did so, a young girl came to meet them. " This 
 is my daughter Jessica," said the doctor, scarcely 
 Avith the importance that he would have said 
 ** This is our front drawing-room." 
 
 It occurred to Mr. Conway, and to the German 
 Prince, what a " strange girl this was," what a 
 quickness and spirit in the motion of her eye 
 and head, what a character there was. She 
 seemed to challenge them, inquire what was in 
 their thoughts, to colour as she read those 
 thoughts. She was about one-and-twenty, and 
 was a girl that could make her own way. 
 
 ** An invasion ! " said the Prince, in good 
 English ; " an invasion. Miss Bailey." 
 
 U 2
 
 292 PUPPETS. 
 
 '•'Not at all," she said. ''Papa asked you, 
 and we are so glad." 
 
 Smart, thought Conway, or she thinks her- 
 self so. A pity. He would give her another 
 chance. 
 
 " Sunday is so dull in harbour," he began, and 
 paused. 
 
 A really smart girl, he thought, could not let 
 this chance go, but must reply, " And Mr. Con- 
 way only comes to us to avoid the dull harbour." 
 But instead, her eyes dropped suddenly, and she 
 said : 
 
 " It was very kind of you, indeed." Mr. 
 Conway was a remarkably interesting man, and 
 had a legion of lady admirers. 
 
 " Oh, come in and sit down," said the doctor, 
 impatiently. " Go, child, and hurry your mother ; 
 these gentlemen are hungry, and don't keep us 
 waiting. Come in here, Prince, you shall taste 
 my cognac : finest in the three kingdoms." It 
 will be seen that the Reverend Doctor Bailey 
 was something of an under-bred man. With 
 him it was all " his " and " my " ; a red, swollen
 
 THE LUNCH. 293 
 
 pampered " my '^ ; " my house, my furniture, my 
 servants, my women," &c. All these elements 
 were to his service, honour, and glory. 
 
 The Prince said, perhaps a little maliciously : 
 " Will you not allow us the pleasure of presenting 
 our homage to Mrs. Bailey ? " 
 
 " Oh, to be sure, to be sure," said the doctor ; 
 ^^ she will be here presently. These servants 
 of ours, I can tell you. Prince " 
 
 " She your servant ? " said Mr. Conway. " Oh, 
 I see now," he added, correcting himself. 
 
 ''Ah, here is lunch ! " said the doctor, as the 
 folding door was thrown open. " Por once Mrs. 
 Bailey has not been an hour late." The doctor 
 began to stride. But the Prince stopped to offer 
 his arm to Miss Jessica. " You are coming in 
 to lunch, are you not ? This is not surely after 
 dinner, when the gentlemen drink alone ? " 
 
 The girl hesitated. 
 
 " God bless me," said her father, " you are 
 always getting up some fuss ! Don't let us 
 stand upon the order of our going. Prince. 
 Come in."
 
 294 PUPPETS. 
 
 But the latter, with, great ceremoniousness, 
 offered his arm, with a low foreign bend and 
 bow, to the young lady. The doctor began to 
 blow and walked behind, raising his hands 
 impatiently. 
 
 The lady of the house stole down after they 
 were seated. And the ceremonious Prince had 
 risen and was bowing, and offering his chair. 
 The doctor ''blew," and ''phewed" again, and 
 remained with his soup-ladle poised. He con- 
 veyed the idea that he would have liked to have 
 used it, say on the side of a human head divine, 
 and for quite another purpose than for helping 
 soup. 
 
 She scarcely spoke, but Mr. Conway noticed 
 that her daughter determined, as of set pur- 
 pose, that she should be noticed and have her 
 place. 
 
 '' I hope we shall see a great deal of you," said 
 the doctor, lubricating his lips with rich gravy. 
 " Here — help the Prince ! Now you must, you 
 really must come often : you know the way 
 here.''
 
 THE LUNCH. 295 
 
 Conway, who was a perfect gentleman, seemed 
 to take a pleasure in bringing forward Mrs. 
 Bailey. 
 
 " But what can you say to such an arrange- 
 ment ? Two boisterous sailors bursting in, and 
 taking possession of the house ! No, indeed, we 
 must think of you." 
 
 " What folly ! " said the doctor ; '' don't mind 
 them. What have they to do with it ? Come 
 when you like ! " 
 
 " What have they to do with it ? " repeated 
 Conway, wdth assumed astonishment. " Surely, 
 Doctor Bailey, ladies have to do with all that is 
 worth anything in this world. I am afraid (and 
 you must not think me rude for telling you so) 
 your own unaided attraction would not go far." 
 
 This, though said with the air of a joke, was 
 more in earnest than in joke, and the doctor 
 began to blow and phew a good deal, as his 
 habit was when there was something he did not 
 quite understand. 
 
 " And we find Dudley here," said Mr. Conway. 
 *' I have hardly got over that surprise yet."
 
 296 PUPPETS. 
 
 " An ill-conditioned man, Mr. Conway, very 
 much so ; he is not the sort of thing, you know ; 
 and really, when you consider my position, I 
 ought scarcely to tolerate a man situated as 
 he is." 
 
 " Oh ! you have told us that," said Conway, 
 very coldly. *' We are in possession of the 
 scandal. You know Miss Panton, our heiress 
 here '? " he said, turning abruptly to Jessica. 
 " Every one adores her." 
 
 Instantly he saw a bit of dramatic action in 
 her face ; two or three shades of opposite feelings 
 seemed to drift across it, much as they had s^en 
 cloud shadows gliding across their mainsail. 
 
 " Yes, I do know her," she answered steadily ; 
 '^ but I do not adore her ; and I don't think 
 that everybody does, and " — this after slow paus- 
 ings — " she is much too rich." 
 
 " I saw her at the church to-day, and she 
 seemed behind the rail of a cash-office." 
 
 Jessica was first going to say something, then 
 something else ; then seemed to check herself, 
 and said a third thing eagerly and fervently.
 
 THE LUNCH. 297 
 
 " I do not like her, and I cannot, though I 
 have tried. Perhaps the reason is that she does 
 not like me." 
 
 " What folly you talk, child ! " said her father, 
 roughly. " I assure you, Mr. Conway, she is 
 charming : all that estate for miles — you can see 
 it from the top window of this house — is hers. 
 Beautiful house, and all entailed on herself, 
 family jewels, savings. Oh, I assure you she is 
 very charming. Jessica talks without thinking. '^ 
 
 There was some scorn in Mr. Conway's face, 
 and Miss Jessica, who was as quickly intelligent 
 as she was quickly sensitive, saw it there.* It 
 made her move impatiently in her chair. 
 
 " What ! an estate for miles, savings, family 
 jewels ! " repeated Mr. Conway, quietly, and 
 without any appearance of sarcasm. " She must 
 be beautiful ! " 
 
 " A really fine woman ! '' said the doctor, 
 pleased. " Oh, there's no doubt about the 
 money." 
 
 *' It's wonderful ! " continued Mr. Conway, as 
 if ruminating ; " and I have a conviction she
 
 298 PUPPETS. 
 
 must be good and pious and charitable, and have 
 every virtue. Am I right ? " 
 
 " You are, indeed, Mr. Conway — a true man 
 of judgment, I see." 
 
 "You are making fun of us, Mr. Conway, '' 
 said Miss Jessica, in so excited a tone that the 
 German Prince, working at his food with vigour, 
 looked up with surprise. ^' You are trying to 
 draw us out, rustic people — you who have 
 travelled about and seen the world. Oh ! it is 
 great sport — you who have " 
 
 '^ Jessica ! " her fathered thundered, his fork 
 in the air. 
 
 " See, he can't deny it. He has too much 
 truth. No," she added, her eyes questioning 
 him, '' you will not ! " He was a little confused. 
 " She is beautiful because she has money ; she is 
 good for the same reason. Papa was entrapped 
 into saying it." 
 
 *' Oh, come, come, now, do stop," said the 
 clergyman, very hotly and roughly ; '' there is 
 always something of this sort. You mustn't be 
 getting into this kind of business, putting out
 
 THE LUNCH. 299 
 
 our little lunch in this way. It's really too 
 much. I won't have it in my house. Really, 
 you ought to beg Mr. Conway's pardon." 
 
 Jessica stood up, and repeated slowly, " Beg 
 Mr. Conway's pardon ! " She then gave a 
 scornful look all round, and walked towards 
 the door. 
 
 The Prince had jumped up to open it. ^' The 
 ladies leaving us already ? " he said, with a 
 foreigner's tact. ''These cruel English customs 
 of yours ! " 
 
 Mr. Conway rose, too, but said nothing. 
 
 Doctor Bailey was quite ''put out " ; his* lips 
 inflated and collapsed again. " I don't know 
 what you will think of us ? " he said ; " she is 
 self-willed, you know, and really I must have her 
 
 taught control and " 
 
 ♦ 
 
 "We must not spoil this good wine with 
 any scolding of Miss Bailey," said the other. 
 "For my part, I admire nature and spirit. 
 Apropos of the heiress, though we own to being 
 curious — every one is about the sights and 
 shows, lions and lionesses of a district "
 
 300 PUPPETS. 
 
 " Most natural, most natural," obsequiously 
 said the doctor. 
 
 ** The contrast between her and your daughter 
 I can quite imagine. I know nothing more 
 intolerable than the perpetual challenge of 
 wealth, a sort of concrete arrogance, the buying 
 your way, as it were, buying the jpas, too, every 
 moment. I know it would grate on me, and 
 fret me to death." 
 
 The doctor did not follow this refining at all. 
 The idea of money " grating " or '' fretting " to 
 death ! At that moment he formed the con- 
 clusion that the Honourable Mr. Conway was 
 *' a poor creature full of young ladies' talk." 
 " I don't know about that," he said, '^ but I wish 
 my son Tom had her." 
 
 Then the gentlemen talked of the baronet 
 himself, .who had left his card at the yacht, 
 and again came back the curious relation of 
 Colonel Dudley. 
 
 '' I have known that sort of shepherd's dog 
 attendance," said Conway, " before now. A man 
 is unhappy in his own home, and he finds a
 
 THE LUNCH. 301 
 
 soothing feeling in the company of some con- 
 genial face. He asks no more ; to breathe the 
 same air is enough. He would not care if it 
 went on so for years. I dare say he travels 
 about with them as one of the retinue. It 
 tranquillises him." 
 
 "Precisely, but a great drawback to her 
 advancement, you know. He scowls at every 
 man that comes up." 
 
 " And if one had a son," said Conway, smiling, 
 " most unpleasant. But one should never mind 
 his scowls." 
 
 Doctor Bailey was presently showing his 
 visitors the "grounds" and gardens. "My 
 hothouse," " my greenhouse," " my gardens," his 
 general stately ^' my," which was really the point 
 of what he was exhibiting. This was for the 
 German Prince, who resigned himself with the 
 sad dreamy politeness of his country. Conway 
 went to the drawing-room. 
 
 Jessica, in a pale green striped dress, was 
 walking up and down with stately pacing. She 
 seemed to be talking haughtily to some invisible
 
 302 PUPPETS. 
 
 companion ; not to her mother, who was in the 
 more congenial " housekeeper's-room," the locality 
 where she would have asked any one to *' Come 
 live with me and be my love." 
 
 There are some characters " drifting " about 
 this world, sometimes being " kicked about,'^ 
 which are mere fragments, each with the serried 
 outline of a fracture. By some rare chance, 
 both come together one day, and fit to a nicety 
 in one piece. Had these two, Conway and 
 Jessica, thus joined unexpectedly, and did both 
 know it ? 
 
 "You were angry with me," he said, defer- 
 entially, " and I have come to beg pardon. I 
 did two things which fretted you ; I wanted 
 respect to your father, and praised up that rich 
 woman who is as distasteful to me as she is to you." 
 
 Jessica smiled and put out her hand. *^ In- 
 deed I am not angry, and I am not ashamed of 
 myself. My father says I disgrace him every- 
 where, and that I am pettish." 
 
 " You must let me see you, then, under better 
 auspices," said Conway, gravely. " Otherwise I
 
 THE LUNCH. 303 
 
 may run the risk of taking away an unfavourable 
 impression." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Jessica, scornful again. '' And 
 that is your gracious pleasure. Then I tell you 
 candidly, Mr. Conway, I am not sorry, and 
 I do not think it good taste to sneer at a 
 gentleman at his own table, and before others. 
 Now ! " 
 
 Conway coloured, and was angry. He had 
 quite mistaken this young lady. 
 
 ^* You are too severe for me," he said, " and 
 really beat me to the ground." 
 
 She made no answer, and swept out just as 
 the doctor and the German entered. The doctor 
 blew and phewed, and muttered, " Oh, unbear- 
 able ! such behaviour ! " but the young lady 
 did not return. Before the two gentlemen 
 drove away it was arranged that the doctor and 
 his family should come and see the ' Almandine,' 
 and take the opportunity of there being fire- 
 works on the following nights, when a little 
 supper could be '' knocked up." 
 
 *' Oh, I shall come, certainly," the doctor said,
 
 304 PUPPETS. 
 
 eagerly. " So glact to know you are better. 
 We have all heard of his Lordship, your good 
 father, and I will take the liberty of asking you 
 to mention that you have seen me, the Vicar of 
 St. Arthur's. He will recollect a little corre- 
 spondence we had two years ago. A finer, 
 nobler character does not exist in this broad 
 England of ours." 
 
 Conway seemed to convey surprise at this 
 large statement. '^ My father is a most excellent 
 man," he said, in his quiet way ; "I shall give 
 him your message." ♦ 
 
 " Do, do, my dear Mr. Conway," the doctor 
 went on, as though he were preaching. " He 
 will know me. I wanted him to take the chair 
 for us down here for The Disabled Yachtsmen. 
 He was busy, I suppose, so we got Lord Eufus 
 Cocker. Good-bye — -yooo^-bye." 
 
 Wine at lunch was like kindling the furnace 
 fires for the doctor, so all the cranks and 
 machinery were working, the steam blowing off, 
 and all the oils oozing out. 
 
 " We shall write formally to the ladies," said
 
 THE LUNCH. 305 
 
 Gonway, '' and you can tell them. In tlie 
 mean time " 
 
 *' Oh, she never goes," the doctor said, waviDg 
 off his wife, " that sort of thing don't suit her. 
 And, as for Jessica — if you wish '^ 
 
 " Oh, but my good sir," said Conway, de- 
 cisively, "this must be understood. The rule 
 of the Yacht is to admit no single gentlemen 
 on these gala occasions. I assure you she is 
 inflexible in that." 
 
 This seemed like bantering, but there was a 
 blunt and malicious decision about Conway's 
 manner that told the doctor that the YJicht 
 mig-ht not be "at home " for him if he came 
 without his wife. 
 
 VOL. r.
 
 CHAPTEE XYIII. 
 
 A HOLIDAY. 
 
 Monday morning. A bright, fresh day with 
 a distant stiff breeze, which every now and again 
 caused a dark purple frown to pass over the sea 
 very far away. The old sailors said this meant 
 nothing, that " afore noon " it would be all right, 
 with a "good sailin breeze." The harbour 
 seemed to have half the air of a nautical flower- 
 show — so many sails were fluttering in a sort of 
 negligee toilette, A few more of these elegant 
 ladies had dropped in during the night, and for 
 the first race it w^as known that at least ten 
 would start. Of course the shabby, greedy 
 ^ Morna ' was among them. " Scandalous," 
 many a mariner, his hands deep in his pockets, 
 muttered. Little boats shot about the harbour
 
 A HOLIDAY. 307 
 
 :zigzag, like gad-flies, and the Eoyal St. Ar- 
 thur's and the Eoyal Burgee in full uniform, 
 and stuck over with innumerable flags, afi'ected a 
 sort of harmony for that day only. 
 
 A gunboat from one of the great ports was 
 hovering undecidedly outside the harbour ; the 
 lieutenant was being pulled ashore ; but even 
 that "rubbishing fellow" went straight for the 
 stairs of the Royal St. Arthur's. The terraces of 
 both clabs were covered with gentlemen in short 
 jackets and caps, and using glasses, with quite a 
 quarter-deck air. The start was early : about 
 nine o'clock. From the commodore's yacht 
 came the gun, and the row of racers were 
 " round " in a second, and gliding away out of 
 the harbour. The selfish cutter took her time, 
 and rather " lounged " out. She had on her 
 racing suit, and when she got up her " balloon " 
 sails, seemed to swell like the snowy feathers of 
 a huge swan. There was the local crack boat, 
 known indifl'erently to the sailors as the ' Nigh- 
 a-Bee,' sometimes as the ' Knee-Oby,' but which 
 in Hunt's List was the ' Niobe,' 35 ; W. C. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 PUPPETS. 
 
 Jephson, owner. This gentleman could hardly 
 contain his disgust as he looked at the intruder, 
 who was aristocratic E. Y.S., while he was only R. 
 St. A.Y.C. There she was, a smart coquettish, 
 thoroughbred thing, shooting out of the harbour 
 before all the rest ; but, " of course," there was 
 the huge hulking ' Morna ' rolling carelessly on 
 behind, and getting up another tremendous sail, 
 though in the most leisurely manner. The rest 
 went on their way in straggling order — here, 
 there, and everywhere, leaning over, awry, stiffly 
 upright, or flying along half arching over, like 
 graceful skaters. The course was one of many 
 miles ; in a short time the graceful craft were 
 afar off, no more than a few yellowish specks 
 dotted about, and the spectators on shore had 
 done with them for nearly the whole day. 
 
 The ' Almandine,' like some fastidious guards- 
 man, seemed to think the affair " a bore," and 
 disdained to take the trouble of racing at all. 
 She lay in the centre of the harbour, tranquilly, 
 as if reposing on a sort of watery sofa, full 
 of charming languor. Eound her circulated
 
 A HOLIDAY. 309 
 
 inimmerable gay pleasure-boats, all parasols and 
 brio^ht ribbons. Towards two o'clock, the 
 terraces of the Eoyal St. Arthur's and of the 
 Eoyal Burgee became crowded, and the band 
 of the Sixth (Prince Eegent's Own), one circle 
 of legs and jackets, with caps at about the 
 sloping angle of a roof, played "selections" 
 under the direction of Herr Spoffman. They 
 had been brought by special train. The Eoyal 
 St. Arthur's were giving a dejeuner a lafourchette, 
 in the boat-house, at four o'clock. The commo- 
 dore and vice-commodore of the Eoyal Burgee 
 were, almost perforce, invited ; and the members 
 of the Eoyal Burgee, though they hated it* still 
 spoke with pride of the invitation, and told each 
 other at the house *Hhat the commodore and 
 vice ditto were over at St. Arthur's." 
 
 As the day wore on, the excitement increased, 
 and the crowds gathered more thickly on the 
 pier. Special trains began to arrive from 
 neighbouring manufacturing towns. On the 
 jetty and pier were the usual "Fair" super- 
 numeraries ; fellows shooting for nuts, the
 
 310 PUPPETS. 
 
 roulettes, the carts of spruce and ginger-beer. 
 These familiars take the race-course and the 
 regatta on their circuit indifferently. The 
 Cheap Jacks lectured. But suddenly amongst 
 the motley group appeared an open carriage, with 
 a very large gentleman in a large hat — a bright 
 2:irl beside him — who was callino; out, in a loud 
 voice, '^ Don't stop the way, please, stand aside 
 — we are in a hurry ! " No wonder Doctor 
 Bailey was eager, for he could actually hear the 
 voice of 'Hhat low Buckley" close by, who was 
 in the midst of a ring on a granite stone, asking 
 a large crowd whether '* their timbers were 
 secure and well caulked ; whether their ropes 
 were taut, and were they ready to mount the 
 ship's side, up the glorious gangway of faith, 
 and step on the quarter-deck of the 4:esur- 
 rection 1 " 
 
 Seeing faces turning away from him at the 
 sound of carriage- wheels, Mr. Buckley went on. 
 ''Is t/iat the way to put out on the sea of 
 righteousness, in purple and fine linen, and," 
 with a slight confusion of metaphor, " rolling
 
 A HOLIDAY. 311 
 
 in one's carriage ? Is it by going down to riot, 
 and drink, and eat, and be filled, and make 
 merry, like the swine, that the God-fearing 
 mariner fits himself for his work ? " &c. 
 
 Thus did the low Buckley make the doctor 
 serve as a text and homily. What did the 
 latter care ? There he was, getting down at the 
 door of the Eoyal St. Arthur's, and striding 
 in with his daughter on his arm. " Keep back 
 these people, policeman," he said. '^ There's 
 really no getting into one's own house. Sir 
 — he has come, I suppose ? eh, Bowles ? Seen 
 the Prince about ? " 
 
 Thus he passed in, pushing his way* with 
 many a '^ Let me pass, please ! People should 
 move on, and not crowd in the doors." Miss 
 Jessica's lips were contracted, and to other 
 people she looked as overbearing as her father. 
 Out on the terrace, they came among the gay 
 company where the Prince Eegent's own were 
 drumming and clattering the eternal ' Trovatore,' 
 with infinite noise. 
 
 In a moment Mr. Conway was beside them,
 
 312 PUPPETS. 
 
 and was seized, swallowed up in the vast greeting 
 of the tremendous doctor, who was himself 
 family, daughter, wife, all, and spoke for all. 
 With a quiet inattention, Mr. Conway put him 
 aside and welcomed Jessica. She was all interest, 
 all excitement. She had been looking out for 
 him eagerly, as he saw. The doctor became of 
 a sudden submerged in business, calling out, 
 looking for some one. 
 
 '' Where's Colman '? Send him here, do ! Has 
 Sir Charles come ? Here, ma'am, be good enough, 
 do. Don't crowd about the passage ; people 
 can't get in or out," &c. 
 
 He was now in the boat-house, looking after 
 the dejeuner; now out of the boat-house, looking 
 after the great people, and all the while, not 
 unnaturally, in a very great heat. 
 
 " I am so glad to meet you," said Jessica. 
 '' What you thought of me I do not know. But 
 there are people who try and ' draw out ' my 
 father, as they call it, and I thought " 
 
 " You thought I could be so ill-bred, so 
 ungentlemanly ? " said Conway, colouring.
 
 A HOLIDAY. 313 
 
 " I did/' said she, fearlessly. " I tell tlie truth 
 always, though you may despise me, and make 
 yourself my enemy for ever." 
 
 " Well, you are independent, like myself. I 
 should have made the same answer, I suspect. 
 And I like you the better for telling me this. 
 Look here ; who comes by ? You will tell me 
 all the notables." 
 
 It was the doctor, and a short, spare, wiry, 
 grey gentleman, in a white coat and blue tie, 
 and with a tall young lady on his arm. She was 
 dressed to perfection, and a certain good taste 
 about her made her face handsome. It was 
 Laura the heiress, and though the majority 
 there were above everything mqan, yet the pre- 
 sence of so much wealth unconsciously fluttered 
 them all, and numbers of necks and heads were 
 twisted and craned " to get a good view." People 
 even reverently made way and drew back with 
 an awe they were ashamed of, but could not 
 resist. If all were saints, money must force this 
 homage. The doctor was their grand cham- 
 berlain. "See here, Sir Charles. That's the
 
 314 PUPPETS. 
 
 ' Almandine,' Lord Formanton's, you know, fine 
 vessel. I had the son and his friend, the Prince 
 of Saxe-Groningen, to lunch with me. Most 
 gentlemanly fellow. Ah ! by the way. Sir 
 Charles, here he is. Conway, allow me. Sir 
 Charles Panton — Miss Panton." 
 
 Conway, perfect gentleman as he was, could 
 give a rebuke, or be insolent even, with his face. 
 He conveyed by his cold bow that he had not 
 desired this introduction, and conveyed it to all 
 parties concerned. 
 
 " I hope Doctor Bailey," he said, turning to 
 Jessica, '' will not ask me to make any more 
 acquaintances. I make it a point to be disagree- 
 able, and a Miss Mammon I 7iever can stand.'' 
 
 " I am delighted," said Jessica, enthusiastically. 
 " My father thinks them the greatest people in 
 the world, and is always asking them, or wishing 
 to be asked by them. You saw how she looked 
 at me. She is empress over this part of the 
 country. But I am not under her, and disdain 
 her rule, and would die before I would submit to 
 her. And she knows it."
 
 A HOLIDAY. 315' 
 
 " How you and I shall agree ! " said Conway. 
 "It is refreshing to hear such independence. I 
 am independent, too, of all the world, except of a 
 certain good but rather ambitious person, whose 
 name is Formanton." 
 
 " Oh, your father ? " said she. 
 
 " Yes. My [poor mother, last and only one 
 of all my friends, left me to him. I am his 
 while he lives, as much as a serf used to be 
 in Eussia. But for this I should have done 
 something. As it is, I have been leading an 
 actor's life, instead of doing something useful.. 
 Now I have grown old, and the best part of 
 life is gone. But I have made a promise, 
 and must stick to it. ' Stick to it ! '* Is 
 not that a refined speech ? Even in English, 
 where I used to be rather ' nice.' You see 
 the decay ? " 
 
 It must have been time for the dejeuner, for 
 Doctor Bailey was bustling people about, and 
 giving loud orders, causing angry faces to be 
 turned round as he stood on dresses and roughly 
 pushed past ladies. He was always hot and
 
 o 
 
 16 PUPPETS. 
 
 angry when lie stood on a lady's dress, or dragged 
 it from her waist. 
 
 " Bach things ! A man can't walk. I really 
 must ask you, ma'am, to stand out of the way. 
 No one can get by." 
 
 " Eude bear ! " " Savao^e ! " were the whis- 
 pered rejoinders. There was another lady of 
 rank present, whom the doctor himself had 
 described as ''a broken-down honourable," whom 
 he was obliged to " take in," and he gave out 
 orders right and left to others, dragging this 
 partner about, and clutching at young men. 
 " Here, you — get somebody and take 'em in." 
 Then his eye fell on Miss Panton, and he seized 
 Mr. Conway and eagerly "hauled" him to her 
 side. As for his own daughter, what did it 
 matter what became of her ? Conway, now that 
 fate was inexorable, offered himself for duty with 
 perfect complacency. But he could see the 
 unconcealed dissatisfaction, the open colour, of 
 the lady he was thus obliged to leave. This sort 
 of character, clear as crystal, which disdained to 
 conceal, was really new to him, and quite inviting.
 
 A HOLIDAY. 317 
 
 With his new companion he was quite a 
 different person. He became the conventional 
 gentleman of parties and amusements, asked with 
 apparent interest as to her balls and parties, and 
 talked in the usual personal way of his own 
 movements. One thing she saw clearly, he was 
 not in the least impressed by her acknowledged 
 sovereignty. 
 
 " I see you know those Baileys," she said, 
 pettishly. " Very pushing people, are they not ? " 
 He had never met so fretted a voice. 
 
 " I like Jter^' said Mr. Conway, with an 
 affected warmth. ^*She is charmingly natural, 
 and full of honesty. But to be pitied with that 
 intrusive father, who should have been cham- 
 berlain at a little German court, not an English 
 clergyman." 
 
 " I know little of them," said she, haughtily. 
 '^ Of course we exchange visits, and that sort of 
 thing, but I do not wish to go beyond it." 
 
 *' So I have heard," said Conway, smiling. 
 " They have told me already that Miss Panton 
 is queen of this country for miles round. They
 
 318 PUPPETS. 
 
 speak with distending eyes, and gaping mouths, 
 of her vast wealth, and gold, and jewels. I am 
 sure it must amuse you. But these poor people 
 can't help it, you know. It is their nature." 
 
 " And these people I suppose have been telling 
 you all this ? That is their nature also, I 
 suppose ? '' 
 
 " These people ? " repeated Mr. Conway, wish- 
 ing ''to take her down" a little. "Oh, Dr. 
 Bailey and Miss Bailey. I see, I am getting on 
 the thin ice. You know, a stranger, such as I 
 may call myself, for I have been away for six 
 or seven years, cannot be, nor is he expected to 
 be, posted up in the little vendettas of a place 
 like this." 
 
 The pettish look she gave him, gave him 
 pleasure afterwards to think of. 
 
 *' / a vendetta with them ! I repeat they are 
 outside our circle. It is barely an acquaintance. 
 You might as well say I have a vendetta with 
 that sailor there." 
 
 " No doubt," said he, gravely ; " and my stay 
 in this place has been only a day or so long. But
 
 A HOLIDAY. 319 
 
 as a mere fact of general experience your illustra- 
 tion does not hold. In plays, you know, the 
 wicked lord often takes a horrid and unmeaning 
 dislike to his virtuous tenant in a red waist- 
 coat." 
 
 All this while two sullen eyes had been bent 
 on them from the opposite side of the room, 
 and he thus heard a voice beside him, " Red 
 waistcoats and virtuous tenants ! Do you hear 
 this, Conway ? Let me warn you," he added to 
 her, "he has got well furnished with all the 
 refinements and metaphysics. I know him ; 
 and with these little smart things he makes 
 himself interesting. I know you of old, my 
 dear friend." 
 
 "No you do not," said the other, coolly. 
 " That is much too highly coloured an account 
 of our acquaintance. Pardon me if I am wrong, 
 but you know very little about me, Dudley. 
 Now, Miss Panton, come into this place. I am 
 sure you must be tired, and perhaps hungry." 
 
 There was a vast clatter of plates, knives and 
 forks, and champagne explosion. The natives
 
 320 PUPPETS. 
 
 of the district were not generally accustomed to 
 such rich and gratuitous entertainments. They 
 flung themselves on the banquet with some- 
 thing like ravenousness. It was hard to hear a 
 neighbour's voice through it ail. 
 
 END OP VOL I.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUN0I9-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 045838619