i^^ 
 
 L\ E) RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLR5ITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 1865 
 
 V.I

 
 MISS C A R E W 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION. 
 
 In one volume, crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s., bound. 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 
 
 FROM THE TIMES. 
 " It is not often that we light upon a novel of so much merit and interest 
 as ' Barbara's History.' It is a work conspicuous beyond the average for 
 taste and literai-y culture, and felicitous in its delineation of some very 
 delicate and refined shades of character. Its mere finish is a triumph of 
 graceful expression and adroit artifice in the management of language. It 
 is a very graceful and charming book, with a well-managed stoiy, clearly- 
 cut characters, and sentunents expressed with an exquisite elocution. The 
 dialogues esjjecially sparkle with repartee. The writer's skill in the deli- 
 neation of character is the principal means of making the stoi-y so at- 
 tractive as it is. The heroine Barbara, especially, is a charming young 
 lady ; and she never loses her hold on the reader's prepossessions. To 
 these clear and happy delineations of herself, it must be added that the 
 scenes which she is represented as describing, and the society in which 
 she moves, are also depicted with an equal clearness and an equal felicity. 
 It is a book which the world will like, and which those who commence it 
 will care to finish. This is high praise for a work of art, and so we intend it." 
 
 FROM THE ATHEN^UM. 
 
 " If Miss Edwards goes on writing such stories as ' Barbara's History' 
 she will on some bright day of a lucky season wake up and find herself 
 famous. Miss Edwards has qualities superior to mere literary facility ; she 
 has humour, insight into character, and an extensive knowledge of books. 
 We give her full credit for having written a thoroughly readable and 
 deeply interesting novel." 
 
 FROM THE MORNING POST. 
 " This story is uniformly alluring and interesting. Miss Edwards pos- 
 sesses many of the finest attributes which distinguished Charlotte Bi'onte. 
 She has the strength, without the rudeness, which marked that memorable 
 book 'Jane Eyre.' She has richness and originality of fancy, and fine 
 artistic taste, beyond those of Miss Bronte. Her greatest success is in the 
 perfect delineation of a male character. In his way, Hugh Farquharson is 
 equal to Edward Rochester. 'Barbara's Histoid' proves that Miss Ed- 
 wards is no less competent to delineate the emotions of the heart in all 
 their subtle and infinite variety than to awaken the keenest perceptions 
 and the loftiest associations of the intellect." 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, GREAT MARLBOROUGH ST,
 
 MISS C A R E W. 
 
 BY 
 
 AMELIA B. EDWARDS, 
 
 AUTHOK OF 
 
 '' BARBARA'S HISTORY," 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 I860. 
 
 The right of Tramlation is reserved.
 
 lo>t)on: 
 
 PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUG WELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE, 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 < 
 
 ^ INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ■i 
 
 T WAS in love — hopelessly, helplessly, irra- 
 tionally in love — with Miss Carew. 
 Hopelessly, of course. How could it be 
 otherwise? I had met her at one or two 
 dinner-parties — I had danced with her at one 
 > or two balls — I had bowed to her half a dozen 
 1 times in the Park. It was the merest ac- 
 5 quaintanceship, and nothing more. Had it 
 ^ even been more, what was I, Philip Dun- 
 j donald, that I should aspire, even in my 
 ^ wildest dreams, to the rich, the beautiful, the 
 ^ brilliant Miss Carew? I might as reasonably 
 ^ have allowed myself to become enamoured of 
 -J the Venus Milo or the Madonna della Seg- 
 J giola. 
 
 ^ VOL. I. E
 
 2 MISS CAREW. 
 
 I was only Philip Dundonald, barrister-at- 
 law ; and I had never held a brief in ray life. 
 I was the author of an unsuccessful book — of 
 a transpontine drama, the parentage of which 
 I was ashamed to acknowledge — and of a chaos 
 of leaders, light articles, and sensation stories ; 
 mere bubbles carried down upon the ever- 
 flowing current of some half-dozen daily and 
 weekly publications. I was as poor as Ko- 
 meo's apothecary. Miss Carew was a great 
 heiress. My life was spent in the solution of 
 that curious philosophical experiment by which 
 brains are transmuted into bread. For Miss 
 Carew the world was a huge cake, out of 
 which she picked only the plums. I rented 
 a dingy first-floor overlooking a dusty little 
 organ-haunted square in the heart of that un- 
 known region lying between Pentonville and 
 the British Museum. Miss Carew owned a 
 house in Saville Kow, an abbey in Yorkshire, 
 and a villa near Florence. In short, I was 
 as far removed from the sphere in which she
 
 MISS CAREW. 6 
 
 lived and had her being, as if I had been an 
 inhabitant of Uranus. 
 
 Nevertheless, I loved her. I loved her 
 from the first moment I beheld her ; and that 
 was at an evening-party in Mayfair, at pre- 
 cisely twenty-four minutes past ten o'clock on 
 Thursday evening, the twenty-fourth of De- 
 cember, eighteen hundred and sixty-two. I 
 repaired to the party in full possession of all 
 my faculties. I left it a hopeless lunatic, and 
 went to bed that night in my boots. 
 
 Thenceforth the universe for me contained 
 only Miss Carew. I dreamt of her ; raved of 
 her ; wrote sonnets to her ; plunged wildly 
 into evening parties, in the hope of meeting 
 her ; wore gloves two sizes too small for my 
 hands, and boots that I blush to look back 
 upon ; and bored my best friend, Bob Conyers, 
 to such an inhuman degree, that he fled me at 
 the end of three weeks, and finished the winter 
 in Florence. 
 
 Nor was this all. I hired a high-stepping 
 
 ?. 2
 
 4 MISS CAREW. 
 
 horse, and distinguished myself in the Park on 
 Sundays. 1 accepted the theatrical business 
 of the Pimlico Patriot, on the bare chance of 
 sometimes seeing my divinity in the stalls ; 
 and, having committed every other absurdity 
 of which youth is capable, I crowned the whole 
 by collecting my miscellaneous stories into 
 three showy volumes, and publishing them 
 anonymously, with the following enigmatical 
 dedication : 
 
 " To Miss ***** 
 ^^ Madam, 
 
 If I dared, I would lay these 
 volumes at your feet, and entreat your gracious 
 permission to ennoble them with your name ; 
 but, wanting the courage to address you, I 
 venture only to do with them what I have 
 already done with my heart, myself, and the 
 few talents heaven has bestowed on me — 
 dedicate them to you in silent homage, and 
 suffer them to float down the stream of
 
 MISS CARETS. O 
 
 time as safely, or perilously, as chance may 
 ordain. 
 
 ^^ I am. Madam, 
 
 *^ Your most devoted servant. 
 
 But they were not destined to float down 
 the Stream of Time under any circumstances. 
 They went to the bottom like lead, and were 
 no more seen. 
 
 The tales themselves were slight enough, 
 and light enough, to have drifted through the 
 libraries as safely as other straws ; and per- 
 haps would have done so, if I had not sent 
 them into the world with a declaration on 
 the title-page. But the reviewers pounced 
 upon my luckless dedication, and made such 
 savage fun of me that the public laughed and 
 passed on — and all because I could not help 
 adoring Miss Carew. 
 
 I do not think I was much affected by this 
 ill-fortune. My joys and sorrows w^ere all
 
 6 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ^^ lodged beyond the reach of fate/' in Cloud- 
 land, at that time ; but I sent a copy of the 
 work (gorgeously bound in white morocco, 
 and addressed in a feigned hand) to Miss 
 Carew, and derived an idiotic satisfaction 
 from the thought that she had perhaps read 
 my stories, and even wondered, not unkindly, 
 who the unknown author might be. 
 
 I look back upon the whole of that season 
 as through a mist. I am dimly conscious 
 that I ought not to have been at large. I 
 remember days when I was preposterously 
 happy, and days when I was preposterously 
 miserable. I am haunted by the humiliating 
 recollection of how my landlady surprised me 
 in tears one morning over a dish of devilled 
 kidneys. The kidneys that winter were 
 always blacked, and my boots never. An 
 unlimited duty was levied on my wine and 
 tea ; and the cat, with a perverted appetite 
 to which the evidence of Natural History 
 offers no parallel, stole several bundles of my
 
 MISS CAREW. 7 
 
 best cigars. Mrs. Mozley knew my secret. I 
 have not the slightest doubt that she read me 
 as easily as she read my newspapers, my 
 letters, and the rest of my private papers. 
 I was in an abject state^, and she treated me 
 as she pleased. What were boots, or kidneys, 
 or choice Havannahs, to a soul given over to 
 the contemplation of Miss Carew ? 
 
 Thus the winter wore by, and the spring ; 
 and the trees in the little square that had 
 looked so green for about a fortnight, were 
 brown and dusty with the summer drought. 
 And still I did penance in the park, and 
 immolated myself at the theatres, and was 
 rewarded at long intervals by a distant bow 
 or a polite smile from Miss Carew. If I 
 caught but a passing glimpse of her once in 
 each long week, I was consoled. If I met 
 her at an evening party — if I danced in the 
 same quadrille with her — I was happy for a 
 month. Once — only once — I was so blest 
 as to hand her down to supper ; and went
 
 8 MISS CAREW. 
 
 home, like Paul Flemming, with a halo round 
 my head. 
 
 Suddenly, in the middle of June, when the 
 season was at its height, and the weather at 
 its brightest, the sun went out in the heavens, 
 and London became a howling wilderness. 
 
 The Court Journal announced the de- 
 parture of Miss Carew for her seat in York- 
 shire. 
 
 I sent in my resignation to the editor of 
 the Pimlico Patriot by the next post, and 
 gave myself up to despair. I told myself 
 that I had done with life. I shaved no 
 more. I wore slippers, scorned cravats, and 
 grew reckless about my hands. I was a 
 misanthrope — a recluse — a hater of my species. 
 I became the terror of all the little boys 
 about the square ; and I derived a gloomy 
 satisfaction from the perusal of " Taylor on 
 Poisons.'^ 
 
 This crisis had lasted about a week, when 
 Sir Geoffrey Buchanan called upon me.
 
 MISS CAREW. 9 
 
 Sir Geoffrey Buchanan is one of the best 
 men that breathe the good north country air ; 
 hearty, joyous, hospitable, boisterous, good- 
 humoured, good-looking, weighs fifteen stone, 
 and stands six feet three without his shoes. 
 He is about forty-five years of age, and owns 
 large estates in Durham and Northumber- 
 land. About eight years ago he married a 
 pretty, penniless French governess, who makes 
 him perfectly happy. His ruling hobby is 
 mechanics. With a keen taste for field 
 sports — with a kennel full of hounds, a 
 stable full of hunters, and one of the most 
 perfect yachts that ever flitted over the 
 face of the waters — Geoffrey Buchanan's first 
 and foremost delight is in his workshop. 
 The inventor is born, not made ; and Geoffrey 
 is a born inventor. He is gifted with that 
 inconvenient ingenuity that is perpetually on 
 the alert to improve everything. His house 
 is a museum of experimental mechanics ; but 
 his inventions, I am bound to confess, seldom
 
 10 MISS CAREW. 
 
 answer the precise purpose for which they are 
 intended. Too frequently, indeed, they do 
 something that nobody expects from them, 
 and which is highly disagreeable when done. 
 He invented a warming apparatus, for in- 
 stance, that blew up four of his green-houses ; 
 a mowing machine that nearly cut his own 
 legs off; and a baby-jumper that all but 
 strangled his eldest-born at the tender age of 
 eleven months. He says of himself that he 
 has achieved more splendid failures than any 
 man of science upon record; but then no 
 amount of failure discourages him. No sooner 
 has one invention turned out badly, than he 
 begins another, still more complicated, still 
 more impracticable, and based, of course, like 
 the last, on the soundest principles. Dear 
 old Geoffrey Buchanan ! Everyone laughed at 
 him, and everyone loved him ; and I believe 
 I did less of the first, and more of the last, 
 than most people. Yet I cannot say that I 
 was in the least delighted to hear his hearty
 
 MISS CAREW. 11 
 
 voice at my door that dusty, sunny, dismal 
 morning in June, as I sat, obstinately melan- 
 choly, in my little first-floor lodging, bewailing 
 ray blighted hopes, and Miss Carew. 
 
 1 had instructed Mrs. Mozley to deny me to 
 all comers ; but Sir Geoffrey Buchanan insisted 
 on being admitted. 
 
 *^ Engaged ?" I heard him say. " What do 
 you mean by engaged, ma'am ? Is he at home, 
 and alone ?" 
 
 " Mr. Dundonald is at home, sir, and alone, 
 sir," replied my landlady, apologetically ; 
 '* but it's his particular orders . . .'' 
 
 " Particular fiddlesticks !" interrupted Bu- 
 chanan. ^' I've had trouble enough to find 
 this confounded house, and I'm not going 
 away now without seeing him. There — you 
 needn't announce me, ma'am. I'll make it all 
 right, and take the blame myself. First floor, 
 did you say ? Thank you." 
 
 And then came his heavy step on the 
 stairs, his jovial face at the door, and a
 
 12 MISS CAREW. 
 
 mighty, outstretched hand that gripped mine 
 till it ached again. 
 
 " Here's a pretty fellow !" exclaimed he. 
 " Here's a fellow that refuses to see his 
 friends, and keeps a female griffin to tell 
 them he's engaged. Engaged indeed ! If you 
 were not only engaged, but married, Phil 
 Dundonald — married six times over, like 
 Bluebeard — I'd see you, by Jove !" 
 
 "Confound it, Buchanan," I said peevishly, 
 *' you needn't crush one's hand to a jelly ! 
 Your grasp is like a vice." 
 
 " Like a vice, my dear fellow ? Not a bit 
 of it. Like a virtue — like all the virtues. 
 Christian and Pagan ! And now tell me why 
 you shut yourself up in this way. Are 
 you working too hard at this deuced book- 
 making trade ? — eh ? Spinning stories of love 
 and madness ? Dealing out battle, murder, 
 and sudden death at so much per column ? 
 It won't do, you know. It won't pay. The 
 machinery of the brain is of a mighty cun-
 
 MISS CAREW. 13 
 
 ning and delicate adjustment, young man, 
 and not easily repaired when out of 
 order." 
 
 "I'm not working particularly hard just 
 now," I replied. 
 
 " You're not ill, boy ?" 
 
 " Oh, no — only a little fagged. One gets 
 fagged towards the close of the season." 
 
 " Not ill, and not hard at work," said Sir 
 Geofirey, doubtfully. " Then, to return to my 
 original question — Why do you shut yourself 
 up?" 
 
 *' Because Vm unsociable.'' 
 
 " And why are you unsociable, Phil ?" 
 
 " Why do you cross-examine me, as if I 
 were in a witness-box?" I exclaimed, impa- 
 tiently. '' How can I tell why I am unso- 
 ciable, unless it is because I am sulky — dis- 
 agreeable — out of sorts — and fit company for 
 no one but myself ?" 
 
 Buchanan went over to the windows, 
 drew up both the blinds to the very top, and
 
 14 MISS CAREW. 
 
 then, taking me by the shoulders as if I were 
 a child, turned my face to the light and 
 stared at me deliberately. 
 
 *' You are not well," said he. *^ You are 
 pale, nervous, irritable — you must let me pre- 
 scribe for you." 
 
 ^' Nonsense, Buchanan. I am all right." 
 
 *^ On the contrary, you are all wrong. Now 
 look here, my fine fellow — here's a little pre- 
 scription that I always carry about with me ; 
 and as you know the particulars of your own 
 complaint better than I do^ all you have to do is 
 just to fill in the figures, and get the physic 
 made up as soon as possible." 
 
 Saying which, he took a blank cheque from 
 his pocket-book, and laid it before me on the 
 table. 
 
 I put the paper back into his hand. 
 
 " Upon my life, Buchanan," I said, hur- 
 riedly, ^' you are altogether mistaken. I feel 
 your kindness as much as if I accepted it ; 
 but I am as free from difficulty as yourself.
 
 MISS CAREW. 15 
 
 I have more than I need ; and I owe no man 
 a farthing." 
 
 With a troubled look upon his honest face, 
 he replaced the cheque in his pocket-book. 
 
 "Well," he said, '^if you won't speak, I 
 can't make you ; but I'm confident there's 
 something wrong — and I know I could do 
 something to put matters straight, if you'd 
 only give me the chance. However, that's 
 not what I came here to say. I've only been 
 in London two days, and I go home to-night ; 
 but I was determined not to leave the place 
 without seeing you. I w^ant you to come 
 down to Seaborough Court the week after 
 next." 
 
 " Thank you," I replied ; '^ but . . . ." 
 
 "' It will do you all the good in the world, 
 man — let a little fresh air in upon your 
 imagination, and clean the windows in your 
 brain." 
 
 " But I cannot spare the time at present," 
 I replied.
 
 16 MISS CAREW. 
 
 "You said just now you were not particu- 
 larly busy !" 
 
 " If I am not, I ought to be. My pub- 
 lisher is really urgent, just now, about a little 
 book that ought to be in the press, and . . ." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! We'll give you a den to 
 scribble in, if scribble you must.'' 
 
 " Upon my word, Buchanan . . . ." 
 
 " Upon my last will and testament, Dun- 
 donald, I daren't go home without your pro- 
 mise. My wife told me to take no refusal, 
 and, by Jove, sir, you must and shall come." 
 
 " Lady Buchanan is a great deal too kind," 
 I said; *^but it will be far pleasanter and 
 more convenient to me to run down to 
 Durham later in the year." 
 
 " It won't be half so pleasant," persisted my 
 friend. " Later in the year we shall perhaps 
 be alone ; and you know, my dear boy, we're 
 not amusing people ourselves. We're well 
 enough in our way ; but it's a common-place, 
 humdrum way. If you come now, you'll
 
 MISS CAREW. 17 
 
 meet a nice little party. The,re'll be our 
 lively neighbour, the Honourable Mrs. Mac- 
 pherson . . ." 
 
 *^A detestable woman — like a comb, all 
 back and teeth." 
 
 "And Brewer — you remember Brewer of 
 the 18th Light Dragoons?" 
 
 " There are few people whom I would 
 forget with greater pleasure. Captain 
 Brewer unites the profligacy of Whitehall to 
 the dulness of Buckingham Palace; and I hate 
 anachronisms." 
 
 " Well, then, there's Lord Sherbrooke — 
 you won't deny that he's worth meeting ; or 
 that he's a thoroughly sensible, well-informed, 
 cultivated man?" 
 
 " Lord Sherbrooke is the greatest bore I 
 know. He is not a man at all — he is simply 
 a work of compilation. His mind is as ill- 
 dressed as his body, and his opinions, like his 
 clothes, have something incongruous about 
 them, as if they belonged to somebody else. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 MISS CAREW. 
 
 And so they do. He hasn't a thought that is 
 not second-hand ; and he steals from the dead 
 as shamelessly as he steals from the living. 
 Talk to him about art, and he spouts Euskin 
 — about theology, and he gives you a dilution 
 of Colenso — about politics, and he garbles 
 last night's debate. If he ventures on a 
 witticism, it is Sydney Smith's ; and when 
 he grows sentimental over the third bottle 
 of port, he drenches you with Moore and 
 Byron. No, my dear fellow, you cannot 
 tempt me with Lord Sherbrooke." 
 
 " So it seems," said Geoffrey, half-laughing, 
 half -vexed. " What a bitter temper you're 
 in, man ! What's the matter with you ?" 
 
 ''• The deuce knows," 1 replied, fretfully. 
 ''' I told you I was fit company for no one 
 but myself; and you see I was right." 
 
 ^^ I see that you are bent on making the 
 worst of yourself, and staying at home," said 
 Buchanan, taking up his gloves, and preparing 
 to be gone. *' I'm heartily sorry for it."
 
 MISS CAREW. 19 
 
 " And I am sorry to say ^ Xo ' so often — I 
 am, indeed. But I shall enjoy Seaborough 
 Court twice as much when you are alone." 
 
 " By-the-by, I didn't tell you all the names, 
 either. Clement Stone is coming." 
 
 '^ The Eector of Broadmere ? I remember" 
 him. A very pleasant, gentlemanly fel- 
 low." 
 
 '' That he is, Phil— a capital fellow I And 
 Miss Carew." 
 
 I could not believe my ears. 
 
 ^' And icho?'' T asked, faintly. 
 
 ^'Miss Carew — Miss Carew of Wandes- 
 borough Abbey. I'm surprised, Phil, that 
 you don't know Miss Carew." 
 
 The sun was shining in the heavens again ; 
 the howling wilderness had burst into blossom ; 
 the world was a garden of Eden ; and I had 
 not done with life, after all ! 
 
 " I — I believe I have met Miss —the lady 
 you mention," I said, indifferently — '^ in 
 society." 
 
 c2
 
 20 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ^'No doubt — no doubt. She goes every- 
 where. Any message for Clement Stone ?" 
 
 He asked me if I had any message for 
 Clement Stone ! He had taken me at my 
 word, and he was actually going! In another 
 minute it would be too late. I became des- 
 perate. 
 
 ^^ My regards, of course,*' I replied. *^ My 
 very cordial regards. He is a man whom I 
 like immensely — a man whose religion is of 
 the right, sunny, genial sort ; and who, be- 
 cause he is wise, does not disdain to be witty, 
 I am very sorry not to meet him." 
 
 '* He will be very sorry too," said that 
 obtuse Geoffrey. *^ He took to you amaz- 
 ingly ; and he often speaks of you. Bless 
 my heart ! two o'clock already, and I have an 
 appointment in the City at three. Good-bye, 
 my dear fellow — God bless you !" 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Buchanan — if you 
 had mentioned Stone's name from the first, 
 I'm not sure that 1 should have been so obsti-
 
 MISS CAREW. 21 
 
 nate in my refusal," said I, in a burst of 
 candour. 
 
 It was a consummate piece of hypocrisy, 
 and I cannot remember it to this day without 
 a blush ; but it was my last, and only sure 
 card — and I played it. 
 
 Sir Geoffrey Buchanan opened his blue eyes, 
 and lifted up his great voice in a joyous laugh 
 that might have been heard across the square. 
 
 "In the name of all the Gods, then," said 
 he, " why don't you change your mind ?" 
 
 " Because — because you'll think me such 
 a fool if I do.'^ 
 
 " Then upon my life, Phil, I shall think it 
 the only redeeming piece of sense that you've 
 perpetrated to-day. Come, is it settled, and 
 may we expect you next Monday week ?" 
 
 '^ Well — I think you may ; wind and 
 weather permitting." 
 
 " Listen to him ! What have you, a lands- 
 man, to do with wind and weather, I should 
 like to know ? By-the-by, I've made a most
 
 22 MISS CAREW. 
 
 remarkable improvement in my yacht — really 
 an extraordinary improvement, Phil." 
 
 '' Indeed ! What is it ?" 
 
 ^^ An arrangement of wheels and pulleys by 
 which all the ropes can be worked by one 
 man — that man sitting quietly to his work in 
 a little deck-cabin built up amidships for the 
 purpose. I can't explain it to you without 
 the diagrams ; but I assure you it's the most 
 remarkable improvement of the age." 
 
 " You're as bad, Buchanan," said I, laugh- 
 ingly, " as Monsieur Auguste Comte, who 
 thinks he could improve the solar system. 
 What will you attempt to improve next ?" 
 
 *' Your manners, Phil !" he replied, with 
 another great laugh. *^ Your manners. But 
 I mean to patent my invention, sir — ay, and 
 to bring it before the Board of Admiralty, too. 
 But there, it's of no use to talk to an incredu- 
 lous youngster like you. Good-bye, till 
 Monday week ; and beware of that female 
 griffin down-stairs. She's a terrific phenome-
 
 MISS CAREW. 23 
 
 non, by Jove ! — a cross between ^ledusa and 
 the Sphinx." 
 
 Saying which, he again nearly wrenched 
 my hand off, and went down the stairs, 
 laughing like a Titan. 
 
 He had found me in the lowest circle of 
 the Inferno; he left me in the Paradiso, T 
 Avas in a blissful dream. I walked upon air ; 
 I breathed sunshine; I was pervaded by a 
 sentiment of universal benevolence. I felt 
 that I could have taken Mrs. Mozley in my 
 arms, and invoked benisons upon her ; but I 
 abstained from that act of devotion, and pre- 
 sented her, instead, with a bottle of my best 
 brandy. The chop that I ate that day for 
 my dinner was cut from an Arcadian sheep, 
 and had the flavour of the golden age. My 
 apple-dumpling ^vas made from the golden 
 fruit of the Hesperides. My modest pint of 
 ordinary claret tasted like that '' mighty wine" 
 given to Ulysses by Maron the priest of 
 Phoebus. The very organ that droned "the
 
 24 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Low-backed Car" under my window, while I 
 discussed my humble banquet, seemed, to my 
 infatuated ear, to repeat a perpetual refrain of 
 
 i^=^^^^5^^i^^^i3^y 
 
 do - ra - ble Miss Ca
 
 25 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OEABOROUGH COURT stands high, and 
 faces the sea. The waves that roll in 
 so heavily upon the beach with the flow of 
 the tide, ebb back, unbroken by even a rock, 
 to the coast of Denmark. A low chain of hills 
 protects the house towards the north, so that 
 it occupies a kind of natural terrace between 
 the higher ground and the level of the sea. 
 There are but few trees, and the general 
 aspect of the place, facing as it does to the 
 north-east, is somewhat bleak and barren ; 
 but the pasture lands beyond the hills are 
 rich and abundant, and the air in summer is
 
 26 MISS CAREW. 
 
 delicious. The house itself is an incongruous 
 pile, the oldest portion of which dates back 
 to the Wars of the Roses; but which has 
 been, in the course of centuries, so frequently 
 altered, enlarged, and modernized, that 
 scarcely any of its historical features remain. 
 It is not in the least like those antique 
 mansions that novelists delight to describe. 
 It is not ^^a dear old place," with ivied 
 turrets, lilied moats, and pannelled drawing- 
 rooms looking out upon ancestral oaks. In 
 it are no dusky corridors, nor tapestried 
 chambers, nor cloistered courtyards. No 
 half-deserted chapel, peopled with the crum- 
 bling effigies of bygone knights and dames, 
 nestles in the shadow of its walls. On the 
 contrary, it presents at first sight a thoroughly 
 substantial, comfortable aspect; is in excellent 
 repair; not in the least picturesque; and, on 
 the side of the principal entrance, bears a 
 strong general resemblance to the College of 
 Surgeons. It is only when one has been
 
 MISS CAREW. 27 
 
 round to the back, and grown learned in the 
 ins and outs of Seaborough Court, that its 
 antiquity becomes apparent. An unfamiliar 
 guest might dwell there for weeks without 
 discovering that it was anything but a good 
 modern house; and yet it contains a wing of 
 the time of William and Mary, a magnificent 
 Elizabethan kitchen and buttery, and cellars 
 of massy vaulted stone as old as the battle 
 of Hexham. But my friend Geoffrey is no 
 archaeologist, and troubles himself very little 
 about the past glories of his family, his resi- 
 dence, or anything that is his. He is prouder 
 of his old port than of his pedigree; and 
 prouder, perhaps, of a corkscrew of his own 
 invention than of either. As for his kitchen 
 and cellarage, they are both famous; but 
 their fame is founded on the good things that 
 come out of them, and not upon their mediaeval 
 merits — and that is precisely the sort of 
 renown that their owner appreciates. 
 
 I went down to Durham on the Monday
 
 28 MISS CAREW. 
 
 week, as proposed — that memorable Monday 
 of that memorable first week in July — taking 
 with me dress-gloves enough for Briareus, and 
 dress-boots enough for a centipede. As for 
 perfumery and pomade, I could have oiled and 
 scented a volunteer corps without being per- 
 ceptibly the poorer. I do not think, by the 
 way, that psychological inquirers have directed 
 such attention as the question deserves, to 
 that subtle link which connects pomade with 
 the tender passion. It is in the mysterious 
 nature of things that Cupid and Briedenbach 
 should play into one another's hands. A man 
 in love gravitates by an inevitable law to- 
 wards bear's grease, and takes a morbid 
 interest in his hair. I remember that I 
 derived inexpressible consolation at this time 
 from the purchase of Patent Moelline, Glyce- 
 rine Oil, Crystalline Cream, Nutritive Pomade, 
 and the like emollient substances. Above all, 
 that I found a soothing influence, such as " di- 
 vine philosophy" never shed upon the troubled
 
 MISS CAREW. 29 
 
 soul of man, in Rowland's Balm of Columbia. 
 It is not in my power to give any coherent 
 account of the first two or three days at 
 Seaborough Court. They went by, as it were, 
 in an elemental dream of love and jealousy, 
 bliss and despair. I was jealous of Captain 
 Brewer, of Lord Sherbrooke, of the Eeverend 
 Clement Stone (who had a wife and seven 
 children in Berkshire), and of even dear, good, 
 hospitable Geoffrey Buchanan himself. I could 
 neither sleep, nor eat, nor talk as in the days 
 when my heart was free of Miss Carew. I 
 had been used to make some little success in 
 society once upon a time ; but now I could 
 not have said a brilliant thing to save my life. 
 I was painfully conscious of my own shy 
 stupidity. I knew that I was duller than 
 Brewer, and that even Lord Sherbrooke's 
 plagiarisms left me in the shade. I burned to 
 distinguish myself. I wished that there might 
 be a great storm, and a vessel wrecked in sight 
 of the house ; and pictured to myself how I
 
 30 MISS CAREW. 
 
 alone, of any man upon that coast, would go 
 out with a rope about my waist, and save the 
 fainting sufferers one by one. I wished that 
 Seaborough Court might take fire in the 
 night, and thought how glorious it would be, 
 when the conflagration was at its highest, and 
 the dastard crowd stood aloof, to rush forward 
 through the smoke and flames, and battle my 
 way up the burning staircase, till I found the 
 chamber where Miss Carew stood at the win- 
 dow, appealing in vain for help from those 
 below. Then I would take her in my arms ; 
 wrap a blanket round her beloved form, to 
 protect her drapery from the flames; and bear 
 her, staggering, breathless, but undaunted, to 
 a place of safety, where, falling at her feet, all 
 blackened and ghastly, I would say, ^' I love 
 you, Helen Carew ! T never dared to tell you 
 till now," — and so die. 
 
 But these were wild dreams. The weather 
 was glorious ; the sea like a mirror of blue 
 steel ; and as for fire, there seemed no more
 
 MISS CAREW. 31 
 
 chance of it than it Seaborough Court had 
 been built, like the palace of the O'Donaghue, 
 at the bottom of the Lake of Killarney. 
 
 At length there came a morning — I think 
 it was the fourth or fifth after my arrival — 
 when we went out for a long day on the 
 water in Sir Geoffrey's yacht. The party con- 
 sisted of Mrs. Macpherson, the Reverend 
 Clement Stone, Captain Brewer, Miss Carew, 
 and myself. Buchanan, as captain of his own 
 "tub," took the lead. Lord Sherbrooke, with 
 whom the sea disagreed, remained behind ; 
 and Lady Buchanan preferred to stay at home 
 with her children. 
 
 I think I never saw so splendid a morning. 
 We had weighed anchor by eight, and break- 
 fasted on board. Everyone was in the high- 
 est spii'its. The sea was inconceivably blue, 
 and melted into a golden haze on the horizon. 
 A delicious air breathed from the south, and 
 dimpled the waters now and then, as with a 
 smile. The shore receded by imperceptible
 
 32 MISS CAREW. 
 
 degrees ; the grey gulls flashed hy at intervals 
 between us and the sky ; and the yacht glided 
 on with half-filled sails, like a toy ship upon 
 a sheet of ornamental water. We were bound 
 for a romantic little island ofi* the coast of 
 Northumberland, some twenty miles to the 
 north of Seaborough Court, where we were to 
 picnic — a mere speck of an island, said 
 Geoffrey, scarcely a mile and a half in circum- 
 ference ; containing three or four fishermen's 
 cottages, about a dozen inhabitants, one 
 clump of trees, a handful of herbage, and a 
 few sheep. Nobody ever went there. It was 
 entered on no map. It had not even a name. 
 Could anything be more dehghtful ? 
 
 On we went, then, laughing, talking, 
 revelling in the sea and the sunshine, and 
 immensely amused by Sir Geoffrey's ingenious 
 invention for the management of his yacht. 
 He was charmed to show it, and explain it, 
 and illustrate it to us, over and over again. 
 He assured us that it was the most useful, the
 
 MISS CAREW. 33 
 
 most surprising, the most important improve- 
 ment that the world had seen for the kst 
 quarter of a century. It really did seem very 
 ingenious. I have not now the slightest concep- 
 tion of what the mechanism was ; but I under- 
 stood it well enough, or fancied I understood 
 it, at the time. All that I remember of it is 
 a kind of framework fixed about half-way 
 down the mainmast, serving, I think, to collect 
 a large number of ropes into a nucleus, 
 whence they were drawn still lower through 
 the roof of an absurd-looking little sentry- 
 box, in the middle of the deck. Inside 
 this sentry-box was a bewildering maze of 
 pulleys, nooses, and knotted rope's ends ; and 
 it looked more like a very small and over- 
 crowded belfry than anything else that I could 
 think of. 
 
 Thus the first hour or two went by, some- 
 what lazily on the part of the yacht, but 
 very pleasantly. About half-past ten, the 
 breeze freshened a little, and some three or 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 MISS CAREW. 
 
 four tiny clouds, white and fleecy, like a flight 
 of swans, rose out from the golden haze, and 
 drifted across the sky. Then the sails swelled ; 
 a joyous ripple sprang up under our bows ; 
 and our progress became perceptibly quickened. 
 By eleven, we were cutting through the water 
 at a brilliant rate, scattering a shower of 
 diamonds at every dip of our prow, and 
 leaving a creamy trail in our wake, that 
 widened and vanished as we left it behind. 
 Every little wave by this time had its crest ; 
 and the sky was traversed by a long proces- 
 sion of majestic, opalescent clouds, which 
 became every moment statelier and more 
 numerous. Then the wind shifted a point or 
 two, and the yacht began to pitch rather more 
 than was strictly agreeable. 
 
 I went up to Geoffrey in the sentry-box, 
 and found him looking very red and warm, 
 and ringing, as it seemed to me, a frantic peal 
 upon all the imaginary bells at once. 
 
 '' The yacht pitches confoundedly, my dear
 
 MISS CAREW. 3o 
 
 fellow," I said. ^^ She doesn't seem so steady 
 on her legs as last year. What's the matter 
 with her ?" 
 
 '• Nothing," replied my friend, clutching 
 desperately at two or three different nooses in 
 succession, as if he wanted to hang himself, 
 and was feeling for the stoutest rope. " No- 
 thing ails the yacht — it's only these pulleys 
 that don't work as they ought. I'm trying to 
 bring her head round a bit, and . . . ." 
 
 A tremendous lurch, followed by a little 
 scream from Mrs. Macpherson, interrupted 
 his explanation. 
 
 " And in the meanwhile, I presume, we all 
 run a fair chance of going to the bottom ?" 
 
 ^' It's the first time I've ever known the 
 system work badly," groaned poor Buchanan. 
 
 ^^ System, indeed !" I exclaimed, angrily. 
 " What business have you to endanger your 
 friends' lives with any system under the sun ? 
 Confound your system !" 
 
 At this moment the entanglement, what- 
 
 d2
 
 36 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ever it might be, yielded to his efforts — the 
 mainsail swung to its proper bearings, and the 
 little vessel, now once more before the wind, 
 sped on as before. 
 
 ^' Buchanan drew a deep breath, and wiped 
 the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 " Don't say anything about this to the 
 others, Phil," he said, hurriedly. '' I'm very 
 sorry — more shocked and sorry than I can 
 tell you. The truth is, the thing does not 
 answer as I had hoped — and — and our posi- 
 tion just now was — was really, for a moment 
 or two, a position of danger." 
 
 I looked at the sky and the sea, and the 
 lovely, laughing face of Miss Carew, as she 
 sat talking on the after-deck ; and a sudden 
 pang of apprehension shot through me. 
 
 '^ If I am any judge of weather, Geoffrey 
 Buchanan," I said, " we shall have a gale 
 blowing up before three more hours have 
 gone by." 
 
 "I know it," he replied.
 
 MISS CAREW. 37 
 
 "You know it? Good heavens, man! 
 what do you mean by saying you know it ? 
 What do you propose to do to ensure the 
 safety of your yacht ?" 
 
 "■ Look there," said he, pointing straight 
 ahead. " Do you see the island ?" 
 
 "I see something — a mere point — a scrap 
 of rock scarcely big enough for a seagull to 
 build on." 
 
 He smiled and shook his head. 
 
 " Don't be too hard upon me, Phil," said 
 he. " Don't make quite the worst of every- 
 thing. That's the island, and we are within 
 three miles of it. It isn't quite as big as 
 Australia ; but it's big enough to afford you 
 all a pleasant resting-place, while I press the 
 fishermen into my service, and set to work to 
 put the yacht trim and ship-shape again, be- 
 fore we start for home. A couple of hours 
 will do it ; and as for all this gear, it shall be 
 pitched overboard as soon as we drop anchor 
 — every thread and pulley of it !"
 
 38 MISS CAREW. 
 
 He sighed as he said this, and glanced up 
 regretfully at his invention. Indignant as I 
 had been a few moments before, I felt sorry 
 for him now. 
 
 '' No, no," I said, '' don't do that— don't 
 throw it overboard. Stow it away in the 
 hold ; and perhaps w^hen you have leisure to 
 turn the thing over in your mind, you may 
 hit upon some alteration that will make your 
 system available after all !" 
 
 He shook his head again. 
 
 *' I think not," he replied ; " I fear not. 
 Pshaw ! 'tis only another illusion gone. I am 
 used to reading the burial service over my 
 dreams." 
 
 He spoke with a bitterness foreign to his 
 nature. I saw that he was deeply mortified, 
 and even more disappointed than mortified ; 
 so I said a cheering word or two and left him 
 — as I felt sure he would prefer to be left — 
 alone. 
 
 The little isle was now growing momen-
 
 MISS CAREW. 39 
 
 tarily more distinct, and every glass was 
 levelled at it. Transparent and purplish at 
 first, it changed from purple to grey, from 
 grey to a greenish brown, and presently 
 showed as an irregular whinstone rock, slop- 
 ing to the sea on the south-east, and rising to 
 the north in a kind of turfy promontory. As 
 we drew nearer, there became visible a little 
 cluster of white cottages near the water's 
 edge — a boat moored in a tiny creek close 
 by — a clump of gaunt trees on a green 
 rise about the very centre of the islet ; and a 
 few sheep dotted over the broken upland. 
 To the left, some six or seven miles distant, 
 lay the undulating coast of Northumberland, 
 and the dim outlines of the hills. Far and 
 wide, in every other direction, north-east, 
 east, and south, stretched the sea. A more 
 utterly barren, unpromising rock, could 
 scarcely be conceived in dull, or stormy 
 weather ; but seen thus in the full blaze of a 
 brilliant July sun, with a fresh breeze blow-
 
 40 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ing, and the blue waves chasing each other 
 across the glittering ocean, it looked positively 
 beautiful. 
 
 Sir Geoffrey ran the yacht ^^ into port," and 
 cast anchor about half-past eleven. We 
 landed shortly after, to the intense wonder 
 and delight of three women, one old white- 
 haired fisherman, and some six or eight half 
 wild, sun-browned, flaxen-headed children. 
 From these we learned that the two other 
 men (there being but three on the island) 
 were gone over to Tynemouth; that their 
 colony consisted of but three families, and num- 
 bered thirteen souls, including six children and 
 one infant inarms; that the two fishermen now ab- 
 sent were the sole support of the whole commu- 
 nity, which lived by the produce of their nets; and 
 that the island was assessed as a part of Island- 
 shire, and belonged to the county of Northum- 
 berland. These poor colonists, we learned, 
 paid an almost nominal rent for their small 
 tenements, and were exempted, by ancient
 
 MISS CAREW. 41 
 
 privilege, from most of the taxes levied else- 
 where. They also added to their scanty gains 
 by the preparation of kelp and the breeding 
 of a few sheep. The children knew of no 
 world beyond that in which they were born ; 
 and we" found that one of the women had not 
 even been over to the mainland for more than 
 eleven years. 
 
 We went into their cottages ; one of which 
 served as a little general shop, and supplied 
 the place with groceries, hardware, and haber- 
 dashery of the humblest description. The 
 old man made nets, and did a little cobbling 
 and carpentering. In each home we saw a 
 Bible ; and in one a hymn-book, and a few 
 Scriptural prints in black frames. One of the 
 women kept a cock and three or four hens ; 
 and all the little dwellings were clean and 
 tidy. 
 
 Having chatted with the women, patted 
 the children on their flaxen heads, and distri- 
 buted a few presents among them, we went
 
 42 MISS CAREW. 
 
 up to the plateau where the sheep and the 
 trees were, and prepared our picnic. In a 
 few minutes the cloth was spread, the hampers 
 were unpacked, the corks drawn, and the 
 guests seated. 
 
 It was a merry meal, and we were as 
 hungry as befitted people who had spent three 
 or four hours on the sea. We jested, we 
 laughed, we drank healths, we made speeches, 
 we christened the island Juan Fernandez, and 
 poured a libation of champagne upon the 
 scanty turf in consecration of the name. 
 When we had quite done, and were lying 
 listlessly round the remains of our feast, Sir 
 Geoffrey proposed cigars ; so we four men 
 strolled away to a point of steep rock at the 
 northward extremity of the island, and left 
 the ladies to amuse themselves till our Havan- 
 nahs were smoked out. No sooner were we 
 well out of earshot, however, than Buchanan 
 took me by the arm, and, drawing me aside, 
 said in a low, troubled voice,
 
 MISS CAREW. 43 
 
 " Tm at a dead lock, Dundonald. That 
 old man down yonder is of no use, and I have 
 only one sailor and a boy on board. It will 
 be impossible to get the yacht in sailing trim, 
 in time for us to reach Seaborough Court to- 
 night." 
 
 I looked at him in blank dismay. 
 
 ^'What?" said I. 
 
 " We shall have to stop here," he replied, 
 " till to-morrow." 
 
 " Stop here ? On this wretched rock — 
 with two ladies. . . . Nonsense, Buchanan, 
 you are joking !'' 
 
 ^' I wish to heaven I were," said he, gravely ; 
 " but the breeze is freshening every moment, 
 and look at the sky — look at those huge 
 leaden clouds piling up to the windward ! I 
 daren't risk it, with the yacht in its present 
 state. There's no help for it." 
 
 " But here are four of us. Set us all to 
 work, and let us see what we can do. I'm 
 ready to turn up my sleeves and begin ; and
 
 44 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Brewer and Stone, of course, will do the 
 same/' 
 
 "I have thought of that," replied my 
 friend, " and 1 spoke about it to my mate 
 just now, as he was bringing up the hampers ; 
 but it would be of no use. It's seaman's 
 work ; and we want all sorts of things that 
 are not to be had in this place. No — all we 
 can do is, to wait patiently till the two fisher- 
 men come back ; and then send them over to 
 the nearest coast-town for such tools, and 
 tackling, and help as may be needful." 
 
 " Good heavens !" I exclaimed, " we may 
 be kept here^ at that rate, for a day or 
 two !" 
 
 ^^ I hope not — but I fear we can hardly 
 get off to-morrow." 
 
 I sat down on the turf in despair. 
 
 '' What will Miss Carew do ?" I ejaculated. 
 
 '* What will Mrs. Macpherson do ?" added 
 Sir Geoffrey, with a comical shrug. " Miss 
 Carew^ is a sensible, high-spirited, genial wo-
 
 MISS CAREW. 45 
 
 man, and will treat the whole thing as a rare 
 piece of adventure ; but Mrs. Macpherson will 
 be as helpless and miserable as a Frenchman 
 on board a Channel steamer." 
 
 " We must break it to them," said I. 
 " I dare not,"' said he. '' Will you ?" 
 ** Not for the universe. Ask the parson." 
 So we called up Mr. Stone and Captain 
 Brewer, and revealed the difficulty we were 
 in. The gallant dragoon scowled, twirled his 
 mustachios, and muttered a few oaths between 
 his teeth ; but the rector of Broadmere roared 
 with laughter ; protested that a pleasanter 
 calamity could not possibly have befallen us ; 
 and went off upon our forlorn hope with all 
 the assurance in life. He was the very man 
 for the purpose — a man with a laughing eye, 
 a persuasive voice, a large good-humoured 
 mouth, a portly presence, and an inexhausti- 
 ble fund of good humour. Armed with these 
 good gifts, and with absolute confidence in his 
 own eloquence, our ambassador presented
 
 46 MISS CAREW. 
 
 himself before the ladies, and stated our case 
 so successfully that the result surpassed our 
 hopes. They received the dreadful intel- 
 ligence, not merely with indulgence, but with 
 favour and merriment ; and in a few minutes 
 we were all going down to the cottages in a 
 body, to see what arrangements could be made 
 for their accommodation. 
 
 The result was that the largest tenement 
 was secured for Miss Carew and Mrs. Mac- 
 pherson, the inhabitants migrating en masse, 
 and distributing themselves as well as they 
 could among their neighbours ; while we men 
 agreed to pass the night on board. In 
 the meanwhile, a rapid " cleaning up" and 
 ^'clearing out" was accomplished in the 
 ladies' bower ; a supply of rugs, mattresses, 
 blankets, napery, and other comforts was 
 imported from the yacht; and in the course 
 of an hour or two, by the help of a pretty 
 tablecloth, a vase of cottage-flowers, some 
 folding-chairs from Sir Geoffrey's state cabin,
 
 MISS CAREW, 47 
 
 and a few such trifles, we had succeeded in 
 turning the single ground-Hoor room into a very 
 tolerable parlour. In this parlour, later in 
 the day, we took tea ; and a very merry tea 
 it was — with Miss Carew at the head of the 
 table. After tea, having no cards, no music, 
 no books, no appliances or means of entertain- 
 ment whatever, we strolled out again to the 
 higher ground, and watched the sea and the 
 sky. It was a grand sight. The sun had 
 just gone down behind a bank of purple 
 vapour. The waves, now of a dull lead 
 colour, were running high, and beat savagely 
 against the rocks. Troops of wild, rent, 
 ragged clouds fled in tumultuous panic over 
 the face of the heavens ; and the moaning of 
 the wind sang a shrill treble to the hoarse 
 bass of the sea. Presently, a tremendous 
 sheet of lightning seemed to rend open the 
 whole broad field of sky, and a mighty peal 
 of thunder shook the very ground beneath 
 our feet. We hastened back to the cottage.
 
 48 MISS CAREW. 
 
 and had scarcely reached shelter before the 
 storm began in earnest. And a terrible 
 storm it was. It lasted nearly the whole 
 night, and kept us all awake till daybreak. 
 But for the snug little creek in which the 
 yacht had been anchored, lieaven only knows 
 what would have become of us. In any less 
 sheltered nook, she must have been torn from 
 her moorings like a mere weed ; while we 
 must either have sent her adrift to take 
 her chance with the wind and waves, or have 
 risked almost certain death in the attempt to 
 navigate her. 
 
 However, none of these misfortunes hap- 
 pened. The morning came ; and with it a 
 sea still rolling, a wind still blowing ; but 
 sunshine, safety, and prospects evidently 
 mending. 
 
 We assembled at nine for breakfast ; all 
 except Sir Geoffrey, who was busy down at the 
 yacht, and somewhat late. Miss Carew pre- 
 sided at the tea-table. It seemed natural to
 
 MISS CAREW. 49 
 
 her to take the lead, and natural to us that 
 she should take it. There was grace in all 
 she did ; and her manner of doing it seemed, 
 somehow, to ennoble the commonest action. 
 She could not pour out a cup of tea without 
 appearing to enhance the value of the little 
 courtesy by the way in which she rendered it. 
 I had heard the same thing said of Mrs. Sid- 
 dons by those who had known her in private ; 
 but I never quite believed them till I became 
 acquainted with Miss Carew. 
 
 I would not, however, be supposed to com- 
 pare Miss Carew with Mrs. Siddons in any 
 particular but this ; nor even desire to say 
 that in this she did actually resemble her. 
 There was nothing tragic, or majestic, about 
 Miss Carew. Hers was the unconscious dig- 
 nity of good-breeding ; but it was a dignity 
 perfectly compatible with the most airy, bril- 
 liant, sportive gaiety that ever bewitched the 
 heart of a man. Her laugh was soft and low, 
 yet musical as a silver carrillon ; and her eyes 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 MISS CAREW. 
 
 — her large, limpid golden-brown eyes — had 
 that half wild archness and vivacity of expres- 
 sion that has been sometimes indicated by 
 Komney, but has never been rendered in per- 
 fection save by the brush of Sir Joshua Eey- 
 nolds. 
 
 It was a merry breakfast, and quite a 
 luxurious one, considering our shipwrecked 
 condition. We had tea, toast, eggs, and fish ; 
 flowers on the table ; and, through the open 
 door, an enchanting glimpse of the sunlit sea. 
 The conversation turned on what we were to 
 do with ourselves all the long day. For the 
 ladies, walking was simply impossible. The 
 heavy rains of the last ten hours had reduced 
 the turfy plateau to a mere bog ; and, save 
 the little space of rock and clay on which 
 the cottages stood, the plateau was the 
 island. 
 
 '^ There is not a book to be had in the 
 place,'' said Miss Carew ; ^^ except the 
 Bible."
 
 MISS OAREW. 51 
 
 " Estimable work, no doubt/' drawled the 
 dragoon ; ^^ but decidedly heavy." 
 
 ^^ If we had but a pack of cards, 1 could be 
 content," sighed Mrs. Macpherson. 
 
 " Mr. Dundonald, who, I have heard it 
 whispered, is a poet," said Miss Carew, "must 
 be our Feramorz, and invent stories for our 
 entertainment; while Captain Brewer, who 
 so admirably criticises a volume which, I 
 presume, he has never read, can undertake 
 the part of Fadladeen. The character is as 
 if it were made for him." 
 
 While I was stammering something about 
 my inability to perform the task assigned to 
 me. Sir Geoffrey suddenly darkened the door- 
 way with his six feet three of solid sub- 
 stance. 
 
 "Good morning to you all!" said he, in his 
 vociferous, hearty way. "I come before you, 
 ladies and gentlemen, as a public benefactor. 
 Prepare an oration for me. Wreathe the flow- 
 
 E 2 
 
 
 ^. ^- s....m^^
 
 52 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ing bowl, and twine the chaplet ! I am going 
 to make you all happy." 
 
 '' Do it, my dear fellow," said'] the rector, 
 " and don't fatigue yourself by saying so much 
 about it beforehand." 
 
 " I have found a treasure," shouted Geof- 
 frey, with a face of huge delight. " Guess 
 what it is." 
 
 We guessed all the impossible things we 
 could think of ; but he shook his head at every 
 fresh suggestion. 
 
 " I've bought it for you," said he ; ^^ and 
 I've paid twopence a pound for it. What 
 d'ye say to perfect happiness at twopence a 
 pound ?" 
 
 " That the price is remarkably reasonable," 
 laughed Miss Carew; *^but we should like to 
 have a more definite idea of what it really is." 
 
 " There's what it is !" said he, producing a 
 good-sized parcel, tied round with a piece of 
 red tape. *^ It's a shilling's worth of Waste 
 Paper."
 
 MISS CAREW. 56 
 
 "A shilling's worth of Waste Paper!" we 
 repeated with the unanimity of an Exeter 
 Hall chorus. 
 
 He burst into a joyous laugh. 
 
 *' I thought that would astonish you," he 
 said. " Now listen, and I will tell you all 
 about it. I have just been into the shop — 
 you know the general shop in the next cot- 
 tage — to buy a supply of tea, sugar, tobacco, 
 and so forth, for my two poor fellows down at 
 the yacht. There was a pile of waste paper 
 on the counter, and from this pile of waste 
 paper the good woman who served me took a 
 sheet, or a half -sheet, to wrap up each packet 
 of groceries as she weighed it out. I saw 
 that it was printed matter, and that it looked 
 like good type and good paper. I took up a 
 piece. It was evidently part of a tale, and 
 looked amusing. I turned over a few more 
 leaves, and found that the lot consisted of a 
 collection of stories, ready folded as if for 
 binding. The title-pages and beginning were
 
 54 MISS CAREW. 
 
 wanting ; but what there was appeared to be 
 consecutive. I thought at once of the desti- 
 tution of my friends, and bought up the whole 
 stock on the spot. Now for your vote of 
 thanks V 
 
 " You must wait for that, my dear fellow, 
 till we have seen whether your purchase is 
 readable," said Mr. Stone. ^' Waste paper at 
 twopence the pound is rather unpromising 
 stuff." 
 
 "Horrid trash, no doubt," observed Cap- 
 tain Brewer. 
 
 " Trash is better than nothing," said Miss 
 Carew, kindly ; " if it only gives us some- 
 thing to laugh at. May I look at your 
 treasure. Sir Geoffrey ? I have no doubt we 
 shall quarry a great deal of amusement out 
 of it, somehow. So ! it is folded, but not cut. 
 Perhaps Mr. Dundonald will do us the favour 
 to cut the leaves while Sir Geoffrey breakfasts ; 
 and by-and-by we can, perhaps, find a sheltered
 
 MISS CAREW. 55 
 
 nook somewliere under the rocks, and take it 
 by turns to read aloud." 
 
 Delighted to be employed by her, I seized 
 a knife, and prepared to go to work with 
 enthusiasm. But at the first glance at the 
 first page, my enthusiasm vanished. I paused 
 — ^flushed up to the roots of my hair — and ex- 
 perienced a very decided inclination to sink 
 through the floor, dive into the depths of the 
 ocean, or, in short, do anything that might 
 enable me to interpose the longest possible 
 distance, in the shortest possible time, between 
 myself and my friends. 
 
 In this shilling's worth of Waste Paper, I 
 recognised my own stories — my unsuccessful, 
 much ridiculed, luckless stories — the very 
 volumes which I had dedicated with such 
 fatal but ingenious obscurity to Miss Carew ! 
 
 And they had come to this. They were 
 utterly condemned and rejected, given over 
 to the trunkmaker and the grocer, sold off as
 
 56 MISS CAREW. 
 
 waste stock, and bought by weight at two- 
 pence per pound ! 
 
 "Well, Phil,'' said Buchanan, "is the 
 stuif readable ?'' 
 
 " That is a difficult question to answer of 
 any book at first sight," I replied. 
 
 " But does it look as if it might be amus- 
 ing ?" said Mrs. Macpherson. 
 
 " Madam, I have not yet cut a dozen 
 pages." 
 
 Sir Geoffi^ey laughed. 
 
 " What a provoking fellow you are, Phil !" 
 said he. " Don't you see that we want you 
 to hazard an opinion of some sort ?" 
 
 "Then I adopt Captain Brewer's," I replied, 
 somewhat bitterly. " I have no doubt that 
 it's ^horrid trash,' and that it will be sad 
 waste of time to read it." 
 
 " But all our time just now is waste time," 
 said Miss Carew, " so what can we do better 
 than bestow it on waste paper ?" 
 
 As she said this with a somewhat peculiar
 
 MISS CAREW. 57 
 
 intonation, I looked up, and found her eyes 
 fixed full upon me. 
 
 An hour later, we had carried out our fold- 
 ing chairs to a little recess among the rocks, 
 just out of sight of the cottages — a pleasant, 
 shady, solitary place, facing the open sea, and 
 carpeted under foot with fine white sand. 
 The dashing of the waves, and an occasional 
 sound of hammering on board the yacht, where 
 Sir Geoffrey was making rapid havoc of his 
 invention, alone disturbed the quiet of our 
 retreat. 
 
 " Well," said the rector, lazily, ^' who is to 
 begin ?" 
 
 Miss Carew selected a few sheets from the 
 pile of papers, and, looking round the circle 
 with her pretty, imperious air, said : — 
 
 ^^Mr. Dundonald shall begin. Nay, sir — 
 no excuses. From the decisions of this court 
 there is no appeal." 
 
 ^' Oh, queen !" I replied, '^ to hear is to 
 obey."
 
 58 MISS CAREW. 
 
 And so, having first laid the papers on my 
 head in token of humility, I began the first 
 reading.
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TEPwRIBLE COMPANY. 
 
 T AM a Frenchman by birth, and my name 
 is Francois Thierry. I need not weary 
 you with my early history. Enough, that I 
 committed a political offence — that I was sent 
 to the galleys for it — that I am an exile for it 
 to this day. The brand was not abolished in 
 my time. If I chose, I could show you the 
 fiery letters on my shoulder. 
 
 I was arrested, tried, and sentenced, in 
 Paris. I went out of the court with my con- 
 demnation ringing in my ears. The rumbling 
 wheels of the prison-van repeated it all the 
 way from Paris to Bicetre that evening, and
 
 60 MISS CAREW. 
 
 all the next day, and the next, and the next, 
 along the weary road from Bicetre to Toulon. 
 When I look back upon that time, I think I 
 must have been stupefied by the unexpected 
 severity of my sentence, for I remember nothing 
 of the journey, nor of the places where we 
 stopped — nothing but the eternal repetition of 
 ^' travaux forces — travaux forces — travaux 
 forces a periJetuite,^' over and over, and over 
 again. Late in the afternoon of the third 
 day, the van stopped, the door was thrown 
 open, and I was conducted across a stone 
 yard, through a stone corridor, into a huge 
 stone hall, dimly lighted from above. Here 
 I was interrogated by a military superinten- 
 dent, and entered by name in a ponderous 
 ledger bound and clasped with iron, like a 
 book in fetters. 
 
 ^^ Number Two Hundred and Seven," said 
 the superintendent. " Green." 
 
 They took me into an adjoining room, 
 searched, stripped, and plunged me into a
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 61 
 
 cold bath. When I came out of the bath, 
 I put on the livery of the galleys — a coarse 
 canvas shirt, trousers of tawny serge, a red 
 serge blouse, and heavy shoes clamped with 
 iron. Last of all, a green woollen cap. On 
 each leg of the trousers, and on the breast 
 and back of the blouse, were printed the 
 fatal letters '' T. F." On a brass label in the 
 front of the cap, were engraved the figures 
 u 207." From that moment I lost my in- 
 dividuality. I was no longer Franqois 
 Thierry. I was Number Two Hundred and 
 Seven. The superintendent stood by and 
 looked on. 
 
 " Come, be quick," said he, twirling his 
 long moustache between his thumb and fore- 
 finger. " It grows late, and you must be 
 married before supper." 
 
 ^* Married !" I repeated. 
 
 The superintendent laughed, and lighted a 
 cigar, and his laugh was echoed by the guards 
 and jailers.
 
 62 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Down another stone corridor, across another 
 yard, into another gloomy hall, the very 
 counterpart of the last, but filled with squalid 
 figures, noisy with the clank of fetters, and 
 pierced at each end with a circular opening, 
 through which a cannon's mouth showed 
 grimly. 
 
 " Bring Number Two Hundred and Six,'' 
 said the superintendent, " and call the 
 priest." 
 
 Number Two Hundred and Six came from 
 a further corner of the hall, dragging a heavy 
 chain, and along with him a blacksmith, bare- 
 armed and leather-aproned. 
 
 '' Lie down," said the blacksmith, with an 
 insulting spurn of the foot. 
 
 I lay down. A heavy iron ring attached to 
 a chain of eighteen links was then fitted to 
 my ankle, and riveted with the single stroke 
 of the hammer. A second ring next received 
 the disengaged ends of my companion's chain 
 and mine, and was secured in the same
 
 TERRIBLE COMFANY. 63 
 
 manner. The echo of each blow resounded 
 through the vaulted roof like a hollow 
 laugh. 
 
 " Good," said the superintendent, drawing 
 a small red book from his pocket. " Number 
 Two Hundred and Seven, attend to the prison 
 code. If you attempt to escape without suc- 
 ceeding, you will be bastinadoed. If you suc- 
 ceed in getting beyond the port, and are then 
 taken, you will receive three years of double 
 chaining. As soon as you are missed, three 
 cannon shots will be fired, and alarm Hags 
 will be hoisted on every bastion. Signals 
 will be telegraphed to the maritime guards, and 
 to the police of the ten neighbouring districts. 
 A price will be set upon your head. Placards 
 will be posted upon the gates of Toulon, and 
 sent to every town throughout the empire. 
 It will be lawful to fire upon you, if you can- 
 not be captured alive.'* 
 
 Having read this with grim complacency, 
 the superintendent resumed his cigar, re-
 
 64 MISS CAREW. 
 
 placed the book in his pocket, and walked 
 away. 
 
 All was over now — all the incredulous 
 wonder, the dreamy dulness, the smouldering 
 hope, of the past three days. I was a felon, 
 and (slavery in slavery !) chained to a fellow- 
 felon. I looked up, and found his eyes upon 
 me. He was a swart, heavy-browed, sullen- 
 jawed man of about forty ; not much taller 
 than myself, but of immensely powerful 
 build. 
 
 " So," said he, '' you're for life, are you ? 
 So am I." 
 
 " How do you know I am for life ?" I 
 asked, wearily. 
 
 ^^ By that." And he touched my cap 
 roughly with the back of his hand. ^^ Green, 
 for life. Red, for a term of years. What 
 are you in for ?" 
 
 *' I conspired against the Government." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 
 
 ^* Devil's mass ! Then you're a gentleman-
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 65 
 
 convict, I suppose ! Pity youVe not a berth 
 to yourselves — we poor formats hate such fine 
 company." 
 
 '^ Are there many political prisoners ?" I 
 asked, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " None, in this department." 
 
 Then, as if detecting my unspoken thought, 
 ^^ I am no innocent," he added with an oath. 
 " This is the fourth time I have been here. 
 Did you ever hear of Gasparo ?" 
 
 " Gasparo the forger?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Who escaped three or four months since, 
 and . . . " 
 
 ^' And flung the sentinel over the ramparts, 
 just as he was going to give the alarm. I'm 
 the man." 
 
 I had heard of him, as a man who, early 
 in his career, had been sentenced to a 
 prolonged term of solitary imprisonment, 
 and who had come forth from his cell hard- 
 ened and desperate. I shuddered, and, 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 MISS CAREW. 
 
 as I shuddered, found his evil eye taking 
 vindictive note of me. From that moment 
 he hated me. From that moment I loathed 
 him. 
 
 A bell rang, and a detachment of convicts 
 came in from labour. They were immediately 
 searched by the guard, and chained up, two 
 and two, to a sloping wooden platform that 
 reached all down the centre of the hall. Our 
 afternoon meal was then served out, consist- 
 ing of a mess of beans, an allowance of bread 
 and ship-biscuit, and a measure of thin wine. 
 I drank the wine ; but I could eat nothing. 
 Gasparo took what he chose from my un- 
 touched allowance, and those who were 
 nearest scrambled for the rest. The supper 
 over, a shrill whistle echoed down the hall, 
 each man took his narrow mattress from under 
 the platform which made our common bed- 
 stead, rolled himself in a piece of seaweed 
 matting, and lay down for the night. In less 
 than five minutes all was profoundly silent.
 
 TERRIBLE COMrANY. 67 
 
 Now and then I heard the blacksmith going 
 round with his hammer, testing the gratings 
 and trying the locks in all the corridors. 
 Now and then the guard stalked past with 
 his musket on his shoulder. Sometimes a con- 
 vict moaned, or shook his fetters in his sleep. 
 Thus the weary hours went by. My com- 
 panion slept heavily, and even I lost con- 
 sciousness at last. 
 
 I was sentenced to hard labour. At Toulon 
 the hard labour is of various kinds ; such as 
 quarrying, mining, pumping in the docks, 
 lading and unlading vessels, transporting 
 ammunition, and so forth. Gasparo and I 
 were employed with about two hundred 
 other convicts in a quarry a little beyond the 
 port. Day after day, week after week, from 
 seven in the morning until seven at night, 
 the rocks echoed with our blows. At every 
 blow, our chains rang and rebounded on the 
 stony soil. In that fierce climate, terrible 
 tempests and tropical droughts succeed each 
 
 f2
 
 68 MISS CAREW. 
 
 other throughout the summer and autumn. 
 Often and often, after toiling for hours under 
 a burning sky, have I gone back to prison 
 and to my pallet, drenched to the skin. Thus 
 the last days of the dreary spring ebbed slowly 
 past ; and then the more dreary summer ; and 
 then the autumn-time came round. 
 
 My fellow-convict was a Piedmontese. He 
 had been a burglar, a forger, an incendiary. 
 In his last escape he had committed man- 
 slaughter. Heaven alone knows how my 
 suiFerings were multiplied by that abhorred 
 companionship — how I shrank from the touch 
 of his hand — how I sickened if his breath 
 came over me as we lay side by side at night. 
 I strove to disguise my loathing ; but in vain. 
 He knew it as well as I knew it, and he re- 
 venged himself upon me by every means that 
 a vindictive nature could devise. That he 
 should tyrannise over me was not wonderful; 
 for his physical strength was gigantic, and he 
 was looked upon as an authorised despot
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 69 
 
 throughout the port ; but simple tyranny was 
 the least part of what I had to endure. I 
 had been fastidiously nurtured ; he purposely 
 and continually offended my sense of delicacy. 
 I was unaccustomed to bodily labour ; he 
 imposed on me the largest share of our daily 
 work. When I needed rest, he would insist 
 on walking. When my limbs were cramped, 
 he would lie down obstinately, and refuse to 
 stir. He delighted to sing blasphemous songs, 
 and relate hideous stories of what he had 
 thought and resolved on in his solitude. He 
 would even twist the chain in such wise that it 
 should gall me at every step. I was at that 
 time just twenty -two years of age, and had 
 been sickly from boyhood. To retaliate, or 
 to defend myself, would have been alike im- 
 possible. To complain to the superintendent 
 would only have been to provoke my tyrant 
 to greater cruelty. 
 
 There came a day, at length, when his 
 hatred seemed to abate. He allowed me to
 
 70 MISS CAREW. 
 
 rest when our hour of repose came round. 
 He abstained from singing the songs I ab- 
 horred, and fell into long fits of abstraction. 
 The next morning, shortly after we had begun 
 work, he drew near enough to speak to me in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "Francois, have you a mind to escape?" 
 
 I felt the hot blood rush to my face. I 
 clasped my hands. I could not speak. 
 
 '^ Can you keep a secret ?" 
 
 '' To the death." 
 
 " Listen, then. To-morrow, Marshal De La 
 Tour d'Auvergnewill visit the port. He will in- 
 spect the docks, the prisons, the quarries. There 
 will be plenty of cannonading from the forts 
 and the shipping, and if two convicts escape, 
 a volley more or less will attract no attention 
 round about Toulon. Do you understand ?" 
 
 *^ You mean that no one will recognize the 
 signals ?" 
 
 '^ Not even the sentries at the town-gate — 
 not even the guards in the next quarry.
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 71 
 
 Devil's mass ! What can be easier than to 
 strike off each other's fetters with the pickaxe 
 when the superintendent is not looking, and 
 the salutes are firing ? Will you venture ?" 
 
 "With my life!" 
 
 " A bargain. Shake hands on it." 
 
 I had never touched his hand in fellowship 
 before, and I felt as if my own were blood- 
 stained by the contact. I knew by the sullen 
 fire in his glance, that he interpreted my fal- 
 tering touch aright. 
 
 We were roused an hour earlier than usual 
 the following morning, and went through a 
 general inspection in the prison-yard. Before 
 going to work, we were served with a double 
 allowance of wine. At one o'clock we heard 
 the first far-off salutes from the ships of war 
 in the harbour. The sound ran through me 
 like a galvanic shock. One by one the forts 
 took up the signal. It was repeated by the 
 gun-boats closer in shore. Discharge followed 
 discharge, all along the batteries on both sides
 
 72 MISS CAREW. 
 
 of the port, and the air grew thick with 
 smoke. 
 
 "As the first shot is fired yonder/' whis- 
 pered Gasparo, pointing to the barracks behind 
 the prison, *' strike at the first link of my 
 chain, close to the ankle." 
 
 A rapid suspicion flashed across me, 
 
 " If I do, how can I be sure that you will 
 free me afterwards ? No, Gasparo ; you must 
 deal the first blow.'' 
 
 " As you please," he replied, with a laugh 
 and an imprecation. 
 
 At the same instant came a flash from the 
 battlements of the barrack close by, and then 
 a thunderous reverberation, multiplied again 
 and again by the rocks around. As the roar 
 burst over our heads, I saw him strike, and 
 felt the fetters fall. Scarcely had the echo of 
 the first gun died away, when the second was 
 fired. It was now Gasparo's turn to be free. 
 I struck, but less skilfully, and had twice to 
 repeat the blow before breaking the stubborn
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 73 
 
 link. We then went on, apparently with our 
 work, standing somewhat close together, with 
 the chain huddled up between us. No one 
 had observed us, and no one, at first sight, 
 could have detected what we had done. At 
 the third shot, a party of officers and gentle- 
 men made their appearance at the bend of the 
 road leading up to the quarry. In an instant 
 every head was turned in their direction ; 
 every felon paused in his work ; every guard 
 presented arms. At that moment we flung 
 away our caps and pickaxes, scaled the rugged 
 bit of cliff on which we had been toiling, 
 di'opped into the ravine below, and made for 
 the mountain passes that lead into the valley. 
 Encumbered still with the iron anklets to 
 which our chain had been fastened, we could 
 not run very swiftly. To add to our diffi- 
 culties, the road was uneven, strewn with 
 blocks of fallen granite, and tortuous as 
 the windings of a snake. Suddenly, on turn- 
 ing a sharp angle of projecting cliff, we came
 
 74 MISS CAREW. 
 
 upon a little guard-house and a couple of 
 sentries. To retreat was impossible. The 
 soldiers were within a few yards of us. They 
 presented their pieces, and called to us to sur- 
 render. Gasparo turned upon me, like a wolf 
 at bay. 
 
 " Curse you !" said he, dealing me a tre- 
 mendous blow ; *^ stay and be taken ! I have 
 always hated you !'^ 
 
 I fell, as if struck down by a sledge ham- 
 mer, and, as I fell, saw him dash one soldier 
 to the ground, dart past the other, heard a 
 shot, and then ... all became dark, and I 
 know no more. 
 
 When I next opened my eyes, I found my- 
 self lying on the floor of a small unfurnished 
 room dimly lighted by a tiny window close 
 against the ceiling. It seemed as if weeks 
 had gone by since I lost consciousness. I 
 had scarcely strength to rise, and, having 
 risen, kept my feet with difficulty. Where 
 my head had lain, the floor was wet with
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 75 
 
 blood. Giddy and perplexed, I leaned against 
 the wall, and tried to think. 
 
 In the first place, AThere was I? Evidently 
 in no part of the prison from which I had es- 
 caped. There, all was solid stone and iron 
 j^rating ; here was only whitewashed lath and 
 plaster. I must be in a chamber of the little 
 guard-house : probably in an upper chamber. 
 Where, then, were the soldiers ? Where was 
 Gasparo ? Had I strength to clamber up to 
 that window, and if so, in what direction did 
 that window look out ? I stole to the door, 
 and found it locked. I listened breathlessly, 
 but could hear no sound either below or above. 
 Creeping back again, I saw that the little 
 window was at least four feet above my head. 
 The smooth plaster offered no projections by 
 which I could raise myself, and there was not 
 even a fireplace in the room from Avhich I 
 could have wrenched a bar to dig out holes 
 in the wall for my feet and hands. Stay ! 
 there was my leathern belt, and on the belt the
 
 76 MISS CAREW. 
 
 iron hook which used to sustain my chain 
 when I was not at work. I tore off the hook, 
 picked away the lath and plaster in three or 
 four places, climbed up, opened the window, 
 and gazed out eagerly. Before me, at a dis- 
 tance of not more than thirty-five or forty 
 feet, rose the rugged cliff under whose shelter the 
 guard-house was built ; at my feet lay a little 
 kitchen-garden, divided from the base of the 
 rock by a muddy ditch which seemed to run 
 through the ravine ; to the right and left, as 
 well as I could judge, lay the rocky path 
 along which our course had been directed. 
 My decision was taken at once. To stay was 
 certain capture ; to venture, at all hazards, 
 would make matters no worse. Again I lis- 
 tened, and again all was quiet. I drew my- 
 self through the little casement, dropped as 
 gently as I could upon the moist earth, and, 
 crouching against the wall, asked myself what 
 I should do next. To climb the cliff would 
 be to offer myself as a target to the first sol-
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 77 
 
 dier ^'ho saw me. To venture along the 
 ravine, would be, perhaps, to encounter Gas- 
 paro and his captors face to face. Besides, it 
 was getting dusk, and, under cover of the 
 night, if I could only conceal myself till then, 
 I might yet escape. But where was that con- 
 cealment to be found ? Heaven be thanked 
 for the thought ! There was the ditch ! 
 
 Only two windows looked out upon the 
 garden from the back of the guard-house. 
 From one of those windows I had just now let 
 myself down, and the other was partly shut- 
 tered up. I did not dare, however, openly 
 to cross the garden. I dropped upon my face, 
 and crawled in the furrows between the rows 
 of vegetables, until I came to the ditch. Here 
 the water rose nearly to my waist, but the 
 banks on either side were considerably higher, 
 and, by stooping, I found that I could walk 
 without bringing my head to the level of the 
 road. I thus followed the course of the ditch 
 for some two or three hundred yards in the direc-
 
 78 MISS CAREW. 
 
 tionof Toulon, thinking that my pursuers would 
 be less likely to suspect me of doubling back 
 towards prison, than of pushing forward to- 
 wards the country. Half lying, half crouch- 
 ing under the rank grasses that fringed the 
 bank above, I then watched the gathering 
 shadows. By-and-by T heard the evening gun, 
 and, a moment after, something like a distant 
 sound of voices. Hark ! was that a shout ? 
 Unable to endure the agony of suspense, I 
 lifted my head and peeped cautiously out. 
 There were lights moving in the windows of 
 the guard-house — there were dark figures in 
 the garden — there were hasty tramplings of 
 feet upon the road above ! Presently a light 
 flashed over the water only a few yards from 
 my hiding-place ! I slid gently down at full 
 length, and suffered the foul ooze to close 
 noiselessly over me. Lying thus, I held my 
 breath till the very beatings of my heart 
 seemed to suffocate me, and the veins in my 
 temples were almost bursting. I could bear
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 79 
 
 it no longer — T rose to the surface — I breathed 
 ao:ain — I looked — I listened. All was dark- 
 ness and silence. My pursuers were gone 
 by! 
 
 I suffered an hour to go by, too, before I 
 ventured to move again. By that time it was 
 intensely dark, and had begun to rain heavily. 
 The water in the ditch became a brawling 
 torrent, through which I waded, unheard, 
 past the very windows of a guard-house. 
 
 After toiling through the water for a mile 
 or more, I ventured out upon the road again ; 
 and so, with the rain and wind beating in my 
 face, and the scattered boulders tripping me 
 up continually, I made my way through the 
 whole length of the winding pass, and came 
 out upon the more open country about mid- 
 night. With no other guide than the wind, 
 which was blowing from the north-east, and 
 without even a star to help me, I then struck 
 off to the right, following what seemed to be 
 a rough by-road lying through a valley. By-
 
 80 MISS CAREW. 
 
 and-by the rain abated, and I discerned the 
 dark outlines of a chain of hills extending all 
 along to the left of the road. These, I con- 
 cluded, must be the Maures. All was well, so 
 far. I had taken the right direction, and was 
 on the way to Italy. 
 
 Excepting to sit down now and then for a 
 few minutes by the wayside, I never paused 
 in my flight all the night through. Fatigue 
 and want of food prevented me, it is true, from 
 walking very fast ; but the love of liberty was 
 strong within me, and, by keeping steadily on, 
 I succeeded in placing about eighteen miles 
 between myself and Toulon. At five o'clock, 
 just as the day began to dawn, I heard a peal 
 of chimes, and found that I was approaching 
 a large town. In order to avoid this town, I 
 was forced to turn back for some distance, and 
 take to the heights. The sun had now risen, 
 and I dared go no farther ; so, having pulled 
 some turnips in a field as I went along, I took 
 refuge in a little lonely copse in a hollow
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 81 
 
 among the hills, and there lay all day in safety. 
 When night again closed in, I resumed my 
 journey, keeping always among the moun- 
 tains, and coming now and then on grand 
 glimpses of moonlit bays, and tranquil islands 
 lying off" the shore ; now and then, on pastoral 
 hamlets nestled up among the palmy heights, 
 or on promontories overgrown with the cactus 
 and the aloe. I rested all the second day in 
 a ruined shed at the bottom of a deserted 
 sand-pit, and, in the evening, feeling that I 
 could no longer sustain life without some 
 fitting nourishment, made my way down to- 
 wards a tiny fishing village on the coast be- 
 low. It was quite dark by the time I reached 
 the level ground. I walked boldly past the 
 cottages of the fishermen, meeting only an 
 old woman and a little child on the way, and 
 knocked at the cure's door. He opened it 
 himself. I told my story in half a dozen 
 words. The good man believed and pitied 
 me. He gave me food and wine, an old hand- 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 MISS CAREW. 
 
 kerchief to wrap about my bead, an old coat 
 to replace my convict's jacket, and two or 
 tbree francs to belp me on ray way. I parted 
 from bim witb tears. 
 
 I walked all tbat night again, and all the 
 next, keeping somewhat close upon the coast, 
 and hiding among the cliffs during the day- 
 time. On the fifth morning, having left 
 Antibes behind me during the night's march, 
 I came to the banks of the Var ; crossed the 
 torrent about half a mile below the wooden 
 bridge ; plunged into the pine-woods on the 
 Sardinian side of the frontier ; and lay down 
 to rest on Italian ground at last ! 
 
 How, though comparatively safe, I still pur- 
 sued my journey by the least frequented ways 
 — how I bought a file at the first hamlet to 
 which I came, and freed myself from the iron 
 anklet — how, having lurked about Nice till 
 my hair and beard had grown, I begged 
 my way on to Genoa — how, at Genoa, I 
 hung about the port, earning a scanty live-
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. b6 
 
 lihood by any chance work that I could get, 
 and so struggled, somehow, through the 
 inclement winter — how, towards the early 
 spring, I worked my passage on board a small 
 trader from Genoa to Fiumicino, touching at 
 all the ports along the coast — and how, coming 
 slowly up the Tiber in a barge laden with oil 
 and wine, I landed one evening in March on 
 the Eipetta quay, in Eome ; how all these 
 things happened, and what physical hardships 
 I endured in the meanwhile, I have no time 
 here to relate in detail. My object had been 
 to get to Rome, and that object was at last 
 attained. In so large a city, and at so great 
 a distance from the scene of my imprisonment, 
 I was personally safe. I might hope to turn 
 my talents and education to account. I 
 might even find friends among the strangers 
 who would flock thither to the Easter festivals. 
 Full of hope, therefore, I sought a humble 
 lodging in the neighbourhood of the quay, 
 gave up a day or two to the enjoyment of 
 
 G 2
 
 84 MISS CAREW. 
 
 my liberty and of the sights of Eome, and 
 then set myself to find some regular employ- 
 ment. 
 
 Eegular employment, or, indeed, employ- 
 ment of any kind, was not, however, so easily 
 to be obtained. It was a season of distress. 
 The previous harvest had been a failure, and 
 tlie winter unusually severe. There had also 
 been disturbances in Naples, and the travellers 
 this spring were fewer by some thousands 
 than the ordinary average. So dull a carnival 
 had not been known for years. The artists 
 had sold no paintings, and the sculptors no 
 statues. The cameo-cutters and mosaicists 
 were starving. The tradesmen, the hotel- 
 keepers, the professional ciceroni, were all com- 
 plaining bitterly. Day by day my hopes 
 faded and my prospects darkened. Day by 
 day the few scudi I had scraped together on 
 the passage melted away. I had thought to 
 obtain a clerkship, or a secretaryship, or a 
 situation in some public library. Before
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 85 
 
 three weeks were over, I would gladly have 
 swept a studio. At length there came a day 
 when I saw nothing before me but starva- 
 tion ; when my last bajocco was expended ; 
 when my padrone shut the door in my 
 face, and I knew not where to turn for a 
 meal or a shelter. All that afternoon I 
 wandered hopelessly about the streets. It was 
 Good Friday, of all days of the year. The 
 churches were hung with black ; the bells 
 were tolling ; the thoroughfares were crowded 
 with people in mourning. I went into the 
 little church of Santa Martina. They were 
 chanting a Miserere, probably with no great 
 skill, but with a pathos that seemed to open 
 up all the sources of my despair. 
 
 Outcast that I was, I slept that night under 
 a dark arch near the theatre of Marcellus. 
 The morning dawned upon a glorious day, 
 and I crept out, shivering into the sunshine. 
 Lying crouched against a bit of warm wall, I 
 caught myself wondering more than once how
 
 86 MISS CAREW. 
 
 long it would be worth while to endure the 
 agonies of hunger, and whether the brown 
 waters of the Tiber were deep enough to 
 drown a man. It seemed hard to die so 
 young. My future might have been so 
 pleasant, so honourable ! The rough life 
 that I had been leading of late, too, had 
 strengthened me in every way, physically 
 and mentally. I had grown taller. My 
 muscles were more developed. I was twice 
 as active, as energetic, as resolute, as I had 
 been a year before. And of what use were 
 these things to me ? I must die, and they 
 could only serve to make me die the harder. 
 
 I got up and wandered about the streets, 
 as I had wandered the day before. Once I 
 asked for alms, and was repulsed. I followed 
 mechanically in the stream of carriages and 
 foot passengers, and found myself, by-and-by, 
 in the midst of the crowd that ebbs and flows 
 continually about Saint Peter's during Easter 
 week. Stupefied and weary, I turned aside
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 87 
 
 into the vestibule of the Sagrestia, and 
 cowered down in the shelter of a doorway. 
 Two gentlemen were reading a printed paper 
 wafered against a pillar close by. 
 
 " Good heavens !" said one to the other, 
 *•' that a man should risk his neck for a few 
 pauls !'' 
 
 " Ay, and with the knowledge that, out of 
 eighty workmen, six or eight are dashed to 
 pieces every time," added his companion. 
 
 " Shocking ! Why, that is an average of 
 ten per cent !" 
 
 " No less. It is a desperate service." 
 
 "But a fine sight," said the first speaker, 
 philosophically ; and with this they walked 
 away. 
 
 I sprang to my feet, and read the placard 
 with avidity. It was headed, " Illumination 
 of Saint Peter's," and announced that, eighty 
 workmen being required for the lighting of 
 the dome and cupola, and three hundred for 
 the cornices, pillars, colonnade, and so forth.
 
 88 MISS CAREW. 
 
 the amministratore was empowered, &c., &c. 
 In conclusion, it stated that every workman 
 employed on the dome and cupola should re- 
 ceive in payment a dinner and twenty-four 
 pauls, the wages of the rest being less than a 
 third of that sum. 
 
 A desperate service, it was true ; but I was 
 a desperate man. After all, I could but die, 
 and I might as well die after a good dinner as 
 from starvation. I went at once to the am- 
 ministratore, was entered in his list, received 
 a couple of pauls as earnest of the contract, 
 and engaged to present myself punctually at 
 eleven o'clock on the following morning. That 
 evening I supped at a street stall, and, for a 
 few bajocchi, obtained leave to sleep on some 
 straw, in a loft over a stable at the back of the 
 Via del Arco. 
 
 At eleven o'clock on the morning of Easter 
 Sunday, April the sixteenth, I found myself, 
 accordingly, in the midst of a crowd of poor 
 fellows, most of whom, I dare say, were as
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 89 
 
 wretched as myself, waiting at the door of the 
 administrator's office. The piazza in front of 
 the cathedral was like a moving mosaic of life 
 and colour. The sun was shining, the foun- 
 tains were playing, the flags were flying over 
 Saint Angelo. It was a glorious sight ; but I 
 saw it for only a few moments. As the clocks 
 struck the hour, the folding-doors were thrown 
 open, and we passed, in a crowd, into a hall, 
 where two long tables were laid for our accom- 
 modation. A couple of sentinels stood at the 
 door ; an usher marshalled us, standing, round 
 the tables, and a priest read grace. 
 
 As he began to read, a strange sensation 
 came upon me. I felt impelled to look across 
 to the opposite table, and there .... yes, by 
 Heaven! there I saw Gasparo! 
 
 He was looking full at me, but his eyes 
 dropped on meeting mine. I saw him turn 
 lividly white. The recollection of all he had 
 made me suffer, and of the dastardly blow that 
 he had dealt me on the day of our flight, over-
 
 90 MISS CAREW. 
 
 powered for the moment even my surprise at 
 seeing him in this place. Oh, that I might 
 live to meet him yet, under the free sky, 
 where no priest was praying, and no guards 
 were by ! 
 
 The grace over, we sat down, and fell to. 
 Not even anger had power to blunt the edge 
 of my appetite just then. I ate like a famish- 
 ing wolf, and so did most of the others. We 
 were allowed no wine, and the doors were 
 locked upon us, that we might not procure 
 any elsewhere. It was a wise regulation, 
 considering the task we had to perform ; but 
 it made us none the less -noisy. Under cer- 
 tain circumstances, danger intoxicates like 
 wine ; and on this Easter Sunday, we eighty 
 sanpietriniy any one of whom might have his 
 brains dashed about the leads before supper- 
 time, ate, talked, jested, and laughed with a 
 wild gaiety that had in it something appal- 
 ling. 
 
 The dinner lasted long, and when no one
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 91 
 
 seemed disposed to eat more, the tables were 
 cleared. Most of the men threw themselves 
 on the floor and benches, and went to sleep ; 
 Gasparo among the number. Seeing this, I 
 could refrain no longer. I went over, and 
 stirred him roughly with my foot. 
 
 " Gasparo ! You know me ?" 
 
 He looked up sullenly 
 
 ** Devil's mass ! I thought you were at 
 Toulon." 
 
 "It is not your fault that I am not at Tou- 
 lon ! Listen to me. If you and I survive 
 this night, you shall answer to me for your 
 treachery !" 
 
 He glared at me from under his deep brows, 
 and, without replying, turned over on his face 
 again, as if to sleep." 
 
 " Ecco un maladetto r (There's an accursed 
 fellow !) said one of the others, with a signifi- 
 cant shrug, as I came away. 
 
 " Do you know anything of him ?" I asked, 
 eagerly.
 
 92 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ^' Cospetto ! I know nothing of him ; but 
 that he is said to be a wolf and a blasphemer!" 
 
 I could learn no more, so I also stretched 
 myself upon the floor, as far as possible from 
 my enemy, and fell profoundly asleep. 
 
 At seven, the guards roused those who still 
 slept, and served each man with a small mug 
 of thin wine. We were then formed into a 
 double file, marched round by the back of 
 the cathedral, and conducted up an inclined 
 plane to the roof below the dome. From this 
 point, a long series of staircases and winding 
 passages carried us up between the double 
 walls of the dome ; and, at different stages in 
 the ascent, a certain number of us were de- 
 tached and posted ready for work. I was de- 
 tached about half-way up, and I saw Gaspare 
 going higher still. When we were all posted, 
 the superintendents came round and gave us 
 our instructions. At a given signal, every 
 man was to pass out through the loophole or 
 ■window before which he was placed, and seat
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 9d 
 
 himself astride upon a narrow shelf of wood 
 hanging to a strong rope just below. This 
 rope came through the window, was wound 
 round a roller, and secured from within. At 
 the next signal a lighted torch would be put 
 into his right hand, and he was to grasp the 
 rope firmly with his left. At the third signal 
 the rope was to be unwound from within by 
 an assistant placed there for the purpose, he 
 was to be allowed to slide rapidly down over 
 the curve of the dome, and, while thus sliding, 
 was to apply his torch to every lamp he passed 
 in his downward progress. 
 
 Having received these instructions, we 
 waited, each man at his window, until the 
 first signal should be given. 
 
 It was fast getting dark, and the silver illu- 
 mination had been lighted since seven. All 
 the great ribs of the dome, as far as I could 
 see; all the cornices and friezes of the faqade 
 below ; all the columns and parapets of the 
 great colonnade surrounding the piazza four
 
 94 MISS CAREW. 
 
 hundred feet below, were traced out in lines 
 of paper lanterns, the light from which, sub- 
 dued by the paper, gleamed with a silvery 
 fire which had a magical and wondrous look. 
 Between and among these lanternoni, were 
 placed, at different intervals all over the 
 cathedral on the side facing the piazza, iron 
 cups called padelle, ready filled with tallow 
 and turpentine. To light those on the dome 
 and cupola, was the perilous task of the smi- 
 Ijietrini ; when they were all lighted, the 
 golden illumination would be effected. 
 
 A few moments of intense suspense elapsed. 
 At every second, the evening grew darker, the 
 lanternoni burned brighter, the surging hum 
 of thousands in the piazza and streets below 
 rose louder to our ears. I felt the quickening 
 breath of the assistant at my shoulder — I 
 could almost hear the beating of my heart. 
 Suddenly, like the passing of an electric cur- 
 rent, the first signal flew from lip to lip. I 
 got out, and crossed my legs firmly round the
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 95 
 
 board — with the sec»)nd signal, I seized the 
 blazing torch — with the third, I felt myself 
 launched, and, lighting every cup as I glided 
 past, saw all the mountainous dome above and 
 below me spring into lines of leaping flame. 
 The clock was now striking eight, and when 
 the last stroke sounded, the whole cathedral 
 was glowing in outlines of fire. A roar, like 
 the roar of a great ccean, rose up from the 
 multitude below, and seemed to shake the 
 very dome against which I was clinging. I 
 could even see the light upon the gazing 
 faces, the crowd upon the bridge of St. 
 Angelo, and the boats swarming along the 
 Tiber. 
 
 Having dropped safely to the full length 
 of my rope, and lighted my allotted share of 
 lamps, I was now sitting in secure enjoyment 
 of this amazing scene. All at once, I felt the 
 rope vibrate. I looked up, saw a man cling- 
 ing by one hand to the iron rod supporting 
 the padelky and with the other
 
 96 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Merciful Heaven! It was the Piedmontese 
 firing the rope above me with his torch! 
 
 I had no time for thought — I acted upon 
 instinct. It was done in one fearful mo- 
 ment. I clambered up like a cat, dashed my 
 torch full in the felon's face, and grasped 
 the rope an inch or two above the spot where 
 it was burning! Blinded and baffled, he 
 uttered a terrible cry, and dropped like a 
 stone. Through all the roar of the living 
 ocean below, I could hear the dull crash with 
 which he came down upon the leaded roof. 
 Echoing through all the years that have gone 
 by since that night, I hear it now. 
 
 I had scarcely drawn breath, when I found 
 myself being hauled up. The assistance came 
 not a moment too soon, for I was sick and 
 giddy with horror, and fainted as soon as I 
 was safe in the corridor. The next day 
 I waited on the amministratore, and told him 
 all that had happened. My statement w^as
 
 TERRIBLE COMPANY. 97 
 
 corroborated by the vacant rope from which 
 Gasparo had descended, and the burnt frag- 
 ment by which I had been drawn up. The 
 amministratore repeated my story to a prelate 
 high in office; and while none, even of the 
 sanpietrinij suspected that my enemy had 
 come by his death in any unusual manner, 
 the truth was whispered from palace to palace 
 until it reached the Vatican. I received 
 much sympathy, and such pecuniary assistance 
 as enabled me to confront the future without 
 fear. Since that time my fortunes have been 
 various. I have lived in many countries, and 
 known many strange adventures ; but never, 
 before or since, found myself in such terrible 
 company as on the dome of St. Peter's, that 
 memorable Easter Sunday night. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 98 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 
 
 (From a Pocket-book of Forty Years ago.) 
 
 T^OPiTY years ago! 
 
 An old pocket-book lies before me, bound 
 in scarlet morocco, and fastened with a silver 
 clasp. The leather is mildewed; the silver 
 tarnished; the paper yellow; the ink faded. 
 It has been hidden away at the back of an 
 antique oaken bureau since the last day of 
 the year during which I had it in use; and 
 that was forty years ago. Ay, here is a page 
 turned down — turned down at Wednesday, 
 March the eleventh, eighteen hundred and
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 99 
 
 twenty-six. The entry against that date is 
 brief and obscure enough. 
 
 '• Wednesday, March 11th. — Walked from 
 Frascati to Palazzuola, the ancient site of 
 Alba Longa, on the Alban lake. Lodged at 
 Franciscan convent. Brother Geronimo. Dare 
 one rely on the testimony of the senses? 
 Dieu sait tout.'' 
 
 Brief as it is, however, that memorandum 
 fires a train of long-dormant memories, and 
 brings back with painful vividness all the 
 circumstances to which it bears reference. I 
 will endeavour to relate them as calmly and 
 succinctly as possible. 
 
 I started on foot from Frascati immediately 
 after breakfast, and rested midway in the 
 shade of a wooded ravine between Marino 
 and the heights of Alba Longa. I seem to 
 remember every trivial incident of that morn- 
 ing walk. I remember how the last year's 
 leaves crackled under my feet, and how the 
 green lizards darted to and fro in the sun- 
 
 H 2
 
 100 MISS CAREW. 
 
 light. I fancy I still hear the slow drip of 
 the waters that trickled down the cavernous 
 rocks on either hand. I fancy I still smell 
 the heavy perfume of the violets among the 
 ferns. It was not yet noon wdien I emerged 
 upon the upper ridge, and took the path that 
 leads to Monte Cavo. The woodcutters w^ere 
 busy among the chestnut slopes of Palazzuola. 
 They paused in their work, and stared at me 
 sullenly as I passed by. Presently a little 
 turn in the footway brought the whole lake of 
 Albano before my eyes. Blue, silent, solitary, 
 set round with overhanging woods, it lay in 
 the sunshine, four hundred feet below, like a 
 sapphire at the bottom of a malachite vase. 
 Now and then, a soft breath from the west 
 ruffled the placid mirror, and blurred the 
 pictured landscape on its surface. Now and 
 then, a file of mules, passing unseen among 
 the forest-paths, sent a faint sound of tinkling 
 bells across the lake. I sat dow^n in the 
 shade of a clump of cork-trees, and contem-
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 101 
 
 plated the panorama. To my left, on a pre- 
 cipitous platform at the verge of the basin, 
 with Monte Cavo towering up behind, stretched 
 the long white facade of the Convent of 
 Palazzuola; on the opposite height, standing 
 clear against the sky, rose the domes and 
 pines of Castel Gondolfo; to the far right, in 
 the blinding sunshine of the Campagna, lay 
 Eome and the Etruscan hills. 
 
 In this spot I established myself for the 
 day's sketching. Of so vast a scene, I could, 
 necessarily, only select a portion. I chose 
 the Convent, with its background of mountain, 
 and its foreground of precipice and lake ; and 
 proceeded patiently to work out, first the lead- 
 ing features, and next the minuter details 
 of the subject. Thus occupied (with an oc- 
 casional pause to watch the passing of a cloud- 
 shadow, or listen to the chiming of a distant 
 chapel-bell), I lingered on, hour after hour, 
 till the sun hung low in the west, and the 
 woodcutters were all gone to their homes. I
 
 102 MISS CAREW. 
 
 was now at least three miles from either the 
 town of Albano or the village of Castel Gon- 
 dolfo, and was, moreover, a stranger to the 
 neighbourhood. I looked at my watcli. 
 There remained but one half hour of good 
 daylight, and it was important that I should 
 find my way before the dusk closed in. T 
 rose reluctantly, and, promising myself to 
 return to the same spot on the morrow, 
 packed away my sketch, and prepared for tlie 
 road. 
 
 At this moment, I saw a monk standing in 
 an attitude of meditation upon a little knoll 
 of rising ground some fifty yards ahead. His 
 back was turned towards me ; his cowl was 
 up, his arms were folded across his breast. 
 Neither the splendour of the heavens, nor the 
 tender beauty of the earth, was anything to 
 him. He seemed unconscious even of the 
 sunset. 
 
 I hurried forward, eager to inquire my 
 nearest path along the woods that skirt the
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 103 
 
 lake ; and my shadow lengthened out fantasti- 
 cally before me as I ran. The monk turned 
 abruptly. His cowl fell. He looked at me. 
 face to face. There were not more than 
 eighteen yards between us. I saw him as 
 plainly as I now see the page on which I 
 write. Our eyes met . . . My God ! 
 shall I ever forget those eyes ? 
 
 He was still young, still handsome, but so 
 lividly pale, so emaciated, so worn with 
 passion, and penance, and remorse, that I 
 stopped involuntarily, like one who linds him- 
 self on the brink of a chasm. We stood thus 
 for a few seconds — both silent, both motion- 
 less. I could not have uttered a syllable, had 
 my life depended on it. Then, as abruptly 
 as he had turned towards me, he turned away, 
 and disappeared among the trees. I remained 
 for some minutes gazing after him. My heart 
 throbbed painfully. I shuddered, I knew not 
 why. The very air seemed to have grown 
 thick and oppressive ; the very sunset, so
 
 104 MISS CAREW. 
 
 golden a moment since, had turned suddenly 
 to blood. 
 
 I went on my way, disturbed and thought- 
 ful. The livid face and lurid eyes of the 
 monk haunted me. I dreaded every turn of 
 the path, lest I should again encounter them. 
 I started when a twig fell, or a dead leaf 
 fluttered down beside me. I was almost 
 ashamed of the sense of relief with which I 
 heard the sound of voices some few yards in 
 advance, and, emerging upon an open space 
 close against the convent, saw some half 
 dozen friars strolling to and fro in the sun- 
 set. I inquired my way to Albano, and 
 learned that I was still more than two miles 
 distant. 
 
 ^^ It will be quite dark before the Signore 
 arrives," said one, courteously. ^*The Sig- 
 nore would do well to accept a cell at Palaz- 
 zuola for the night." 
 
 1 remembered the monk, and hesitated. 
 
 '^ There is no moon now/' suggested
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 105 
 
 another ; " and the paths are unsafe for those 
 who do not know them." 
 
 While I was yet undecided, a bell rang, and 
 three or four of the loiterers went in. 
 
 " It is our supper hour," said the first 
 speaker. *' The Signore will at least con- 
 descend to share our simple fare ; and after- 
 wards, if he still decides to sleep at Albano, 
 one of our younger brethren shall accompany 
 him as far as the Cappucini, at the entrance 
 to the town." 
 
 I accepted this proposition gratefully, fol- 
 lowed my entertainers through the convent 
 gates, and was ushered into a stone hall, 
 furnished with a long dining table, a pulpit, 
 a clock, a double row of deal benches, and an 
 indifferent copy of the Last Supper of Leo- 
 nardo da Vinci. The Superior advanced to 
 welcome me. 
 
 " You have come among us, Signore," he 
 said, ^' on an evening when our table is but 
 poorly provided. Although this is not one
 
 ] 06 MISS CAREW. 
 
 of the appointed fast-days of the Church, we 
 have been abstaining at Palazzuola in memory 
 of certain circumstances connected with our 
 own brotherhood. I hope, however, that our 
 larder may be found to contain something 
 better suited to a traveller's appetite than the 
 fare you now see before you." 
 
 Saying thus, he placed me at his right 
 hand at the upper end of the board, and there 
 stood till the monks were all in their places. 
 He then repeated a Latin grace ; after which 
 each brother took his seat and began. They 
 were twenty-three in number, twelve on one 
 side, and eleven on the other ; but I observed 
 that a place was left vacant near the foot of 
 the table, as if the twelfth man were yet to 
 come. The twelfth, I felt sure, was he whom 
 I had encountered on the way. Once pos- 
 sessed with this conviction, I could not keep 
 from watching the door. Strange ! I so 
 dreaded and loathed his coming, that I 
 almost felt as if his presence would be less in-
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 107 
 
 tolerable than the suspense in which I awaited 
 it! 
 
 In the meantime the monks ate in silence ; 
 and even the Superior, whose language and 
 address w^re those of a well-informed man, 
 seemed constrained and thoughtful. Their 
 supper was of the most frugal description, 
 and consisted of only bread, salad, grapes, 
 and maccaroni. Mine was before long re- 
 inforced with a broiled pigeon and a flask of 
 excellent Orvieto. I enjoyed my fare, how- 
 ever, as little as they seemed to enjoy theirs. 
 Fasting as I was, I had no appetite. Weary 
 as 1 was, I only longed to push my plate 
 aside, and resume my journey. 
 
 *' The Signore will not think of going 
 farther to-night," said the Superior, after an 
 interval of prolonged silence. 
 
 I muttered something about being expected 
 at Albano. 
 
 *' Nay, but it is already dusk, and the sky 
 hath clouded over suddenly within the last
 
 108 MISS CAREW. 
 
 fifteen minutes," urged he. '' I fear much 
 that we have a storm approachmg. What 
 sayest thou, Brother Antonio ? " 
 
 ^* It will be a wild night," replied the bro- 
 ther with whom I had first spoken. 
 
 '^Ay, a wild night," repeated an old 
 monk, lower down the table ; " like this 
 night last year — like this night two years 
 ago !" 
 
 The Superior struck the table angrily with 
 his open hand. 
 
 " Silence !" he exclaimed authoritatively. 
 "Silence there; and let Brother Anselmo bring 
 lights." 
 
 It was now so dark that I could scarcely 
 distinguish the features of the last speaker, or 
 those of the monk who rose and left the room. 
 Again the profoundest silence fell upon all 
 present. I could hear the footsteps of Bro- 
 ther Anselmo echo down the passage, till they 
 died away ; and I remember listening vaguely 
 to the ticking of the clock at the farther end
 
 THE ELEYEXTH OF MARCH. 109 
 
 the refectory, and comparing it in my own 
 mind to the horrible beating of an iron heart. 
 Just at that moment a sharp gust of wind 
 moaned past the windows, bearing with it a 
 prolonged reverberation of distant thunder. 
 
 *^ Our storms up here in the mountain are 
 severe and sudden," said the Prior, resuming 
 our conversation at the point where it had 
 been interrupted ; '^ and even the waters of 
 yonder placid lake are sometimes so tempes- 
 tuous that no boat dare venture across. I 
 fear, Signore, that you will find it impossible 
 to proceed to Albano." 
 
 ^' Should the tempest come up, reverend 
 father," I replied, " I will undoubtedly ac- 
 cept your hospitality, and be grateful for it ; 
 but if . . . ." 
 
 I broke off abruptly. The words failed on 
 my lips, and I pushed away the flask from 
 which I was about to fill my glass. 
 
 Brother Anselmo had brought in the lamps, 
 and there, in the twelfth seat at the opposite
 
 110 MISS CAREW. 
 
 side of the table, sat the monk. I had not 
 seen him take his place. I had not heard 
 him enter. Yet there he sat, pale and death- 
 like, with his burning eyes fixed full upon me ! 
 No one noticed him. No one spoke to him. 
 No one helped him to the dishes on the table. 
 He neither ate, nor drank, nor held compan- 
 ionship with any of his fellows ; but sat 
 among them like an excommunicated wretch, 
 whose penance was silence and fasting. 
 
 *' You do not eat, Signore," said the prior. 
 
 " I — I thank you, reverend father," I fal- 
 tered. " I have dined." 
 
 ^^I fear, indifferently. Would you like 
 some other wine ? Our cellar is not so ill- 
 furnished as our larder." 
 
 I declined by a gesture. 
 
 '^ Then we Avill retire to my room, and take 
 coffee." 
 
 And the Superior rose, repeated a brief 
 Latin thanksgiving, and ushered me into a 
 small well-lighted parlour, opening off a pas-
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. Ill 
 
 sage at the upper end of the hall, where there 
 were some half-dozen shelves of books, a 
 couple of easy chairs, a bright wood fire, and 
 a little table laden with coffee and cakes. We 
 had scarcely seated ourselves when a tre- 
 mendous peal of thunder seemed to break 
 immediately over the convent, and was fol- 
 lowed by a cataract of rain. 
 
 "The Signore is safer here than on the 
 paths between Palazzuola and Albano," said 
 the Superior, sipping his coffee. 
 
 " I am, indeed,'' I replied. " Do I under- 
 stand that you had a storm here on the same 
 night last year, and the year before ?" 
 
 The Prior's face darkened. 
 
 " I cannot deny the coincidence," he said, 
 reluctantly ; '' but it is a mere coincidence, 
 after all. The — the fact is that a very 
 grievous and terrible catastrophe happened 
 to our community on this day two years ago ; 
 and the brethren believe that heaven sends 
 the tempest in memory of that event. Monks,
 
 112 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Signore, are superstitious ; and if we consider 
 their isolated lives, it is not surprising that 
 they should be so." 
 
 I bowed assent. The Prior was evidently 
 a man of the world. 
 
 "Now, with regard to Palazzuola," con- 
 tinued he, disregarding the storm, and chat- 
 ting on quite leisurely, " here are twenty- 
 three brethren, most of them natives of the 
 small towns among the mountains hereabout ; 
 and of that twenty -three, not ten have even 
 been so far as Eome in their lives." 
 
 *' Twenty-three," I repeated. " Twenty- 
 four, surely, mio padre r 
 
 " I did not include myself,^' said the Prior, 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Neither did I include you," I replied ; 
 " but 1 counted twenty-four of the order at 
 table just now." 
 
 The Prior shook his head. 
 
 " No, no, Signore," said he. " Twenty- 
 three only."
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 113 
 
 " But I am positive," said I. 
 
 " And so am I," rejoined he, politely but 
 firmly. 
 
 I paused. I was certain. I could not be 
 mistaken. 
 
 ^^ Nay, mio padre, '^ I said ; ^* they were 
 twenty-three at first ; but the brother who 
 came in afterwards made the twenty-fourth." 
 
 ''Afterwards !" echoed the Prior. "I am 
 not aware that any brother came in after- 
 wards." 
 
 "A sickly, haggard-looking monk," pursued 
 I, " with singularly bright eyes — eyes which, 
 I confess, produced on me a very unpleasant 
 impression. He came in just before the lights 
 Avere brought." 
 
 The Prior moved uneasily in his chair, and 
 poured out another cup of cofiee. 
 
 " Where did you say he sat, Signore?" said 
 he. 
 
 " In the vacant seat at the lower end of the 
 table, on the opposite side to myself." 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 MISS CAREW. 
 
 The Prior set down his coiFee untasted, and 
 rose in great agitation. 
 
 '^ For God's sake, Signore/' stammered he, 
 " be careful what you say ! Did you — did 
 you see this ? Is this true ?" 
 
 " True ?" I repeated, trembling I knew not 
 why, and turning cold from head to foot. 
 '^ As true as that I live and breathe! Why 
 do you ask ?" 
 
 " Sickly and haggard-looking, with singu- 
 larly bright eyes," said the Prior, looking very 
 pale himself. " Had it — had it the appear- 
 ance of a young man ?" 
 
 ^^ Of a young man worn with suffering and 
 remorse," I replied. ^^But — but it was not 
 the first time, mio imdre ! I saw him before 
 — this afternoon — down near the chestnut- 
 woods, on a knoll of rising ground, overlook- 
 ing the lake. He was standing with his back 
 to the sunset." 
 
 The Prior fell on his knees before a little 
 carved crucifix that hung beside the fireplace.
 
 the eleventh of march. 115 
 
 " Requiem xterxam doxa eis, Domixe ; et 
 LUX PERPETUA LUCEAT EIS," Said he, brokenly. 
 
 The rest of his prayer was inaudible, and be 
 remained for some minutes with his face buried 
 in his hands. 
 
 ^' I implore you to tell me the meaning of 
 this," I said, when he at length rose, and 
 sank, still pale and agitated, into his chair. 
 
 " I will tell what I may, Signore," he 
 replied; "but I must not tell you all. It is 
 a secret that belongs to our community, and 
 none of us are at liberty to repeat it. Two years 
 ago, one of our brethren was detected in the 
 commission of a great crime. He had suf- 
 fered, struggled against it, and at last, urged 
 by a terrible opportunity, committed it. His 
 life paid for the offence. One who was deeply 
 wronged by the deed, met him as he was fly- 
 ing from the spot, and slew him as he lied. 
 Signore, the name of that monk was the Fi-a 
 Geronimo. We buried him where he fell, on a 
 knoll of rising ground close against the chest- 
 
 I 2
 
 116 MISS CAREW. 
 
 nut woods that border the path to Marino. 
 We had no right to lay his remains in conse- 
 crated ground ; but we fast, and say masses 
 for his soul, on each anniversary of that fearful 
 day." 
 
 The Prior paused and wiped his brow. 
 
 '^ But, mio 2jadre ..." I began. 
 
 " This day last year," interrupted he, "• one 
 of the woodcutters yonder took a solemn oath 
 that he met the Fra Geronimo on that very 
 knoll at sunset. Our brethren believed the 
 man — but I, heaven forgive me ! was incredu- 
 lous. Now, however ..." 
 
 " Then — then you believe," faltered I, 
 " you believe that I have seen ..." 
 
 " Brother Geronimo," said the Prior, 
 solemnly. 
 
 And I believe it too. I am told, perhaps, 
 that it was an illusion of the senses. Granted; 
 but is not such an illusion, in itself, a pheno- 
 menon as appalling as the veriest legend that 
 superstition evokes from the world beyond the
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH. 117 
 
 grave ? How shall we explain the nature of 
 the impression ? Whence comes it ? By 
 what material agency is it impressed upon the 
 brain ? These are questions leading to abysses 
 of speculation before which the sceptic and the 
 philosopher alike recoil — questions which I am 
 unable to answer. I only know that these 
 things came within the narrow radius of my 
 own experience ; that I saw them with my own 
 eyes ; and that they happened just forty years 
 ago, on the eleventh of March, anno Domini 
 eighteen hundred and twenty-six.
 
 118 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PliOFESSOR S STORY. 
 
 DETWEEN eight and ten years ago, I 
 embarked in a long vacation campaign 
 among the Alps of Savoy. I was alone. 
 My object was not amusementj but study. 
 I occupy a Professor's Chair, and I was en- 
 gaged in the collection of materials for a 
 work on the Flora of the higher Alps ; and, 
 to this end, travelled chiefly on foot. My 
 route lay far from the beaten paths and 
 passes. I often journeyed for days through 
 regions where there w^re neither inns nor 
 villages. I often wandered from dawn * till 
 dusk among sterile steeps unknown even to
 
 THE rKOFESSOR's STORY. 119 
 
 the herdsmen of the upper pasturages, and 
 untrodden save by the chamois and the 
 hunter. 1 thought myself fortunate at those 
 times if, towards evening, I succeeded in 
 steering my way down to the nearest chalet, 
 where, in company wdth a half-savage moun- 
 taineer and a herd of milch goats, I might 
 lind the shelter of a raftered roof, and a 
 supper of black bread and whey. 
 
 On one particular evening I had gone 
 farther than usual, in pursuit of the Senecio 
 Unifloris : a rare plant, which 1 had hitherto 
 believed indigenous to the southern valleys of 
 Monte Rosa, but of which I here succeeded in 
 binding one or two indifferent specimens. It 
 was a wdld and barren district, difficult to 
 distinguish with any degree of precision on 
 the map ; but lying among the upper defiles 
 of the Yal de Bagnes, between the Mont 
 Pleureur and the Grand Combin. On the 
 waste of rock-strewn moss to which I had 
 climbed, there was no sign of human habita-
 
 120 MISS CAREW. 
 
 tion. Above me lay the great ice-fields of 
 Corbassiere, surmounted by the silver summits 
 of the GraiFeniere and Combin. To my left, 
 the sun was going down rapidly behind a 
 forest of smaller peaks, the highest of which, 
 as well as I could judge from Osterwald's 
 map, was the Mont Blanc de Cheilon. In ten 
 minutes more those peaks would be crimson ; 
 in one short half hour, it would be night. 
 
 To be benighted on an Alpine plateau 
 towards the latter end of September is not a 
 desirable position. I knew it by recent ex- 
 perience, and had no wish to repeat the 
 experiment. I therefore began retracing my 
 route as rapidly as I could, descending in a 
 north-westerly direction, and keeping a sharp 
 look-out for any chalet that might ofier a 
 shelter for the night. Pushing forward thus, 
 I found myself presently at the head of a 
 little verdant ravine, channelled, as it were, 
 in the face of the plateau. I hesitated. It 
 seemed, through the gathering darkness, as if
 
 THE professor's STORY. 121 
 
 T could discern vague traces of a path 
 trampled here and there in the deep grass. 
 It also seemed as if the ravine trended down 
 towards the upper pastures which were my 
 destination. By following it I could scarcely 
 go wrong. Where there is grass, there are 
 generally cattle and a chalet ; and I might 
 possibly find a nearer resting-place than I 
 had anticipated. At all events, I resolved to 
 try it. 
 
 The ravine proved shorter than I had ex- 
 pected, and, instead of leading immediately 
 downward, opened upon a second plateau, 
 through which a well-worn footway struck off 
 abruptly to the left. Pursuing this footway 
 with what speed I might, I came, in the 
 course of a few more minutes, to a sudden 
 slope, at the bottom of which, in a basin 
 almost surrounded by gigantic limestone cliffs, 
 lay a small dark lake, a few fields, and a 
 chalet. The rose-tints had by this time come 
 and gone, and the snow had put on that
 
 122 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ghostly grey which precedes the dark. Be- 
 fore I could descend the slope, skirt the hike, 
 and mount the little eminence on which the 
 house stood, sheltered by its background of 
 rocks, it was already night, and the stars 
 were in the sky. 
 
 I went up to the door and knocked ; no 
 one answered. I opened the door ; all was 
 dark. I paused — held my breath — listened 
 — fancied I could distinguish a low sound, 
 as of some one breathing. I knocked again. 
 My second knock was followed by a quick 
 noise, like the pushing back of a chair, and a 
 man's voice said, hoarsely : — 
 
 *^Who is there?" 
 
 '^ A traveller," I replied, '^ seeking shelter 
 for the night." 
 
 A heavy footstep crossed the floor, a sharp 
 flash shot through the darkness, and I saw, by 
 the flickering tinder, a man's face bending 
 over a lantern. Having lighted it, he said, 
 with scarce a glance towards the door, *' Enter,
 
 THE TROFESSORS STORY. 123 
 
 traveller," and went back to his stool beside 
 the enipty hearth. 
 
 I entered. The chalet was of a better sort 
 than those usually found at so great an alti- 
 tude, consisting of a dairy and houseplace, 
 with a loft overhead. A table and three or 
 four wooden stools occupied the centre of the 
 room. The rafters were hung with bunches 
 of dried herbs, and long strings of Indian 
 corn. A clock ticked in a corner ; a kind of 
 rude pallet upon trestles stood in a recess 
 beside the fireplace ; and through a lattice 
 at the further end, I could hear the cows feed- 
 ing in the outhouse beyond. 
 
 Somewhat perplexed by the manner of my 
 reception, I unstrapped my knapsack and 
 specimen-box, took possession of the nearest 
 stool, and asked if I could have supper ? 
 
 My host looked up, with the air of a man 
 intent on other things. I repeated the inquiry. 
 
 "Yes," he said, wearily; "you can eat, 
 traveller."
 
 124 MISS CAREW. 
 
 With this, he crossed to the other side of 
 the hearth, stooped over a dark object, which 
 until now I had not observed, crouched in the 
 corner, and muttered a word or two of un- 
 intelligible patois. The object moaned ; 
 lifted up a white bewildered woman's face ; 
 and rose slowly from the floor. The herdsman 
 pointed to the table, and went back to his 
 stool and his former attitude. The woman, 
 after pausing helplessly, as if in the effort to 
 remember something, went out into the dairy, 
 came back with a brown loaf and a pan of 
 milk, and set them before me on the table. 
 
 As long as I live I shall never forget the 
 expression of that woman's face. She was 
 youngj and very pretty ; but her beauty 
 seemed turned to stone. Every feature bore 
 the seal of an unspeakable terror. Every 
 gesture was mechanical. In the lines that 
 furrowed her brow there was a haggardness 
 more terrible than the haggardness of age. 
 In the locking of her lips there was an anguish
 
 THE professor's STORY. 125 
 
 beyond the utterance of words. Though she 
 served me, I do not think she saw me. There 
 was no recognition in her eyes ; no apparent 
 consciousness of any object or circumstance 
 external to the secret of her own despair. All 
 this I noticed during the few brief moments 
 in which she brought me my supper. That 
 done, she crept aAvay, abjectly, into the same 
 dark corner, and sank down again, a mere 
 huddled heap of clothing. 
 
 As for her husband, there was something 
 unnatural in the singular immobility of his 
 attitude. There he sat, his body bent for- 
 ward, his chin resting on his palms, his eyes 
 staring fixedly at the blackened hearth, and 
 not even the involuntary quiver of a nerve to 
 show that he lived and breathed. I could 
 not determine his age, analyse and observe 
 his features as I might. He looked old 
 enough to be fifty, and young enough to 
 be forty ; and was a fine muscular moun- 
 taineer, with that grave cast of countenance
 
 126 MISS CAREW. 
 
 which is peculiar to the Yalaisan peasant. 
 
 I could not eat. The keenness of my moun- 
 tain appetite was gone. I sat, as if fasci- 
 nated, in the presence of this strange pair ; 
 observing both, and, apparently, by both as 
 much forgotten as if I had never crossed their 
 threshold. We remained thus, by the dim 
 light of the lantern, and the monotonous tick- 
 ing of the clock, for some forty minutes or 
 more : all profoundly silent. Sometimes the 
 woman stirred, as if in pain ; sometimes the 
 cows struck their horns against the manger in 
 the outhouse. The herdsman alone sat 
 motionless, like a man cast in bronze. At 
 length the clock struck nine. I had by this 
 time become so nervous that I almost dreaded 
 to hear my own voice interrupt the silence. 
 However, I pushed my plate noisily aside, 
 and said, with as much show of ease as I 
 could muster : — 
 
 *^ Have you any place, friend, in which I 
 can sleep to-night ?'^
 
 THE professor's STORY. 127 
 
 He shifted his position uneasily, and, with- 
 out looking round, replied in the same form 
 of words as before : 
 
 ^^ Yes ; you can sleep, traveller." 
 
 ^MYhere? In the loft above?" 
 
 He nodded affirmatively, took the lantern 
 from the table, and turned towards the dairy. 
 As we passed, the light streamed for a 
 moment over the crouching figure in the 
 corner. 
 
 ^' Is your wife ill ?" I asked, pausing and 
 looking back. 
 
 His eyes met mine for the first time, and a 
 .shudder passed over his body. 
 
 '•'Yes," he said, with an effort. ^^ She is 
 ill." 
 
 I was about to ask what ailed her, but 
 something in his face arrested the question on 
 my lips. I know not, to this hour, what that 
 something was. I could not define it then ; 
 I cannot describe it now ; but I hope I may 
 never see it in a living face again.
 
 128 MISS CAREW. 
 
 I followed him to the foot of a ladder at the 
 further end of the dairy. 
 
 " Up there," he said ; placed the lantern in 
 my hand ; and strode heavily back into the 
 darkness. 
 
 I went up, and found myself in a long low 
 granary, stored with corn-sacks, hay, onions, 
 rock-salt, cheeses, and farming implements. 
 In one corner were the unusual luxuries 
 of a mattress, a rug, and a three-legged stool. 
 My first care was to make a systematic in- 
 spection of the loft and all that it contained ; my 
 next, to open a little unglazed lattice with a 
 sliding shutter, just opposite my bed. The 
 night was brilliant, and a stream of fresh air 
 and moonlight poured in. Oppressed by a 
 strange undefined sense of trouble, I extin- 
 guished the lantern, and stood looking out upon 
 the solemn peaks and glaciers. Their solitude 
 seemed to me more than usually awful ; their 
 silence more than usually profound. I could 
 not help associating them, in some vague way.
 
 THE PEOFESSORS STORY. 129 
 
 with the mystery in the house. I perplexed 
 myself with all kinds of wild conjectures as to 
 what the nature of that mystery might be. 
 The woman's face haunted me like an evil 
 dream. Again and again, I went from the 
 lattice to the ladder, and from the ladder back 
 to the lattice, vainly listening for any sound 
 in the rooms below. A long time went by 
 thus, until at length, overpowered by the 
 fatigues of the day, I stretched myself on the 
 mattress, took my knapsack for a pillow, and 
 fell fast asleep. 
 
 I can guess neither how long my sleep 
 lasted, nor from Avhat cause I awoke. I only 
 know that my sleep was dreamless and pro- 
 found ; and that I started from it suddenly, 
 unaccountably, trembling in every nerve, 
 and possessed by an overwhelming sense of 
 danger. 
 
 Danger ! Danger of what kind ? From 
 whom ? From whence ? I looked round — I 
 was alone, and the quiet moon was shining in 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 MISS CAREW. 
 
 as serenely as when I fell asleep. I listened 
 — all was as still as when I fell asleep. I got 
 up, walked to and fro, reasoned with myself ; 
 but all in vain. I could not stay the beatings of 
 my heart. I could not master the horror that 
 oppressed my brain. I felt that I dared not 
 lie down again ; that I must get out of the 
 house somehow, and at once ; that to stay 
 would be death ; that the instinct by which I 
 was governed must at all costs be obeyed. 
 
 I could not bear it. Eesolved to escape, 
 or, at all events, to sell life dearly, I strapped 
 on my knapsack, armed myself with my iron- 
 headed Alpenstock, took my large clasp knife 
 between my teeth, and began, cautiously and 
 noiselessly, to descend the ladder. When I 
 was about half-way down, the Alpenstock, 
 which I had been keeping studiously clear of 
 the ladder, encountered some dairy vessel, and 
 sent it, clattering, to the ground. Caution, 
 after this, was useless. I sprang forward, 
 reached the outer room at a bound, and found
 
 THE professor's STORY. 131 
 
 it, to my amazement, deserted, with the door 
 wide open and the moonlight streaming in. 
 Suspecting a trap, my first impulse was to 
 stand still, with my back against the wall, 
 prepared for a desperate defence. All was 
 silent. I could only hear the ticking of the 
 clock, and the heavy beating of my own 
 heart. The pallet was empty. The bread 
 and milk were still standing where I had left 
 them on the table. The herdsman's stool 
 occupied the same spot by the desolate hearth. 
 But he and his wife were gone — gone in the 
 dead of night — leaving me, a stranger, in the 
 sole occupation of their home ! 
 
 While I was yet irresolute whether to go 
 or stay, and while I was yet wondering at the 
 strangeness of my position, I heard, or fancied 
 I heard, something — something that might 
 have been the wind, save that there was no 
 air stirring — something that might have been 
 the wailing of a human voice. I held my 
 breath — heard it again — followed it as it died 
 
 k2
 
 132 MISS CAREW. 
 
 away. ... I had not far to go. A line of 
 light gleaming under the door of a shed at the 
 back of the chalet, and a cry bitterer and 
 more piercing than any I had yet heard, 
 guided me direct to the spot. 
 
 I looked in — recoiled, giddy with horror — 
 went back, as if fascinated ; and so stood for 
 some moments, unable to move, to think, to 
 do anything but stare helplessly upon the 
 scene before me. To this day, I cannot recall 
 it without something of the same sickening 
 sensation. 
 
 Inside that hut, by the light of a pine-torch 
 thrust into an iron sconce against the wall, I 
 saw the herdsman kneeling by the body of his 
 wife ; grieving over her like another Othello ; 
 kissing her white lips, wiping blood-stains 
 from her yellow hair, raving out inarticulate 
 cries of passionate remorse, and calling down 
 all the curses of Heaven upon his own head, 
 and the head of some other man whohad brought 
 this crime upon him ! I understood it all
 
 THE professor's STORY. 133 
 
 now — all the mystery, all the terror, all the 
 despair. She had sinned against him, and he 
 had slain her. She was quite dead. The 
 very knife, with its hideous testimony fresh 
 upon the blade, lay near the door. 
 
 I turned and fled — blindly, wildly, like a 
 man with bloodhounds on his track ; now 
 stumbling over stones ; now torn by briars ; 
 now pausing a moment to take breath ; now 
 rushing forward faster than before ; now 
 battling up-hill wdth straining lungs and 
 trembling limbs ; now staggering across a 
 level space ; now making for the higher 
 ground again, and casting never a glance be- 
 hind ! At length I reached a bare plateau 
 above the line of vegetation, where I dropped 
 exhausted. Here I lay for a long time, 
 beaten and stupefied, until the intense 
 cold of approaching dawn forced upon me 
 the necessity of action. I rose, and looked 
 round on a scene no feature of which was fa- 
 miliar to me. The very snow-peaks, though
 
 134 MISS CAREW. 
 
 I knew they must be the same, looked unlike 
 the peaks of yesterday. The very glaciers, 
 seen from a different point of view, assumed 
 new forms, as if on purpose to baffle me. Thus 
 perplexed, I had no resource but to climb the 
 nearest height from which it was probable that 
 a general view might be obtained. I did so, 
 just as the last belt of purple mist turned 
 golden in the east, and the sun rose. 
 
 A superb panorama lay stretched before me, 
 peak beyond peak, glacier beyond glacier, 
 valley and pine forest and pasture slope, all 
 flushed and palpitating in the crimson vapours 
 of the dawn. Here and there I could trace 
 the foam of a waterfall, or the silver thread of 
 a torrent ; here and there the canopy of faint 
 blue smoke that wavered upward from some 
 hamlet among the hills. Suddenly my eyes 
 fell upon a little lake — a sullen pool — lying 
 in the shade of an amphitheatre of rocks some 
 eight hundred feet below. Until that mo- 
 ment the night and its terrors appeared to
 
 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 135 
 
 have passed away like a wicked vision ; but 
 now the very sky seemed darkened above me. 
 Yes — there it all lay at my feet. Yonder was 
 the path by which I had descended from the 
 plateau, and, lower still, the accursed chalet, 
 with its background of rugged cliff and over 
 hanging precipice. Well might they lie in 
 shadow I Well might the sunlight refuse to 
 touch the ripples of that lake with gold, and 
 to light up the windows of that house with an 
 illumination direct from heaven ! 
 
 Thus standing, thus looking down, I became 
 aware of a strange sound — a sound singularly 
 distinct, but far away — a sound sharper and 
 hollower than the fall of an avalanche, and 
 unlike anything that I remembered to have 
 heard. While I was yet asking myself what 
 it could be, or whence it came, I saw a consi- 
 derable fragment of rock detach itself from one 
 of the heights overhanging the lake, bound 
 rapidly from ledge to ledge, and fall, with a 
 heavy plash, into the water below. It was
 
 136 MISS CAREW. 
 
 followed by a cloud of dust, and a prolonged 
 reverberation, like the rolling of distant thun- 
 der. Next moment, a dark fissure sprang into 
 sight all down the face of the precipice — the 
 fissure became a chasm — the whole cliff 
 wavered before my eyes — wavered, parted, 
 sent up a cataract of earth and stones — and 
 slid slowly down — down — down into the val- 
 ley. 
 
 Deafened by the crash, and blinded by the 
 dust, I covered my face with my hands, and 
 anticipated instant destruction. The echoes, 
 however, died away, and were succeeded by a 
 solemn silence. The plateau on which I stood 
 remained firm and unshaken. I looked up. 
 The sun was shining as serenely, the landscape 
 sleeping as peacefully as before. Nothing was 
 changed, save that a wide white scar now de- 
 faced all one side of the great limestone basin 
 below, and a ghastly mound of ruin filled the 
 valley at its foot. Beneath that mound lay 
 buried all record of the crime to which I had
 
 THE professor's STORY. 137 
 
 been an unwilling witness. The very moun- 
 tains had come down and covered it — nature 
 had obliterated it from the face of the Alpine 
 solitude. Lake and chalet, victim and execu- 
 tioner, had disappeared for ever, and the place 
 thereof knew them no more.
 
 138 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 
 
 Oh, Doricles! your praises are too large. 
 
 Winter's Tale. 
 
 T AM a conscientious traveller, and I believe 
 in Mr. Murray. I visit all the churches, 
 climb all the mountains, admire all the pictures 
 and put up at all the inns which he recom- 
 mends to my notice. When he predicts that 
 " the traveller will behold with a shudder the 
 boiling torrent which plunges beneath his feet 
 to a depth of, &c. &c.,'' I peep over the preci- 
 pice and shudder accordingly. When he 
 kindly observes that " the traveller will here 
 leave the carriage, and, by ascending the bank
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 139 
 
 at the bend of the road, be delighted with a 
 most extensive and beautiful prospect," I get 
 out, and am delighted on the spot. In short, 
 Mr. Murray tells me what is proper to be 
 done, and I do it ; which saves a great deal of 
 trouble, and secures me against anything like 
 misplaced enthusiasm. 
 
 There was also a time when I believed in 
 Mr. Bradshaw, and pinned my faith upon the 
 " Continental Railway Guide ;" but that dream 
 is over. Faithless Bradshaw ! an impartial 
 public shall decide our grievance. 
 
 It was between four and six years ago. I 
 had been all about the Pyrenees, and a little 
 way into Spain, and was now jogging home- 
 ward by easy stages through the north of 
 France. Travelling alternately by rail and 
 diligence, and occasionally settling down in 
 some large town for the sake of exploring the 
 neighbourhood, I came one day to the city of 
 Abbeville, and took up my quarters at the 
 hotel Tete de Bceuf.
 
 140 MISS CAREW. 
 
 " Mine inn " was spacious and gloomy ; my 
 bed-room spacious and gloomy ; my bed a 
 catafalque with dusty amber satin hangings. 
 There were faded frescoes on all the walls. 
 There was a smell of damp earth in all the 
 passages. Everything was dismal. Every- 
 thing was decaying. The very waiter looked 
 grey and mouldy, as if he had been laid aside 
 somewhere and forgotten, till the moment of 
 my arrival. 
 
 I sat down amid my luggage, and sighed. 
 The waiter sighed likewise. 
 
 "Anything to be seen in this town?" I 
 asked, despondingly. 
 
 The waiter stroked his chin, and eyed me 
 contemplatively. 
 
 " The Cathedral, M'sieur." 
 
 *^ Nothing but the Cathedral ?" 
 
 '' The city, M'sieur.'' 
 
 " Oh !" said I, " the Cathedral and the city. 
 Anything else T^ 
 
 He coughed, dusted a chair, and affected
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 141 
 
 not to hear. I always know what that sort 
 of deafness means. I am a traveller, and 
 used to it. There was a long pause. 
 
 '^ When can I dine ?" I inquired at last. 
 
 " Table-d'hote at six, M'sieur," sighed the 
 waiter. 
 
 I glanced at my watch, and found that it 
 wanted ten minutes to four. 
 
 ''Very well," said I, resignedly. "I will 
 stroll about till six." 
 
 Whereupon my melancholy friend bowed 
 me downstairs, and into the courtyard. 
 
 A few steps brought me to the Cathedral. 
 It w^as grey and shadowy, and vast, and quite 
 bare of decorations. There w^as a triangular 
 stand of votive tapers flickering and gutter- 
 ing in one corner, and a very old peasant 
 woman on her knees before the altar. I sat 
 down on a stone bench, and fell into a musing 
 contemplation of the stained glass oriel, and 
 the long perspective of the pillared aisles. 
 Presently the verger came out of the vestry-
 
 142 MISS CAREW. 
 
 room. He was a short, plump, inquisitive- 
 looking man, with a loose black gown, and 
 slender black legs, and a pointed nose. He 
 laid his head on one side, looked at me with 
 one glittering eye, and picked his way daintily 
 across the church towards where I was sitting. 
 Altogether he was very like a raven. 
 
 " Bonjour, Monsieur," said he, with fluent 
 politeness, and just the sort of croaking voice 
 that suited his general appearance. ^' Mon- 
 sieur is a stranger. Monsieur admires the 
 Cathedral. Bien ! Monsieur has discernment, 
 and the Cathedral is superb. We have 
 nothing finer in France, Monsieur. Our 
 tracery is unique ; our nave is admirable ; 
 our stained glass is of the first quality, and 
 upwards of six centuries old. Before the 
 high altar of this Cathedral, Monsieur, our 
 good King Louis XII., surnamed the father 
 of his people, married Madame la Princesse 
 Mary of England." 
 
 '^Yes, and died of gaiety and late hours in
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 143 
 
 less than half-a-year," said I. ^'A pretty 
 lesson to old gentlemen of seventy-three who 
 marry young ladies of nineteen !" 
 
 '' Plait-ilT' croaked the verger, greatly 
 puzzled ; for this part of the story was not 
 included in his lesson. 
 
 ^^ And have you nothing to show ?" I 
 asked. ^' No remarkable tombs ? — no pic- 
 tures ? — no statues ?" 
 
 The verger fixed a knowing eye upon me, 
 and looked more bird-like than ever. 
 
 " The treasury, Monsieur ; the episcopal 
 jewels ; the relics, the inestimable relics ! The 
 great toe of Saint Celestine of Cressy, and 
 the tongs with which St. Dunstan took the 
 devil by the nose. Tickets at two francs 
 each." 
 
 '' Lead the way," said I, pulling out my 
 two francs : *'lead the way, and hand over 
 the ticket. Let us see the inestimable relics!" 
 
 But instead of leading the way, he drew 
 back, and hesitated.
 
 144 MISS CAREW. 
 
 '^Unfortunately/' said lie, '^ the treasury 
 cannot be shown to fewer than five persons. 
 If Monsieur has friends in Abbeville, or if 
 Monsieur has no objection to pay for the five 
 tickets '' 
 
 '' Pay for five tickets, indeed !" I echoed, 
 indignantly. '^ Ten francs for St. Dunstan's 
 tongs, and St. Somebody's toe ! I would not 
 buy them at the price !'' 
 
 The verger shrugged his shoulders, and 
 considered. 
 
 '^ There were two pious pilgrims here this 
 morning," he said, *'both devoutly desirous 
 of admission. They will return to-morrow ; 
 and, if Monsieur will leave me his address, 
 it is possible that we may be enabled, 
 between this and then, to make up the 
 party." 
 
 I scribbled the name of my hotel on the 
 back of my card, left it in his keeping, and 
 wandered out again into the streets. 
 
 I cannot say that I was delighted with
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 145 
 
 Abbeville. Mr. Murray did not insist that 
 I should be, and I had left Mr. Bradshaw 
 locked up in my portmanteau. The squares 
 were grass-grown, the canals were foul and 
 weedy, the public buildings were dirty and 
 dilapidated, and the houses all looked as if 
 they had turned their backs to the streets. 
 It may be gloriously picturesque, and I have 
 no doubt that it was a charming town in the 
 estimation of Samuel Prout, Esquire ; but, 
 for my own part, I am not enthusiastic about 
 gutters and gables, and object to a population 
 composed exclusively of old women. 
 
 I foimd myself at six o'clock in a desert of 
 dining-room with an oasis of table. I was 
 the only guest. It was a dismal meal ; the 
 mouldy waiter attended upon me ; and I had 
 bad dreams in the catafalque all night long. 
 
 While I was breakfasting the next morn- 
 ing, I received a message from my friend tlie 
 verger. Another traveller had turned up ; 
 the pilgrims were still anxious for a sight of 
 
 VOL. I. h
 
 146 MISS CAREW. 
 
 the relics ; and the authorities consented for 
 once to open the treasury-doors in favour of 
 four. 
 
 Punctual as 1 was to the time appointed, 
 the pilgrims were there before me — a pair of 
 stalwart, broad-shouldered, barefooted Capu- 
 chins, odorous of garlic and cognac. One 
 had a patch across his eye ; the other was 
 lame, and wore a bandage round his ankle. 
 Both kept their hoods well over their faces, 
 and neither was exactly the sort of mendicant 
 that one would prefer to meet towards dusk 
 upon a lonely road among the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 The fourth traveller had not yet arrived ; 
 so I returned to the stone seat of yesterday, 
 and the Capuchins paced up and down before 
 the treasury door, conversing in whispers. 
 Thus five — ten — fifteen minutes went by, and 
 the chimes jangled at the quarter. 
 
 The pilgrims, who had been glancing up 
 at the clock every half-dozen seconds or so
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 147 
 
 all the time, now grew more and more im- 
 patient. 
 
 '^ Ce diable de voyageur ! will he never 
 come ?*' was the overloud and somewhat 
 irreverent exclamation of the monk with the 
 patch. 
 
 His companion shrugged his shoulders, 
 glanced hurriedly in my direction, and mut- 
 tered some inaudible reply. 
 
 I rose, and Avent towards them. 
 
 '' I fear," said I, '' that we shall all be 
 disappointed this morning ; for the treasury 
 cannot be seen after midday, and it now wants 
 but twenty minutes to the hour. 
 
 The pilgrims groaned, and wagged their 
 heads simultaneously. 
 
 " We are poor servants of the church," said 
 the former speaker, crossing himself with 
 great humility. " We are making a pil- 
 grimage to all the ohjets saints of the depart- 
 ment. It is a great delay to us. Monsieur — a 
 melancholy delay !" 
 
 l2
 
 148 MISS CAREW. 
 
 '' And a spiritual privation, Brother Am- 
 broise," added the other, with a profound 
 sigh. 
 
 "Ay, a spiritual privation, indeed," echoed 
 Brother Ambroise. "Holy things are meat 
 and drink to miserable sinners such as 
 we/' 
 
 I murmured a civil assent ; but could not 
 help thinking in my own mind that such 
 bulky saints could scarcely be indifferent to 
 meats and drinks of a merely temporal na- 
 ture. 
 
 " Have you been long on this pilgrimage ?" 
 I asked, not knowing what next to say. 
 
 " Twenty days. Monsieur," replied Brother 
 Ambroise. " Twenty days, during which we 
 have journeyed upon foot, and entirely de- 
 pended upon the alms of the charitably dis- 
 posed." 
 
 This was a broad hint ; but I determined 
 not to observe it. 
 
 " Twenty days is a long time," said I.
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 149 
 
 *' You must have visited a great many towns, 
 and seen a great many churches, in the course 
 of your journey." 
 
 '^ Oh, a great many — thanks to the holy 
 saints ! a great many," replied the Capuchins, 
 wagging their heads together as before. 
 
 ^' You have been to Amiens, of course ?" 
 
 They looked at each other, and hesitated. 
 
 '• Ye — yes, we have been to Amiens," said 
 Brother Ambroise, with another glance at the 
 clock. '^ And we are on our w^ay to — to — " 
 
 " Boulogne," interposed his companion, 
 promptly. 
 
 " Exactly so. Brother Paul. To Boulogne 
 — Ah ! les void /" 
 
 His quick ear had caught the echo of ap- 
 proaching footsteps, and there, sure enough, 
 came the verger, picking his steps up the 
 centre aisle, followed by a slim young gentle- 
 man, with fair hair, blue glasses, a note-book, 
 and an umbrella. 
 
 The former carried a huge bunch of keys.
 
 150 MISS CAREW. 
 
 and proceeded pompously to unlock the 
 treasury door : the latter, who had been the 
 cause of the delay, began murmuring a torrent 
 of explanations and apologies, to which nobody 
 listened. The chimes jangled another quarter 
 — the last bolt was drawn — and in another 
 moment we found ourselves standing in the 
 midst of a large, ill-lighted apartment, sur- 
 rounded by presses and glass cases, and deco- 
 rated with a huge black crucifix at the farther 
 end. 
 
 ^' Messieurs — reverend pilgrims," croaked 
 the raven, unlocking press number one, and 
 beginning with a bow to his audience, ^^you 
 here see the breviary used by His Majesty 
 King Charles X.^ when he visited our Cathe- 
 dral in the year 1827, and the cushion pressed 
 by His Majesty's royal knees. Also an em- 
 broidered glove worn by His Majesty during 
 the service, and found near His Majesty's 
 chair, after His Majesty and His Majesty's 
 royal suite had left the church."
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 151 
 
 " Up — p — pon my word, that's very curi- 
 ous !" ejaculated the slim tourist, who had an 
 impediment in his speech, and was already at 
 work upon the note-book. " I must p — p — 
 put that down. What year did you say — 
 1527?" 
 
 But the raven jingled his keys with digni- 
 fied indifierence, and stalked on to press 
 number two : whereupon 1527 went down as 
 the date of an interesting historical anecdote 
 of the middle ages. 
 
 " You now behold," continued he, with a 
 wave of the hand, "the reliquary of St. 
 Celestine de Cressy. This valuable shrine 
 was presented to us in the year 1630, by 
 Monseigneur le Cardinal Richelieu. It is of 
 silver gilt, enriched with precious stones ; and 
 measures one foot and a half in length, by 
 eight inches in height. I open the lid, and 
 the object which you perceive enclosed in a 
 small glass box is the most sacred toe of the 
 saint and martyr before-mentioned."
 
 152 MISS CAREW. 
 
 " And what do you suppose it's worth ?" 
 asked Brother Ambroise, bending eagerly for- 
 ward. 
 
 " Worth !" croaked the verger, indignantly. 
 '^ Worth, indeed ! Why, 'tis inestimable ! 
 Saint Celestine had but one leg at the period 
 of her martyrdom ; and that great toe, permit 
 me to tell you, is nothing less than unique !" 
 
 '' G — g — good gracious !" exclaimed the 
 tourist, scribbling away as fast as his pencil 
 would carry him. " A saint with one leg, 
 and a ladv, too ! Wouldn't m — m — m — 
 miss that for the world !" 
 
 Press number three was now thrown open, 
 and discovered some four or five shelves, 
 adorned with rich cups, vases, censers, and 
 sacramental vessels. The pilgrims exchanged 
 glances of admiration ; the tourist began a 
 fresh page ; and the raven flourished his keys 
 more consequentially than ever. 
 
 '' A cup of rock crystal, with gold cover, 
 supposed to be engraved by Benvenuto Cel^
 
 BR ADS HAW THE BETRAYER. 153 
 
 lini ; a statue of St. Barnabas, in solid silver, 
 five inches and a half in height; a very ancient 
 crozier-head, silver gilt ; a patera, of antique 
 Byzantine workmanship, enamelled, and of 
 great value. We were offered seven thou- 
 sand francs for this beautiful work of art, 
 not many years since, but declined to part 
 with it." 
 
 The one eye of Brother Ambroise glittered 
 with pious fervour. 
 
 ^' Oh, Brother Paul," said he, emphatically, 
 " is not this a consoling sight? Ought we 
 not to rejoice in the riches of our beloved 
 Church r 
 
 Whereupon Brother Paul cast an enthusi- 
 astic glance at the ceiling, struck himself on 
 the breast with both his fists, and said, — 
 
 "Ay, indeed, Brother Ambroise; but should 
 we not at the same time be thankful that these 
 tilings possess no attraction for us? Is it not 
 the glory of our order that we love poverty 
 better than riches, fasting better than feasting,
 
 154 MISS CAREW. 
 
 and wooden platters better than all the gold 
 and silver vessels in the world ?" 
 
 ^' Verily we do !'' responded Brother Am- 
 broise with a groan of humble satisfaction. 
 "Verily we do!" 
 
 Here the verger, who had been listening 
 with his head on one side, drew a deep sigh of 
 admiration, and with especial ceremony un- 
 locked press number four. 
 
 " You are now about to see the greatest 
 treasure that we possess,'* said he ; " the 
 crowning glory of our collection. Messieurs — 
 the pride of Abbeville — the envy and delight 
 of surrounding districts !'' 
 
 The Capuchins uttered a simultaneous 
 "Ah !" and pressed to the front. The raven 
 flung open the doors, pointed to a shapeless 
 fragment of rusty iron reposing on a crimson 
 velvet cushion, fell into an attitude, and in a 
 tone of modest triumph announced — 
 
 "The tongs with which St. Dunstan took 
 the devil by the nose !"
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 155 
 
 The pilgrims drew back in silence. It 
 might be my profane fancy ; but they cer- 
 tainly looked disappointed. Not so the 
 energetic tourist. He protested that the 
 thing was ^^ m — m — marvellous !" and en- 
 treated five minutes delay, to make a sketch of 
 the interesting object. 
 
 The verger consented, a chair was brought, 
 and the artist began. 
 
 *^ If I had but a piece of India-rubber and 
 a d — d — double B !" sighed he. 
 
 " I think," observed Brother Paul with 
 great alacrity, " that the gentleman should 
 have more light! AYould it not be possible, 
 my son, to draw that blind higher ?'' 
 
 The verger, thus paternally addressed, de- 
 posited his keys on the table, muttered some- 
 thing about '^notions," mounted a little set of 
 library steps, and complied. At that instant 
 Brother Paul was seized with a violent fit of 
 coughing, and Brother Ambroise, passing be- 
 side the table, took the keys up carelessly in 
 bis hand.
 
 156 MISS CAREW. 
 
 The blind was obstinate, and, instead of 
 going up, came down with a run. When it 
 was at last arranged, the Cathedral bell was 
 ringing for service, and long before the tourist 
 -had shaded his sketch to his own satisfaction, 
 the verger declared that we could stay no 
 longer. 
 
 "Let us return thanks to our patron saint, 
 Brother Ambroise !" ejaculated the lame pil- 
 grim ; '* for our replenishment of spirit has 
 been great." 
 
 Whereupon Brother Ambroise devoutly 
 kissed and returned the keys, and gave the 
 verger his blessing. 
 
 It was a cheap donation, and neither my 
 stammering countryman nor I got off so easily. 
 The people were assembling for mass as we 
 went out. The Capuchins went one way — 
 the stranger and I another. He was all ad- 
 miration of what he had seen, what he had 
 not seen, and what he was going to see. 
 
 '' B — b — beautiful country !" said he.
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 157 
 
 " B — b — beautiful churches — interesting na- 
 tion ! I'm going to P — P — Paris to-morrow/' 
 
 '* Ah," said I with a yawn — " you'll be 
 delighted with Paris." 
 
 ^^ I know I shall," replied he. ^' I'm going 
 to write a b — b — book about it. Good morn- 
 ing!" 
 
 "Good morning," said I, and returned to 
 mine inn to breakfast. 
 
 Sitting over that desolate meal, I asked 
 myself what was next to be done ? Abbeville 
 was " used up." I had seen the Cathedral, 
 and I had seen the town, and even Mr. Murray 
 confessed that the tourist could do no more. 
 I had also an objection to pass another night 
 in the catafalque. To go I had determined ; 
 but the question was — where ? In this emer- 
 gency I recollected that I had not yet con- 
 sulted Mr. Bradshaw, so I sought out the 
 "Continental Railway Guide" from the sub- 
 strata of my portmanteau, turned to page 185, 
 and read as follows : —
 
 158 MISS CAREW. 
 
 ^* Abbeville. — A fortified town, containing 
 about 18000 inhabitants, situated on the river 
 Somme, twelve miles from the beautiful and 
 picturesque town of St. Valery-sur-Somme.'' 
 
 ^^ The beautiful and picturesque town of 
 St. Yalery-sur-Somme !" I repeated, aloud. 
 " Why, ^tis the very thing ! Blessed be the 
 name of Bradshaw — I'll go this afternoon ! 
 Waiter — Kellner — garqon! What conveyances 
 are there to St. Yalery-sur-Somme ?" 
 
 ^^To St. Valery?" repeated the waiter, 
 regarding me with an air of melancholy sur- 
 prise. " Monsieur is going to St. Yalery ?" 
 
 I nodded impatiently. 
 
 ^^ Monsieur has friends at St. Yalery?" 
 
 '' Friends ! not I." 
 
 ** Business, perhaps ?" 
 
 ^^ No — nor business either. I'm going for 
 pleasure — to see the place. How does that 
 concern you, pray ?" 
 
 The waiter shrugged his shoulders apolo- 
 getically.
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 159 
 
 ** Je vous demande i)ardon^ M^sieur. I — I 
 but inquired. There is nothing to see at St. 
 Valery, M'sieur. Nothing whatever. But 
 M'sieur is the best judge." 
 
 I cast an affectionate e^^e at the ''Continental 
 Eailway Guide," page 185. 
 
 " Nothing to see, indeed !" said I, with 
 quiet triumph. "" There are the beauties of 
 nature — there is a picturesque old town — 
 there is exquisite sketching. Bah ! I should 
 not wonder if I stayed there till the end of the 
 month !" 
 
 The waiter looked down incredulously, and 
 the dismallest ghost of a smile flitted across 
 his countenance. It was evident that he had 
 no soul for the picturesque ! 
 
 " As Monsieur pleases/' said he, submis- 
 sively. '' Monsieur was enquiring ..." 
 
 "About the conveyances ! Well?" 
 
 '^ Well, Monsieur, there is a passage-boat 
 daily, by the river. That goes at mid-day.
 
 160 MISS CAREW. 
 
 There is also a cabriolet de poste. That goes 
 at ten o'clock every morning." 
 
 " And there is nothing going this after- 
 noon ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; unless Monsieur chooses a 
 voiture particuliere. We have an excellent 
 travelling carriage at Monsieur's disposal." 
 
 Having, however, no fancy for a trip en 
 grand seigneur, I decided to wait till to- 
 morrow ; and so went out to inquire into the 
 comparative merits of the passage-boat and 
 the cabriolet. 
 
 There was something very refreshing in the 
 idea of a water journey. 
 
 I recalled all my joyous boatings up the 
 Medway and the Thames ; my adventures on 
 the Rhine and the Moselle ; my feats and 
 failures on the Cam in college days long since 
 gone by ; and thus pleasantly running over 
 my ^^ rambles by rivers," made my way to- 
 wards that part of the Somme called the Rive 
 des Bateaux.
 
 BRADSH\W THE BETRAYER. 161 
 
 It was a dismal spot just within the fortifi- 
 cations. To the left lay the city; to the 
 right, high embankments, a drawbridge, a 
 stretch of flat country, and a long perspective 
 of canal-like river bordered by files of mono- 
 tonous poplars. The first object that met 
 my eyes was the passage-boat moored up 
 beside a tiny wooden landing-place. It was 
 a heavy, square-built, green and yellow boat, 
 with a dirty little pavilion at the poop. The 
 interior of this pavilion was furnished with 
 benches, and lit by a row of little windows 
 all the way round. On a shelf of deck near 
 the prow sat some three or four grimy men, 
 cooking their dinner over a brazier ; and be- 
 tween this shelf and the pavilion the boat was 
 laden with wood, hay, charcoal, and market 
 produce. Altogether it was by no means an 
 inviting conveyance, and looked more like a 
 coal barge with a shabby omnibus on deck 
 than anything else that I can think 
 of. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 MISS CAREW. 
 
 While I was yet observing these things, a 
 fat official, with a gold band to his cap, rolled 
 lazily out of a little red bureau attached to 
 the quay, and hung out a tariff of the tolls 
 and rates of conveyance. 
 
 " Pray when does this boat leave," I 
 asked; '^ and how long does it take to go from 
 here to St. Yalery?" 
 
 The fat official brought a huge cigar out of 
 liis pocket, stabbed it deliberately with a pin 
 in two places, and stuck it in his mouth before 
 replying. 
 
 ^' Starts at midday ^r^m," said he. ^^ Ar- 
 rives between six and seven." 
 
 ''Six hours to travel twelve miles!" I 
 exclaimed. '^ Surely there must be some 
 mistake!" 
 
 '' Fourteen miles by the river," replied he, 
 phlegmatically. "Nine stations." 
 
 " And the fare ?" 
 
 " Pavilion, seven francs : deck, four." 
 
 I hesitated, looked again at the boat, and
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 163 
 
 thought it uglier and more uncomfortable 
 than before. 
 
 *' And is the scenery interesting?" I in- 
 quired, presently. 
 
 '' Pkut-ilT' said the fat official, looking 
 somewhat puzzled. 
 
 ^^The — the riyer, you know! Is it pretty? 
 Is there anything to see?" 
 
 He sucked silently at his cigar, turned a 
 fishy eye upon me, stared languidly up the 
 stream and down the stream, and finally 
 pointed with his thumb towards the perspec- 
 tiye of poplars. 
 
 " C'est hien,^^ said he, with placid satisfac- 
 tion; " c^est tres Men, cette riviere-ci. It is 
 just like this all the way." 
 
 "Just like this all the way!" I repeated, 
 drawing a deep breath. "/?2-deed! Then I 
 wish you a yery good day." 
 
 The official touched his cap with one finger, 
 and closed his eyes, which was the nearest 
 approach to a bow that he could take the 
 
 M 2
 
 164 MISS CAREW. 
 
 trouble to make. Whereupon we parted — 
 that is to say, he remained where he was, and 
 I strode indignantly away. 
 
 ^' I will go by the cabriolet de poste,'' I 
 muttered to myself as I went along. ^^ I 
 shall go early, and I shall go quickly, and I 
 dare say the road is delightful!" 
 
 The Bureau des Messageries was just op- 
 posite my hotel, and the office was occupied 
 by a very pretty young girl, a cat, and a 
 canary. I took ofi my hat, and was greeted 
 with a smile and a curtsey. 
 
 '' Will Mademoiselle be so kind as to in- 
 form me of the earliest departure for St. 
 Valery?" I asked, with my best French air 
 and accent. 
 
 "The cabriolet leaves at ten to-morrow 
 morning, and the fare is eleven francs," 
 replied the young lady, with great politeness. 
 
 1 laid the money on the table. She 
 entered my name in the ledger, and handed 
 me a small green ticket.
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 165 
 
 " Mademoiselle is acquainted with St. 
 Valery?" I ventured timidly to inquire. 
 
 Mademoiselle looked down, coquetted with 
 the corner of her apron, and admitted that 
 she had frequently visited the place in ques- 
 tion. 
 
 '^ And Mademoiselle was pleased with the 
 town — found it picturesque and agreeable ?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and arched 
 her eyebrow^s as only a Frenchwoman can. 
 
 ^^ Ma foi ! 7ion, Monsieur/' said she. ^^ It 
 is triste — miserably triste r 
 
 ** By triste, '' said I, '' you would imply re- 
 tired ; but a place may be retired and very 
 lovely at the same time. I have heard that 
 St. Valery is charming." 
 
 " Vraiment V 
 
 " Ah, ^lademoiselle is of a different 
 opinion !" 
 
 She smiled, and shook her head wdth the 
 air of a person w^ho is too polite to offer a 
 contradiction.
 
 166 MISS CAREW. 
 
 " Pardon,^^ said she. '^ I do not doubt 
 that Monsieur's information is correct. Tastes 
 are so different V 
 
 ^^And appearances so deceptive/' added I 
 to myself, as I walked out of the bureau. 
 '' That girl is pretty and vivacious ; but she 
 has no mind. After all, however, one need 
 never hope to find localities appreciated by 
 those who live upon the spot. The Romans 
 quarried the Coliseum for building materials ; 
 and the boatmen who rowed me from Geneva 
 to Versoix could not tell me the name of Mont 
 Blanc !" 
 
 And so the rest of that day went drearily 
 by, and I hated Abbeville, and despised the 
 natives, and loathed the hotel Tete de BcEuf^ 
 and wearied of the waiter, and almost lost my 
 faith in human nature. 
 
 — Bradshaw excepted ! Bradshaw to whom 
 I trusted for to-morrow morning's deliver- 
 ance — Bradshaw whom I never doubted for 
 an instant — Bradshaw the inestimable — Brad-
 
 BRADSHAAV THE BETRAYER. 167 
 
 shaw the veracious — Bradshaw the 
 
 Well, I won't mind that just at present ! 
 
 The resignation with which I dined in the 
 desert, and retired once more to rest beneath 
 the funereal amber satin draperies of the cata- 
 falque ; the cheerful alacrity with which I rose 
 the next morning ; and the benevolent frame 
 of mind in which I discharged my bill, and 
 feed the melancholy waiter, can never be de- 
 scribed. At a quarter to ten o'clock I de- 
 spatched my luggage to the bureau, and at ten 
 precisely I followed it. 
 
 It was market-day, and the space in front 
 of the hotel was lined with stalls, and thronged 
 with noisy peasants. Stacks of fruit and 
 vegetables obstructed the pavement : rude 
 barrows and charrettes blocked up the road- 
 way ; the population of old women seemed to 
 have been multiplied by twenty; and high 
 above all the noise and bustle jangled the 
 perpetual chimes. 1 crossed the street with 
 difficulty, and in the midst of this confusion
 
 168 MISS CAREW. 
 
 looked round in search of the cabriolet de 
 jioste. Save the barrows, the charrettes, and 
 one yellow dilapidated, weather-beaten, peri- 
 lous-looking cart, with a penthouse roof and 
 a patched leather apron, standing at the 
 corner of the street, there was no kind of con- 
 veyance in sight. I wandered into the stable- 
 yard of the bureau, but found it empty. I 
 peeped into the office, but saw only the 
 canary. I grew nervous. I began to fear 
 that I had mistaken the hour, and that the 
 courier had started without me. In this 
 emergency I addressed myself to a sunburnt 
 stripling who was lolling on a bench outside 
 the door with a pipe in his mouth, and a short 
 thong-whip across his knees. He looked about 
 sixteen, was very shabby and ragged, wore 
 sabots and no stockings, and had little gold 
 rings in his ears. 
 
 "Can you tell me," said I, "if the cabriolet 
 has started ?" 
 
 "Will start as soon as ever the letters
 
 BEADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 169 
 
 come up from the station,'' said he, pointing 
 with his pipe to the cart at the corner. 
 ^* There it stands." 
 
 ^* That rickety old charretfe r I exclaimed. 
 "That the government mail! Impossible!" 
 
 The boy grinned and shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " I'll complain to the authorities," I con- 
 tinued, indignantly. " Eleven francs to ride 
 twelve miles in such a wretched concern as 
 that ! Why, it's an imposition ; and — and — 
 where can I find the courier V 
 
 The boy knocked the ashes out of his pipe, 
 
 " I am the courier^'' said he, very coolly ; 
 *' and if you're the passenger for St. Yalery, 
 you'd better take your seat ; for here come 
 the letters." 
 
 As he spoke, the railway omnibus rumbled 
 round the corner. I had no resource but to 
 obey; so I scrambled up as best I could, 
 and found myself condemned to a cush- 
 ionless bench about six inches in width,
 
 170 MISS CAREW. 
 
 and the society of a very little boy with the 
 hooping cough. In another moment the let- 
 ter-bag was tossed in — the gamin courier 
 seized the reins, uttered a wild whoop, and 
 sprang upon the shafts — the omnibus-driver 
 favoured us wdth a cut of his whip — the idlers 
 gave a delighted shout — the old market-wo- 
 men scrambled out of the way — and off we 
 rattled at full speed over the stones. 
 
 Whoop ! Sacr-r-r-r-re ! the gamin flour- 
 ishes his whip — the harness-bells jingle — the 
 hotel Tete de Bwuf'is left far behind — and 
 the grey old mountainous Cathedral is out of 
 sight in no time. 
 
 Whoop ! Sacr-r-r-r-re ! Through the mar- 
 ket-place — up one street, down another, and 
 over a dangerous old wooden bridge that 
 groans and creaks beneath our wdieels ! Now 
 we pass the boundary of the fortifications, 
 and enter upon a dreary, straggling suburb, 
 that seems to get longer the further we go ; 
 and now, as we draw near the barrier where
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 171 
 
 he must pause for the " visite," our charioteer 
 subsides into a state of comparative tranquil- 
 lity, and our speed slackens. The present- 
 ation of a paper, the peering in of a mus- 
 tachioed gendarme, and the perilous introduc- 
 tion of a bayonet close beside my legs, 
 constitutes the " visite ;" after which we go 
 on at a much slower pace than before. 
 
 We are now in the open country, and 
 jogging along a straight sandy road, bordered 
 by poplars and pollards — the very twin brother 
 to the uninviting canal of yesterday. The 
 country round is wide and Avaste, and the 
 little farmhouses are scattered thinly here 
 and there. Sometimes we pass a wagon with 
 the driver dozing in his place — sometimes a 
 country girl in a cloak and hood, or a weather- 
 beaton old caiitonnier at work upon the road. 
 The heat becomes almost intolerable, and 
 before we have travelled a couple of miles we 
 are powdered over with a fine white dust that 
 is especially tormenting. Then the little
 
 172 MISS CAREW. 
 
 boy drops off into an uneasy sleep, and has to 
 be propped up with my portmanteau ; and 
 the gamin J who is taking it very easily just 
 now, and allowing tlie horse to go at his own 
 pace, dangles his legs lazily to and fro, lights 
 his pipe, pulls out a wellworn and very greasy- 
 looking letter, and begins to read. He 
 continues in this state of quiescence for a 
 mile or more, till the drowsy influences of the 
 scene begin to tell upon myself. Then, just 
 as I also am beginning to nod, he starts into 
 a state of frantic animation, yells, cracks his 
 whip, urges his horse to a shambling gallop, 
 plunges round the corner of the road and 
 through the main street of a village that has 
 hitherto lain unseen behind the hill, and so 
 pulls up before the door of the single auherge, 
 with the air of one who has driven hard all 
 the way, and exhausted himself in the service 
 of an ungrateful government. 
 
 Thus, at an intermittent pace which is al- 
 ternately furious or funereal according as we
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 173 
 
 approach a Tillage or traverse a lonely country 
 road, we journey on our way. By-and-by 
 the landscape grows more and more desolate ; 
 the heat more and more oppressive. Dreary 
 sandhills and undulating sweeps of furzy com- 
 mon succeed to the fields and farms about 
 Abbeville. Habitations become fewer and 
 farther between. Vegetation almost ceases. 
 The horse's feet sink deep at every step, and 
 the drifting sand-dust swirls up in our 
 faces with every hot gust of the north-east 
 wind. 
 
 We have been four hours and a half upon 
 the road already ; it is close upon three 
 o'clock ; and a long hill glares before us in the 
 sun. 
 
 '^ From the top yonder," says the gamin 
 composedly, "we shall come in sight of the 
 sea." 
 
 "The sea ! Is St. Yalery near the sea?" 
 
 ^^ Mais certainement. Did not Monsieur 
 know that ?"
 
 174 MISS CAREW. 
 
 I did not know it, and I am not pleased to 
 know it. I am not fond of the sea-side. I 
 hate bathing. I am not clever at coast 
 scenery, and I never could draw a boat in my 
 life. Altogether I begin to have misgivings 
 on the subject of what I have come to see ; and 
 when we do reach the top of the hill and I 
 catch a glimpse of that glittering line that 
 bounds the horizon like a silver scimitar, I 
 turn away mine eyes in disgust, and feign a 
 sulky sleep. 
 
 The feigned sleep merges insensibly into a 
 real one, from which 1 am by-and-by 
 awakened by more yelling and whooping on 
 the part of the driver, by the headlong jolting 
 of the cabriolet, and by the transition from a 
 a soft dusty road to the rough pavement of a 
 town. 
 
 It is a street bordered by houses on one 
 side and a quay on the other. The houses 
 are of the poorest, and the population of the 
 shabbiest description. The town consists of
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 1 75 
 
 a single irregular street, about a mile in 
 length, and the prevailing trade appears to 
 be in cockles and cordage. At the farther 
 extremity, on a little sandv eminence, stands 
 a small grey-s*teepled church, surmounted by 
 a forlorn wooden telegraph that has long fallen 
 into disuse, and still points upwards with one 
 lank arm, like a skeleton of ill omen. The 
 river at this point almost ceases to be* a river, 
 and widens out between low sandy banks to 
 its junction with the sea. The opposite shore 
 is so far distant that only the ghostly outline 
 of a lighthouse and some trees is visible ; and 
 between that shore and St. Yalery stretches 
 such a dreary waste of mud, slime, and sand 
 as I have never seen in my life before or 
 since. Imagine the mouth of the Xore with the 
 tide out and all the water gone, save a narrow 
 current which ripples along a groove in the 
 midst of the river-bed, and you will at least 
 have formed some vague notion of the aspect 
 of St. Yalery at low water.
 
 176 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Moored beside the quays, or hauled up 
 high and dry on the banks farther down, lie 
 merchant-vessels, barks, and fishing-boats, of 
 various builds and sizes. Some are under- 
 going repairs ; some are being laden, some 
 unladen ; and round about them all, in every 
 stage of idleness or activity, swarm scores of 
 rough, weatherbeaten seamen, with big boots, 
 Guernsey shirts, and little gold rings in their 
 brow^n ears. 
 
 Seeing, but scarcely noting these things at 
 the moment, I am jolted along between the 
 ships and the houses, and set down, half awake, 
 before the door of an inn. It is but a mean 
 auherye, though the best in the place, and it 
 bears the sign of the Lion dJOr. I turn to 
 the waiter, who lolls carelessly against the 
 door, and signify my intention of remaining for 
 the night. But he, instead of responding with 
 that cheerful alacrity which one is accustomed 
 to expect, only shakes his head, and surveys 
 me and my luggage with superb indifference.
 
 BllADSHAW THI- BETRAYER. 177 
 
 ** Our rooms," says he, loftily, " are all 
 engaged. Monsieur will probably find ac- 
 commodation at the Couronner 
 
 This is discouraging; but I compromise 
 the matter by arranging to dine at the Lion 
 dOr at six o'clock, even though I have to 
 seek a bed elsewhere. Hereupon the waiter 
 unbends, the gamin gets his pourhoire, the 
 cabriolet clatters away at full speed ; and, 
 after a brief rest and hasty lunch, I stroll out 
 to see the town, and beat up my quarters at 
 the Couronne, 
 
 Alas ! the Couronne was an auherge in- 
 finitely smaller, meaner, and dirtier than 
 the Lion cTOr, situated close behind the 
 strand, at some, distance from the quays. 
 There was a gaunt flagstaff planted in the 
 dreary little garden at the back, and a pile of 
 shells, broken bottles, and vegetable refuse 
 before the door. The public room was full of 
 seafaring men — the landlord himself looked 
 like a retired smuggler — the atmosphere of 
 
 VOL. f. N
 
 178 MISS CAREW. 
 
 the house was suggestive of tar, tobacco, and 
 cognac — and there was a tiny model of a 
 frigate over the fireplace of the tap-room. 
 Altogether La Couronne was about the last 
 inn in France which I should voluntarily have 
 chosen for a night's lodging ; but there was 
 no help for it. 
 
 Here, then, I found myself forced to apply 
 for accommodation. The landlord was too 
 busy with his customers to attend to me, 
 and the landlady referred me to a deaf old 
 jille de chamhre, as withered and weird as one 
 of Macbeth's witches. 
 
 " A bed ?" said she, peering and blinking 
 in my face, and holding one hand hollowed 
 over her ear. '^ Ay, to be sure ! Two, if 
 you please — two, if you please !'' 
 
 '^ Merely one will be enough. Can I see 
 the room ?" 
 
 She nodded, stumped upstairs slowly before 
 me, in her heavy sabots, and led the way 
 into a large, cold, comfortless chamber, which
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 179 
 
 contained two beds, and looked as if it had 
 not been occupied for months. 
 
 '* Have you no other room than this ?" I 
 asked, shivering. 
 
 ** Yes, it is rather chilly," mumbled the 
 fille de chambre ; " but Monsieur can have a 
 fire in the stove." 
 
 *^ Very well," said I, resignedly ; " I shall 
 be in about nine or ten o'clock." 
 
 ** Three francs a night, and fifty centimes 
 for attendance. Does Monsieur prefer the 
 bed next the door, or the bed next the 
 fire ? " 
 
 " Either : if I have but the room to my- 
 self. Remember, if you please, that I pay 
 for both these beds." 
 
 " Good : the bed next the door. Monsieur 
 may rely upon it that everything shall be as 
 comfortable as possible." And the old woman 
 blinked cunningly to herself, in the full per- 
 suasion that she had not betrayed her deaf- 
 ness by a single blunder. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 MISS CAREW. 
 
 More disconsolate than ever, I parted from 
 her with a nod and a trifling gratuity, and 
 made my way out as quickly as I could, 
 turning my face inland, and leaving the town 
 at my back. But landwards or seawards, it 
 was all dreary alike ! A boat-building yard ; 
 a weir ; the mouth of another poplar-bound 
 canal ; a few heavy, round-shouldered trading 
 smacks lying up sideways on the slimy shore ; 
 a knot of barefooted women washing linen ; a 
 rope-walk; another miserable C(:/6ar^^; and a 
 cluster of fishermen's hovels .... these 
 were all the sights and incidents that I be- 
 held by the way. I went up to the weir, and 
 sat down upon a line of stone parapet. I 
 looked to the right — land, sand, poplars, a 
 canal, and universal flatness ! I looked to 
 the left — strand, sand, mud, houses, boats, 
 and universal flatness ! I thought of Abbe- 
 ville with tender regret; I sighed for the 
 hotel Tete de Boeuf ; I could have embraced 
 the mouldy waiter ! Then — then I turned to
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 181 
 
 Bradshaw, Bradshaw the betrayer, and up- 
 braided him bitterly. 
 
 ''Is this," I exclaimed, opening the ^' Con- 
 tinental Railway Guide," page 185, ''is this 
 * the beautiful and picturesque town of St. 
 Yalery-sur-Somme,' which you, and you alone, 
 faithless one! have induced me to visit? 
 
 Oh, Bradshaw ! I believed thee true, 
 
 And I was blest in so believing ; 
 But now I mourn . , . ." 
 
 I broke off abruptly. My feelings would 
 not allow me to continue ; and as it was by 
 this time approaching six o'clock, I rose and 
 went back moodily to dinner. 
 
 I have no wdsh to preserve either a record 
 or a recollection of that dismal meal; but 
 surely that bill of sixteen francs must lie 
 heavily upon the conscience of mine host of 
 the Lion d Or ! 
 
 A bottle of indifferent Bordeaux ; a copy of 
 the Moniteur four days old ; a couple of 
 cigars; and a pleasant game at billiards in the
 
 182 MISS CAREW. 
 
 public room, with an intelligent young Breton, 
 who told me that he was a commercial travel- 
 ler, helped to pass away the remainder of the 
 evening, and, for a while, to divert my atten- 
 tion from the subject of my night's lodging. 
 As the hours progressed, however, I could 
 not help thinking of it, and the later it grew 
 the more reluctant I became. The truth was 
 that I had taken an almost childish aversion, 
 not only to ray room at the Couronnej but to 
 the situation of the inn itself, to its landlord, 
 its frequenters, and its ancient fiUe de chambre, 
 I reasoned with myself in vain ; the feeling 
 was strong upon me, and at eleven o^clock, 
 when my new acquaintance bade me good 
 night, and the rest of the guests dispersed, I 
 had more than half a mind to pass the night 
 upon a sofa at the Lion dOr, and have no- 
 thing whatever to say to the room which I 
 had already engaged. But I was ashamed to 
 confess my weakness, and so the condescend- 
 ing waiter bowed me out.
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 183 
 
 The moon had now risen, and the tide 
 was coming in fast. Already the narrow 
 current had expanded into a broad, shining 
 stream ; and some of the farthest boats, which 
 in the afternoon had lain sprawling on the 
 mud like stranded whales, were riding buoy- 
 antly at anchor. The night was lovely, and 
 I would fain have lingered out for some time 
 longer, but that I feared to find the doors of 
 mine inn closed against me. It was a need- 
 less precaution. The night trade of La Cou- 
 ronne seemed to be in even a more flourishing 
 state than that of the day ; and what with the 
 singing, and laughter, and smoking that was 
 going on in the taproom, I could find no one 
 to attend to me, so quietly possessed myself 
 of a candle and stole up to my room. 
 
 The fire had been lighted, and Avas almost 
 out, and the chamber looked almost as com- 
 fortless as ever. My first proceeding was to 
 lock myself in ; but the key was rusty and 
 would not turn, and there was no bolt any-
 
 184 MISS CAREW. 
 
 where : my next was to draw the blinds, pile 
 more wood upon the embers, and make my- 
 self as comfortable as circumstances would 
 allow. It was a long time before I could 
 overcome my uneasiness sufficiently to go to 
 bed, and even then I only took my boots and 
 cravat off, and lay down in my clothes. 
 
 A lonely waterside inn — a gang of riotous 
 revellers — a door that could not be secured ! 
 Do what I would, I could not keep from 
 thinking of this ; or, if I did succeed for a few 
 moments, it was only to dwell upon something 
 still worse. 1 recalled all the dreadful tales 
 I had ever read, or heard, of double-bedded 
 rooms, and midnight murders, and unknown 
 bodies drifted out to sea. I recollected one 
 story of a bed that sank through the floor, 
 and another of a bed that smothered its occu- 
 pant by means of a descending tester. I 
 wondered if anybody had ever died in this 
 one, or if, by the ffickering fire-light, I should 
 presently see a pale face staring at me from
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 18o 
 
 between the curtains ot the other. In short, 
 I was thoroughly nervous, and had suffered 
 my imagination to run upon ghosts, " deadly 
 murder, spoil, and villany," till at last I was 
 fain to draw the counterpane over my head, 
 and count scores of imaginary sheep till I fell 
 asleep. 
 
 I dreamt ; but, except that it was painful 
 and confused, I have no recollection of my 
 dream. Xeither do I know how long I slept. 
 It may have been but a few minutes, and it 
 may have been an hour ; but Avhen I woke, it 
 was with an instantaneous summoning of all 
 my self-possession, and with the consciousness 
 of a human presence in the room. To lie 
 quite motionless, and leave the counterpane 
 still shrouding up my head and face was the 
 result of my first impulse — to listen breath- 
 lessly, my second. 
 
 A heavy footstep crossing the floor — a 
 candle set down roughly on the table — the 
 drawing up of a chair beside the fire — and a
 
 186 MISS CAREW. 
 
 prolonged yawn, convinced me that the in- 
 truder was alone. Presently he threw a fresh 
 log on the fire, and soon after that an odour 
 of coarse tobacco filled the room. At this 
 point, having overcome my first terrors, I felt 
 a strong inclination to make known my pre- 
 sence ; but, somehow, I hesitated, and, half in 
 curiosity, half in apprehension, lay still and 
 listened. 
 
 Thus a quarter of an hour or more went by, 
 and some revellers from the inn parlour went 
 out, singing, and shouted a noisy farewell to 
 those who remained behind. Then a clock 
 struck on the landing, and my unknown visitor, 
 after shuffling restlessly in his place, got up, 
 and paced to and fro between the window 
 and the door. By-and-by he opened the 
 casement, and leaned out ; whereupon I ven- 
 tured to lift a corner of the quilt ; for what 
 with the mildness of the night, the heat of the 
 fire, and the oppressive closeness of my con- 
 cealment, I was almost smothered. A breath
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 187 
 
 of cool air, however, and one glimpse of a 
 bulky, broad-shouldered man in a loose pea- 
 coat and woollen cap, was all that I could 
 obtain. Scarcely had he looked out when he 
 exchanged a hurried greeting with some one 
 down below. 
 
 ^^ Come up," I heard him say. " Come up. 
 All's safe here !" 
 
 With this he closed the window — I cowered 
 down beneath the counterpane — a second 
 heavy footfall came creaking up the stairs, and 
 another man entered the room. 
 
 "All right?" asked the first comer, eagerly ; 
 and, strange to say, I seemed to have heard 
 his voice before. 
 
 "All right," replied the other, depositing 
 some heavy burthen on the floor, and draw- 
 ing a deep breath of relief. " But I've had 
 to walk more than a mile, et qa pese comme le 
 diahUr 
 
 " And you met no one?" 
 
 ^'Parbleuf I came face to face with a
 
 188 MISS CAREW. 
 
 sergent de ville just against the landing-place 
 yonder ; but I touched my cap, and he said 
 * Good night/ and I went my way, and he 
 went his. There's nothing to fear, if we can 
 only drop out to sea before daybreak ! " 
 
 " Yes — but it wants an hour still to high 
 tide, and they've moored her so close in shore 
 that only the high tide will float her! Cursed 
 fools that they were !" 
 
 ^' And we must wait here another hour ?" 
 
 ^' Tonnerre de Dieu ! there's no help for 
 it!" 
 
 The new comer struck the table heavily 
 with his fist, and muttered a string of oaths, 
 half of which were wholly unintelligible to 
 me. Somehow, his voice, as well as his 
 companion's, struck upon my ear with a 
 familiarity that urged my curiosity to the 
 keenest pitch. If I might only trust to the 
 gloom of this part of the room, and venture 
 on another peep ! Just as I was about to dare 
 it, the second stranger spoke again.
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 189 
 
 **Have you nothing to drink?" said he, 
 moodily. 
 
 "Drink!" echoed the other; "I should 
 think so, indeed ! why, mate, here's a flask of 
 the real old Schiedam, if that will content 
 you !" 
 
 A growl of satisfaction, a deep-drawn 
 breath, and a hearty smack of the lips, was 
 the reply that followed. I could resist no 
 longer. I drew the quilt down gently to the 
 level of my eyes, held my breath, and looked 
 out. 
 
 They were both seafaring men, and the 
 second wore much the same kind of dress as 
 the first — a costume which is conventionally 
 adopted by stage-smugglers, but which in 
 actual life is chiefly confined to the seamen of 
 French and Dutch trading smacks, and to our 
 own north-coast fishers. The first comer sat 
 with his back to me ; but the other, who was 
 now returning the flask across the table, had 
 his face turned straight towards me. It was
 
 190 MISS CAREW. 
 
 a tawny, sullen countenance, and one that I 
 felt certain I had seen before. When had we 
 met, though ? And where ? These were diffi- 
 cult questions, and the longer I looked, the 
 more I became puzzled to answer them. It 
 was like a face seen in a dream, but only half 
 remembered — strange, and yet familiar — like 
 and unlike at the same time ! 
 
 I was not long left in doubt, however ; for 
 his companion took the flask, held it to the 
 light to see how much of the liquor was gone ; 
 nodded solemnly ; said, ^^ Here's to your spi- 
 ritual glorification. Brother Ambroise !" and 
 drank a deep draught out of the bottle ! 
 
 This sally evoked a hoarse laugh from both, 
 under cover of which I ventured to shift my 
 position, so as to conceal myself still more 
 effectually. These, then, were my friends the 
 pious pilgrims of the day before yesterday ! 
 I recognised them well enough now — Brother 
 Paul was the first, and Brother Ambroise, who 
 had miraculously recovered the sight of his
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 191 
 
 left eye, was the second. I am bound to con- 
 fess that this discovery affected me with a very 
 unpleasant sensation all down my back, and 
 caused a rushing noise in my ears that oblite- 
 rated for some seconds every other sound. 
 
 When I next looked up, Paul was bending 
 eagerly forward, and Ambroise was lifting a 
 carpet-bag from the lloor to the table. 
 
 " If the sergent de ville had asked to see 
 what was in this," said he, unbuckling the 
 straps at the mouth of the bag, ^^ I should 
 not have wished him good night quite so 
 civilly !" 
 
 " What would you have done ?" inquired 
 Paul, with a grim chuckle. 
 
 ^^ Brained him," was the brief but signifi- 
 cant reply. 
 
 I turned cold all over. 
 
 The last buckle was now undone. Am- 
 broise plunged in his arm, and brought out a 
 silver cup. 
 
 " That's worth having," said Paul, weigh-
 
 192 MISS CAREAT. 
 
 ing it in his hand with the air of a connois- 
 seur ; '' and the Schiedam would taste well 
 out of it — eh, mate ?" 
 
 ^^ Better out of this/' growled the other, 
 producing a superb gold tazza with a jewelled 
 lid. ^^ Diable ! how that red stone sparkles 
 at the top !" 
 
 He held it at arm's length, admiringly, till 
 his companion lost patience, and snatched it 
 from his hand. 
 
 "Go on, can't you!" said he sharply. 
 " What comes next ? Where's the gold box ? 
 That's the best of the lot, and I put it in my- 
 self while you were after the candlesticks. 
 Hah ! there it is — there it is ! Set it on the 
 table." 
 
 My head swam — I could not believe my 
 eyes! Was it — yes, it was indeed the precious 
 shrine of St. Celestine de Cressy, presented in 
 1630 by Cardinal Eichelieu ! 
 
 I understood it all now — remembered all, 
 even to the manner in which the verger's keys
 
 BRADSH.\W THE BETRAYER. 193 
 
 had been handled by Brother Ambroise. They 
 had robbed the Cathedral ! 
 
 " Well, what next ?" 
 
 "Nothing now," said Ambroise gruffly, 
 isweeping the cups back into the bag and pack- 
 ing away the shrine on the top of them. 
 " The tide must be up by this time, and — 
 HoVa ! whose boots are these ?" 
 
 " Boots !" exclaimed the other, who had 
 gone over to the window. " Boots ! What do 
 you mean ?" 
 
 " Mean !" echoed Ambroise, snatching the 
 candle from the table, and crossing the room 
 at a single bound. '' Death of my life! there's 
 a man in the bed !" 
 
 As long as I live I shall never forget the 
 horror of that moment. To keep my eyes 
 closed, to regulate the rising and falling of my 
 breath, and to preserve an utterly passive ex- 
 pression of face and attitude, was the result of 
 an instinct beyond myself. My power of 
 thought was for the moment annihilated ; and 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 194 MISS CAREW. 
 
 I feigned sleep as the spider feigns death, 
 almost without knowing how or why I did it. 
 
 '' He's asleep," said Paul. 
 
 " He's acting," said Ambroise, and flashed 
 the candle before my eyes. 
 
 Not a nerve quivered. I seemed endued 
 with a supernatural mastery over every fibre 
 of my frame, and never flinched, thoup^h the 
 eifort was agony. 
 
 '^ It's very well done," said Ambroise, be- 
 tween his teeth ; '' but it's not real. No man 
 could have slept through the noise we've 
 made." 
 
 " Yes, he could, if he'd been drinking," re- 
 plied Paul. ^^ Don't you see he has gone to 
 bed in his clothes, and isn't that a proof of 
 the state he was in when he came up ?" 
 
 " Proof or no proof," said Ambroise, with a 
 terrible imprecation, '^ Pll " 
 
 He broke off abruptly, and I heard a click, 
 like the opening of a clasp-knife. 
 
 At this moment I gave myself up for lost,
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 195 
 
 and a dead cold gathered at my heart. Then 
 Paul interposed again. 
 
 *' Give me the knife," I heard him say. 
 '' I'll test him, and then . . ." 
 
 His voice dropped to a whisper ; there was 
 a muttered argument ; a pause ; a moment of 
 maddening suspense ! Then the quilt was 
 pulled back, a hot breath ruffled the hair upon 
 my brow, and a keen, cold, deadly edge, fine 
 as the edge of a razor, was drawn slowly 
 across my throat. 
 
 The quiver of an eyelid, the flutter of a 
 breath, would have betrayed me; but the love 
 of life was stronger than the fear of death, 
 and, thank God ! I lay passive and placid as 
 before. 
 
 Paul burst into a loud laugh, and tossed 
 the knife back to its owner. 
 
 ^' Ivre-mort, pardien /" said he. '* Pd as 
 soon suspect the walls of listening !" 
 
 Ambroise muttered an angry oath, and 
 turned away. 
 
 2
 
 196 MISS CAREW. 
 
 "You're too easy," he said, sullenlj. 
 " There's nothing like a dead man's tongue to 
 keep a secret !" 
 
 At this moment, a long shrill whistle echoed 
 under the window, like the wail of a Banshee. 
 
 "The signal," cried both, in a breath. 
 Ambroise shouldered the bag ; the light was 
 blown out ; in their eagerness to be gone all 
 else was forgotten ; and the next instant I 
 heard their footsteps tramping down the 
 stairs ! 
 
 The story of the robbery at Abbeville needs 
 no further repetition from my pen ; but to 
 those who are not familiar with the particu- 
 lars it may be interesting to add that none of 
 the stolen treasure was ever recovered, and 
 neither of the dexterous pilgrims seen or heard 
 of more. The robbery was committed on the 
 evening of their flight, and of my trying 
 adventure at St. Valery. It was supposed
 
 BRADSHAW THE BETRAYER. 197 
 
 to have been done about nine o'clock. The 
 church was entered from a window overlook- 
 ing a patch of waste ground beside the canal 
 — a spot of which I still have a sketch in my 
 possession. The keys by which they unlocked 
 the presses were found in the corridor close 
 by ; and a locksmith living somewhere in the 
 suburbs of the town testified to having in- 
 nocently manufactured them from some wax 
 impressions intrusted to him by two holy pil- 
 grims, one of whom was lame, and the other 
 blind of an eye. From the description which 
 I was enabled to give of both these individuals, 
 it was conjectured that they were two brothers 
 of the name of Carpeaux, natives of Havre, 
 who had been more than once convicted of 
 petty misdemeanours, and were supposed of 
 late years to be connected with the coast- 
 smuggling of France and Holland. Whether 
 they prospered on their sacrilegious gains, 
 time and chance can alone determine. For 
 my part, I expect that they will come to the
 
 198 MISS CAREW. 
 
 galleys some day, and that we shall then hear 
 more about them. 
 
 In the meantime, suffer me, Reader, to 
 whisper a word of advice at parting. If thou 
 art at home, by all means stay there. It is 
 the safest and happiest place in the world, 
 depend on it. But if, like me, thou hast 
 the Continental mania, then do as I do. 
 Believe in Mr. Murray — never try to find out 
 anything for yourself — and avoid Bradshaw 
 the Betrayer !
 
 199 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 TWO NEW-YEAR S DATS. 
 
 T AM the organist of St. Martha-cum-Sil- 
 vermere, a little quiet church, in a little 
 quiet town, some five-and-forty miles north- 
 east of London. It is not a very brilliant ap- 
 pointment — thirty pounds a year, and a small 
 old-fashioned house to live in. But I can exist 
 upon it. I have a few pupils ; a gratuity from 
 the Vestry on Christmas-Day and Good Fri- 
 day ; and, above all, a sincere love for my art. 
 Besides, do I not possess a first-class certifi- 
 cate of merit from the Musical Academy of 
 Zollenstrasse, in the Duchy of Zollenstrasse-
 
 200 MISS CAREW. 
 
 am-Maiiij where I received my professional 
 education ? Do I not rejoice in the posses- 
 sion of that famous complimentary letter 
 addressed to me by the wife of the Town- 
 Councillor Yon Stumpf ? Am I not the proud 
 and fortunate competitor who carried off those 
 two bronze medals, and that faded laurel- 
 wreath, which were awarded at the three 
 grand examinations, and which now adorn the 
 mantelshelf of my little parlour ? 
 
 The worst part of it is that I have no one 
 to whom I can show these trophies, excepting 
 my little pupils and my child- servant. I am 
 very lonely. How it happens that I possess 
 no friends or kindred in all my native England 
 is of no importance here. My residence 
 abroad, and my foreign education, have some- 
 thing to do with the matter, and .... But 
 1 will not enter upon that subject. It is 
 painful to look back upon a home and social 
 circle broken up — upon a sunny childhood 
 faded — upon parents lost, but unforgotten :
 
 TWO new-year's days. 201 
 
 and, moreover, these things have absolutely 
 nothing to do with my story. 
 
 YeSj I am lonely ; and, for one still 
 warm of heart, it seems a strange, cold fate 
 enough. Yet my life is not without its 
 pleasures. I like my little church, with its 
 carven tombs, and Gothic crypt, and monu- 
 mental brasses. I am interested in the 
 aged sexton, and in his long, prosy tales 
 of the De Lacy family, whose tattered 
 banner hangs above the old oak sculpture 
 near the altar-rails. I am attached to the 
 little, rosy-faced rustics of the Sunday- 
 school, who come every Wednesday to the 
 Church, that I may train their sweet infant 
 voices in those chants and psalm-tunes which 
 they sing during the services of the Sabbath. 
 Above all, I love my quaint old organ, up in 
 the dark nook over the church door. T love 
 its triple row of black keys, its obsolete stops, 
 its curiously-carved music desk, and the little 
 gilded angels with trumpets and violoncellos
 
 202 MISS CAREW. 
 
 which are perched so uneasily on the top, and 
 ^^ pipe to the spirit-ditties of no tone." 
 
 It is true that the organ is not perfect ; 
 nay, I must confess that it is, in many respects, 
 a somewhat eccentric instrument. There 
 is a trumpet-stop in the great organ which 
 always plays a tone and a half too high, and 
 which I have not dared to use for the last 
 two years. The pedals are so worn down by 
 the friction of more than a century, that they 
 are reduced to the thinness of laths, and 
 many of them are dumb. And there is some- 
 thing odd the matter with the bellows, so that 
 the wind comes with a puffy, intermittent 
 sound, as if the organ were asthmatic — a 
 defect which is peculiarly anrfoying, as it 
 makes the children laugh, and spoils the effect 
 of my most brilliant passages. However, I 
 am a constant little woman in my attach- 
 ments, and I love the organ dearly for all 
 that.
 
 TWO new-year's DATS. 203 
 
 Silvermere is a very pleasant place in the 
 summer time ; and, though I always find 
 plenty to occupy my time and my thoughts, 
 I certainly feel happier then than during any 
 other period of the year. I have my walks 
 in the fields and by the river side ; my long 
 practices in the empty church, when the 
 mellow evening sunlight comes streaming 
 through the oriel window, and glinting all 
 along the pillared aisle ; my garden to culti- 
 vate ; and my little vases on the chimney- 
 piece all filled with fresh, sweet flowers. But 
 sometimes I find the winters linger very 
 drearily. Mind, I do not complain. I have 
 ray books and my fireside, and many, many 
 comforts, for which I am grateful ; yet the 
 long, dark evenings do seem heavy to me at 
 times, and the brightest fire loses half its 
 cheerfulness when one has to sit by it alone. 
 Of all days in the year, New-Year's-day seems 
 the loneliest and dreariest to me. I had been
 
 204 MISS CAREW. 
 
 accustomed, while in Germany, to see this 
 anniversary merrily celebrated, and had borne 
 my share in the gifts, good wishes, balls, 
 and pleasant social festivities with which 
 the Germans usher in the great Birthday 
 and the new-born year. It is no wonder I 
 should now feel sad when all Silvermere is 
 gay; when London friends come down to spend 
 their winter holidays with our townsfolk; 
 when joyous parties are taking place night 
 after night all around me; and I alone receive 
 no loving smiles, no gentle greetings from any 
 human creature. 
 
 It seems strange that none of the inhabi- 
 tants of this town have noticed or befriended 
 me. The Rector is always kind, but his 
 wife is far too haughty to speak to me ; and 
 the rest of our little aristocracy, the law- 
 yer's, doctor's, and squire's families, follow her 
 example. With the tradespeople I am, in my 
 turn, too proud to associate ; and thus I have 
 neither friend nor acquaintance. I know that
 
 TWO new-year's days. 205 
 
 I am not a prepossessing person. I have not 
 the gift of pleasing where I choose. I am 
 silent, and distant, and plain ; but oh ! I 
 know how full my heart is of love and charity, 
 and how it yearns for something to lean upon 
 and cherish ! But there are none who care 
 to read that heart, and none for it to 
 love. 
 
 But it was not always thus — there was 
 once .... 
 
 It Avas a long time ago. I had been 
 about four years in England, and scarcely 
 two at Silvermere. I was quite young then, 
 and not so plain, and pale, and taciturn as I 
 am now. The organ, too, was not so asthmatic 
 as it is at present. 
 
 I saw him first at church. How well I 
 remember it ! It was towards the autumn. 
 The weather was gloriously beautiful ; and the 
 days were so long and calm that life seemed 
 twice its usual length. The afternoon ser- 
 vice was just about to commence — in fact, I
 
 206 MISS CAREW. 
 
 was playing the opening voluntary — when 
 one of the school children stole round softly 
 to my elbow, and whispered : — 
 
 " Please, ma'am, there's a strange gentleman 
 in the church !" 
 
 A stranger amid a country congregation is 
 an event, and an important one. He attracts 
 more attention than the sermon, and, in the 
 eyes of the children, eclipses the beadle him- 
 self. 
 
 It was my duty to keep the little urchins 
 in order, so I shook my head gravely, and 
 said, '' Hush ! don't talk in church,'^ and went 
 on with my voluntary. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, he looks like a Frenchman, 
 or — or a Turk !" 
 
 This last suggestion was hazarded dubiously, 
 and followed by a peep between the faded 
 curtains that hid me from the congrega- 
 tion. Now a peep between the curtains was 
 a liberty, and an act of insubordination which I 
 never would permit ; so I turned round very
 
 TWO new-year's days. 207 
 
 sharply, and tried to assume an exceedingly- 
 angry countenance. 
 
 " Sarah Wilson," I said to the olBfender, 
 " go back to your place directly, and pay 
 attention to the service. It is of no conse- 
 quence to you who is, or is not, in the 
 church !" 
 
 Sarah Wilson retreated to her seat in dis- 
 grace ; but I am forced to confess that I was 
 myself guilty of the offence for which I had 
 punished her, for I could not resist peeping 
 through the curtains as soon as the sermon 
 began. 
 
 He was sitting in the farther corner of a 
 pew midway between the altar and the door, 
 and leaning back in such a manner that I 
 could see his pale face and his large dark 
 eyes distinctly. His clothes were of a foreign 
 make and style ; his hair was long, and fell 
 in careless masses about his face ; and it was 
 probably his large moustache that caused the 
 child to take him for a Frenchman ^^ or a
 
 208 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Turk." His face was more intellectual than 
 handsome ; and I could not help fancying, as 
 1 looked at him, that he must be fond of 
 music. 
 
 Somehow, I took especial pains with my 
 concluding voluntary that afternoon, and it 
 was wonderful how long it took me to select 
 one from amongst the piles of music in the 
 corner. First I fixed upon a fugue of Sebas- 
 tian Bach's; then upon a *' Gloria" by 
 Mozart ; then upon a movement from the 
 ''Mount of Olives." At last I chose the 
 Hallelujah Chorus in the '' Messiah " (the 
 most divine piece of music in the world), and 
 played it with all my heart. Indeed, I entered 
 into it with so much enthusiasm and pleasure, 
 that, until I had concluded, and chanced to 
 see him standing there in his place alone in 
 the church, looking up earnestly towards the 
 organ, I had forgotten all about the foreign 
 stranger. 
 
 Of course I drew back directly, and busied
 
 TWO new-year's days. 209 
 
 myself in putting away the music, and lock- 
 ing the organ doors ; and when I looked round 
 again, he was gone. 
 
 I saw no more of him, heard no more of 
 him — yet could not keep from thinking of 
 him all the week, and wondering whether he 
 would return on the following Sunday. I 
 fancied that he would — indeed, so certain of it 
 was I, that, when I found him occupying his 
 former place before any one else had entered 
 the church, I felt no surprise at it. 
 
 This time, he not only remained listen- 
 ing to my playing after the rest had dis- 
 persed, but waited beside the porch till I came 
 out. 
 
 "Permit me to thank you, lady, for 
 your beautiful music,'' he said, courteously. 
 ** It is long since I have heard such play- 
 ing." 
 
 I blushed, bowed, and passed on ; but his 
 words rung in my ears for days after. I was 
 almost angry with myself for thinking of him 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 MISS CAREW. 
 
 SO much ; but his look, the tone of his deep 
 voice, the hesitating accent with which he 
 spoke, haunted me strangely. I did not think 
 that he was a foreigner ; it seemed to me more 
 as if he had lived much abroad. As for his age, 
 it was perhaps thirty or thirty-five. He might 
 be younger ; but the gravity of his manner 
 gave him the appearance of a man in the 
 prime of life. 
 
 For two or three more Sundays this con- 
 tinued. He contrived each time to address 
 me, but always with profound respect. I 
 came, by-and-by, almost to live upon these 
 weekly meetings; and, I fear, thought of little 
 else from Sabbath to Sabbath. 
 
 I met him one morning by the river side. 
 It was my favourite walk ; and, though the 
 autumn was far advanced, it was not yet too 
 cold to stroll, book in hand, through the green 
 meadows and under the alders beside the 
 water's edge.
 
 TWO new-year's days. 211 
 
 He spoke to me — he walked beside me — he 
 talked of music, of books, of rural life. He 
 told me he was an author ; and spoke of 
 the lands he had visited, and the scenery 
 through which he had passed. I listened in 
 a kind of dream. I had never before heard so 
 eloquent a voice. His every word sank into 
 my heart, and warmed my imagination. He 
 said he would lend me a book which he 
 had written, and would bring it next morning 
 to the meadow in which we had met. I made 
 an effort to refuse it, but he overruled my 
 objections and — I went. 
 
 Let me pass over the weeks that followed. 
 Let me not dwell upon the frequency of our 
 after-meetings — the charmed eloquence of his 
 speech — the rapt and humble delight with 
 which I listened and learned. His books 
 were grave and full of thought — far more pro- 
 found than any I had attempted to read before 
 that time. Yet I strove to comprehend his phi- 
 
 p 2
 
 212 MISS CAREW. 
 
 losophj, and pored over the pages night after 
 night that I might be able to speak of them 
 with him, and render myself worthier of his 
 friendship. 
 
 Ay ! his friendship — for he never spoke to 
 me of love. Yet I loved him — loved him 
 timidly, reverently, as a child might have 
 loved ! The very touch of his hand when we 
 met and when we parted, made me tremble — 
 the merest glance from his calm eyes seemed 
 to blind and trouble me. Had they once 
 looked upon me in anger, 1 felt as if I must 
 have fallen at his feet and died. 
 
 It was wrong, foolish, childish — what you 
 will ; but it was not surprising that I should 
 so worship the first who had been kind and 
 gentle with me. Remember — I was so young, 
 so lonely, so in need of affection and sup- 
 port ! 
 
 The winter came, and there were many 
 days of rain and snow when I could not ven- 
 ture out ; and those were melancholy days for
 
 TWO new-tear's days. 213 
 
 me — yet sometimes, even then, he would not 
 suffer them to go by without once seeing my 
 face, and would walk patiently up and down 
 the road in front of my little cottage, till I 
 chanced to look from the window. 
 
 Then came Christmas time, and he told me 
 that he must go to London for some days to 
 visit his friends. He parted from me very 
 coldly and gravely, as was his wont ; but, 
 when he had gone a little distance, came back, 
 and, saying that he should return on New- 
 Year's-day, lifted my hand suddenly to his 
 lips, and turned away. 
 
 It was the first token of love that he had 
 shown for me — the very first ! Sometimes, 
 it is true, I had fancied I observed a 
 deeper thrill in his voice, a darker fire in his 
 eyes— but it was so fleeting that I had 
 scarcely dared to frame it into words ; and, 
 after all, it might have been fancy only. But 
 this kiss! this burning kiss upon my hand! 
 I hastened home ; and, entering my little par-
 
 214 MISS CAREW. 
 
 lour, kissed my own hand over and over again 
 where his lips had rested upon it. 
 
 I do not now remember any of those 
 days between Christmas-day and the last 
 day of the old year. They glided past me 
 like the pictures of a magic lantern, and I 
 lived as one dreaming. Nothing seemed 
 as it was before. People's faces passing in 
 the street, looked more cheerful ; the win- 
 try landscape was beautiful in my eyes ; the 
 sound of my own voice, as I used to sit singing 
 softly to myself, appeared to have grown sweeter 
 with my happiness. 
 
 Then came the thirty-first of Decem- 
 ber. To-morrow! ah, to-morrow I should 
 see him again. My heart beat strangely 
 when I thought of that ; and I so longed 
 to greet the day and year which would 
 herald in my golden future, that I resolved 
 to sit by my fireside and hear the clocks 
 strike twelve. 
 
 It was a very cold and silent night. My
 
 TWO new-year's days. 215 
 
 little house stands just on the outskirts 
 of the town, and the far fields beyond 
 the hedge were covered with deep snow. 
 I drew the curtains close, piled a blazing 
 fire, and tried to read. It was useless. I 
 could not fix my thoughts that night. 
 There was a strange, restless, expectant 
 feeling upon me ; and as the evening 
 hours went by, I became nervous and agi- 
 tated. 
 
 All at once I felt that he was there, and I 
 trembled. I had heard no sound ; I had re- 
 ceived no warning of his coming ; and yet I 
 knew that he was standing yonder, outside the 
 window. 
 
 What awful mysterious sympathy was that 
 which I then experienced, and which occurs 
 to all of us at some time or other during 
 life? 
 
 I rose, went over, and drew the curtain. 
 
 Merciful Heaven! the promptings of my heart 
 were right — he was standing close beside the
 
 216 MISS CAREW. 
 
 lattice, and the moonlight was shining down 
 upon his face ! 
 
 " Alice !" he said softly. " Alice !" 
 
 I opened the window, and leaned out into 
 the cold night. 
 
 ^^I said I would be here on New-Year's- 
 day," he said, and his voice was agitated and 
 broken. " It will be New-Year's-day in a 
 few moments more. I have travelled miles 
 that I might see you. I come to say good-bye!" 
 
 I would have spoken ; but the words died 
 away upon my lips. I could only clasp my 
 hands silently together. 
 
 ^' I have received news of my brother's ill- 
 ness," he continued ; ^^ that brother in Ma- 
 deira of whom I have told you. I must go 
 to him ; but I will write to you by the first 
 ship. I felt I must speak to you again 
 before I left. I could not go without saying 
 how I love you ! Hark !" he said, pausing 
 suddenly, and lifting his finger. " They are 
 tolling out the year !"
 
 TWO new-year's days. 217 
 
 And the low solemn tones of the bells of 
 St. Martha came moaning through the night. 
 
 " The year is almost gone, Alice ! Tell 
 me, before it is past, that you love me !" 
 
 " I do love you." 
 
 The church clock now began to strike. 
 
 " I shall be home again before long, Alice. 
 Promise me that you will be my bride before 
 these clocks strike out a year again !" 
 
 '^ I promise." 
 
 The clock was still striking. 
 
 He grasped the vine with both his hands, 
 and climbed up to the window where I stood. 
 
 " Kiss me, Alice — kiss me on the lips be- 
 fore I go ! I must be in London by daylight; 
 and the chaise waits for me in the road. One 
 kiss, my life ! — one kiss at parting !" 
 
 He was hanging to the window by his 
 hands ; I laid mine upon them, for he could 
 not remove them to clasp my fingers in his ; 
 and then, bending down, I kissed him for the 
 first and only time.
 
 218 MISS CAKEW. 
 
 At that instant, the joy-bells rang out their 
 merry chimes like a chorus of laughing voices 
 — his hands slipped away beneath mine — he 
 dropped down upon the snowy path below, 
 and, crying aloud to me, ^^ A happy new year, 
 my darling," ran swiftly along the road, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 How long I stood there at the open window 
 listening to the bells, I know not ; but when I 
 returned to my seat, the fire had gone out, and 
 the candle was expiring in the socket. 
 
 I have but little more to tell ; and yet 
 I feel that I would fain write on and on, 
 and still defer the story of my sorrow. 
 But it must be said, and a very few words 
 will suffice to relate it. 
 
 The promised letter never came. 
 
 The weary, weary months passed by ; the 
 spring-time came and went ; the golden 
 summer brought its flowers, the autumn its 
 fruits ; and yet I never heard from him. Life
 
 TWO new-year's days. 219 
 
 grew stale and heavy for me ; hope died 
 slowly from my heart ; a dull, listless melan- 
 choly took possession of my whole soul ; and 
 I only wished to die. 
 
 Then the winter came again with all its 
 varied aspects, and my only comfort was in 
 wandering where I had wandered a year 
 since with him — in recalling each word that 
 he had uttered — in reading once more each 
 book that I had read with him. Christmas- 
 day passed by. If I had had any hope 
 left, it faded from me when this day was past ; 
 "for surely," I thought, "were he still alive, 
 he would have written to me now." 
 
 The New-Year's-eve was come again ; a 
 foggy, misty night, unlike the last. I was 
 sitting by my fireside with my head buried 
 in my hands, too miserable for tears, wlien 
 a letter was brought to me — a letter 
 written in an unknown hand ; a letter which 
 had been directed and re-directed many times.
 
 220 MISS CAREW. 
 
 and which bore the postage marks of many- 
 places. A dread came upon me^ for again I 
 felt that here was something concerning him 
 whom I loved. For several moments 1 dared 
 not open it, and having opened it, it was 
 some time before I dared to read it. This 
 was what it told me : — 
 
 " Madam, — It has devolved upon me to 
 inform you of the painful intelligence of the 
 
 death of Mr. B , of . He was taken 
 
 seriously ill during the voyage to Madeira, 
 and expired before we reached the port of 
 Funchal. I enclose a piece of his hair and 
 this ring, which he was in the habit of wear- 
 ing. 
 
 I am, Madam, &c., &c." 
 
 You see that my story is but a common- 
 place one, after all ; but perhaps, now that 
 you have heard it, you will not be surprised
 
 TWO NEW- year's DAYS. 221 
 
 when I say that New-Year's-day was the 
 happiest, and is the most sorrowful of my 
 life.
 
 222 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 
 
 IITY father was a trader and distiller at Schie- 
 dam, on the Maas. Without being 
 wealthy, we enjoyed the means of procuring 
 every social comfort. We gave and received 
 visits from a few old friends ; we w5nt occa- 
 sionally to the theatre ; and my father had his 
 tulip-garden and summer-house at a little dis- 
 tance from Schiedam, on the banks of the canal 
 which connects the town with the river. 
 
 But my father and mother, whose only child 
 I was, cherished one dream of ambition, in
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 223 
 
 which, fortunately, my own tastes led me to 
 participate : they wanted me to become a 
 painter. ^' Let me but see a picture by Franz 
 Linden in the gallery at Rotterdam, " said my 
 father, " and I shall die happy." So, at four- 
 teen years of age, I was removed from school, 
 and placed in the classes of Messer Kesler, an 
 artist living at Delft. Here 1 made such 
 progress, that by the time I had reached my 
 nineteenth birthday, I was transferred to the 
 atelier of Hans van Eoos, a descendant of the 
 celebrated family of that name. Yan Eoos was 
 not more than thirty-eight or forty years of age, 
 and had already acquired a considerable reputa- 
 tion asapainterof portraits and sacred subjects. 
 There was an altar-piece of his in one of our 
 finest churches ; his works had occupied the 
 place of honour for the last six years at the 
 annual exhibition ; and for portraiture he num- 
 bered among his patrons most of the wealthy 
 merchants and burgomasters of the city. In-
 
 224 MISS CAREW. 
 
 deed, there could be no question that my 
 master was rapidly acquiring a fortune com- 
 mensurate with his popularity. 
 
 Still he was not a cheerful man. It was 
 whispered by the pupils that he had met with 
 a disappointment early in life — that he had 
 loved, been accepted, and, on the eve of mar- 
 riage, was rejected by the lady for a more 
 wealthy suitor. He came from Friesland, 
 in the north of Holland, when a very young 
 man. He had always been the same 
 gloomy, pallid, labour-loving citizen. He 
 was a rigid Calvinist. He was sparing of do- 
 mestic expenditure, and liberal to the poor : — 
 this every one could tell you, and no one 
 knew more. 
 
 The number of his pupils was limited to 
 six. He kept us constantly at work, and 
 scarcely permitted us to exchange a word 
 with each other during the day. Standing 
 there among us so silently, with the light 
 from above pouring down upon his. pallid face,
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 225 
 
 and, becoming absorbed in the sombre folds of 
 his long black dressing-gown, he looked almost 
 like some stern old portrait himself. To tell 
 the truth, we were all somewhat afraid of him. 
 Not that he assumed any undue authority : 
 on the contrary, he was stately, silent, and 
 frigidly polite ; but his politeness had in it 
 something oppressive, and we were all hap- 
 pier out of his presence. None of us re- 
 sided under his roof. I had a second 
 floor in a neighbouring street, and two of my 
 fellow-students occupied rooms in the same 
 house. We used to meet at night in each 
 other's chambers, and make excursions to the 
 exhibitions and theatres ; and sometimes, on 
 a summer's evening, we would hire a pleasure- 
 boat, and row for a mile or two down the 
 river. We were merry enough then, and not 
 quite so silent, I promise you, as in the gloomy 
 studio of Hans van Roos. 
 
 In the meantime, I was anxious to 
 glean every benefit from my master's in- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 MISS CAREW. 
 
 structions. I improved rapidly, and my 
 paintings soon excelled those of the other 
 five. My taste did not incline to sacred sub- 
 jects, like that of Van Roos; but rather to the 
 familiar rural style of Berghem and Paul 
 Potter. It was my great delight to wander 
 along the rich pasture-lands ; to watch the 
 amber sunset ; the herds going home to the 
 dairy; the lazy wind-mills; and the calm clear 
 waters of the canals, scarcely ruffled by the 
 passage of the public treckschuyt.^ In depict- 
 ing scenes of this nature — 
 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail — 
 
 I was singularly fortunate. My master never 
 praised me by word or look ; but when my 
 father came up one day from Schiedam to 
 visit me, he drew him aside and told him, in 
 a voice inaudible to the rest, that '' Messer 
 Franz would do credit to the profession ;" 
 which so delighted the good distiller, that he 
 
 * Canal boat.
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 227 
 
 straightway took me out with him for the day, 
 and, having given me fifteen gold pieces as a 
 testimony of his satisfaction, took me to dine 
 with his friend the burgomaster, Yon Gael. 
 It was an eventful visit for me. On that 
 evening I first fell in love. 
 
 Few people, I think, would at that time 
 have denied the personal attractions of Ger- 
 trude von Gael; yet I do not know that it 
 was so much her features as her soft yoice 
 and gentle womanly grace that fascinated 
 me. Though so young, she performed the 
 honours of her father's princely table with 
 self-possession and good-breeding. In the 
 evening she sang some sweet German songs to 
 her own simple accompaniment. We talked 
 of books and of poetry. I found her well read 
 in English, French, and German literature. 
 We spoke of art ; and she discovered both' 
 judgment and enthusiasm. 
 
 As we took our leave at night, the burgo- 
 master shook me warmly by the hand, and 
 
 q2
 
 228 MISS CAREW. 
 
 told me to come often. I fancied that Ger- 
 trude's blue eyes brightened when he said it, 
 and I felt the colour rush quickly to my brow 
 as I bowed and thanked him. 
 
 " Franz/' said my father, when we were 
 once more in the street, " how old are you ?" 
 
 " Just twenty-two, sir," I replied, rather 
 surprised at the question. 
 
 "You will not be dependent on your brush, 
 my boy," continued my father, as he leaned 
 upon my arm and looked back at the lofty 
 mansion we had just left. " I have been 
 neither wasteful nor unsuccessful ; and it will 
 be my pride to leave you a respectable income 
 at my death." 
 
 I inclined my head in silence, and wondered 
 what would come next. 
 
 " Burgomeister von Gael is one of my oldest 
 friends," said my father. 
 
 *'I have often heard you speak of him, sir," 
 I replied. 
 
 *'And he is rich."
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 229 
 
 " So I should suppose.'^ 
 
 " Gertrude will have a fine fortune/' said 
 my father, as if thinking aloud. 
 
 I bowed again, but this time rather ner- 
 vously. 
 
 *^ Marry her, Franz.'' 
 
 I dropped his arm, and started back. 
 
 "Sir!" I faltered, " I— I— marry the Frau- 
 lein von Gael I" 
 
 " And pray, sir, why not ?" said my father 
 curtly, stopping short in his walk, and lean- 
 ing both hands upon the top of his walking- 
 stick. 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 *' Why not, sir ?" repeated my father very 
 energetically. " What could you wish for 
 better ? The young lady is handsome, good- 
 tempered, educated, rich. TsTow, Franz, if I 
 thought you had been such a fool as to form 
 any other attachment without ..." 
 
 " Oh, sir, you do me injustice !" I cried. 
 " Indeed, I have done nothing of the kind.
 
 230 MISS CAREW. 
 
 But do you tliink that — that she would have 
 me?'' 
 
 '^ Try her, Franz/' said my father good-hu- 
 mouredly, as he resumed my arm. '^ If I am 
 not very much mistaken, the burgomeister 
 would be as well pleased as myself ; and as for 
 the fraulein — women are easily won." 
 
 We had by this time reached the door of 
 the inn where my father was to sleep for the 
 night. As he left me, his last words 
 
 were 
 
 ^ Try her, Franz — try her.'' 
 From this time I became a frequent visitor 
 at the house of the Burgomeister von Gael. It 
 was a large old-fashioned mansion, built of red 
 brick, and situated upon the famous line of 
 houses known as the Boompjes. In front lay 
 the broad river, crowded with merchant 
 vessels, from whose masts fluttered the flags 
 of all the trading nations of the world. Tall 
 trees, thick with foliage, lined the quays,
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 231 
 
 and the sunlight flickered through their leaves 
 upon the spacious drawing-rooms of Gertrude's 
 home. 
 
 Here, night after night, when the studies 
 of the day were over, I used to sit with her 
 beside the open window, w^itching the busy 
 crowd beneath, the rippling river, and the 
 rising moon that tipped the masts and 
 city spires with silver. Here w^e read to- 
 gether from the pages of our favourite 
 poets, and counted the first pale stars that 
 trembled into light. 
 
 It w^as a happy time. But there came at 
 last a time still happier, when, one still even- 
 ing as we sat alone, conversing in unfrequent 
 whispers, and listening to the beating of each 
 other's hearts, I told Gertrude that I loved 
 her ; and she, in answer, laid her fair head 
 upon my shoulder with a sweet confidence, 
 as if content so to rest for ever. Just as 
 my father had predicted, the burgomaster
 
 232 MISS CAREW. 
 
 readily sanctioned our betrothal, specifying 
 but one condition, and this was that our mar- 
 riage should not take place till I had attained 
 my twenty-fifth year. It was a long time to 
 wait: but I should by that time, perhaps, 
 have made a name in my profession. I in- 
 tended soon to send a picture to the annual 
 exhibition — and who could tell what I might 
 not do in three years to show Gertrude how 
 dearly I loved her ! 
 
 And so our happy youth rolled on, and the 
 quaint old dial in Messer von Gael's tulip- 
 garden told the passage of our golden hours. 
 In the meantime, I worked sedulously at my 
 picture. I laboured upon it all the winter ; 
 and when spring-time came, I sent it in, with 
 no small anxiety as to its probable position 
 upon the walls of the gallery. It was a view 
 in one of the streets of Rotterdam. There 
 were the high old houses with their gables and 
 carven doorways, and the red sunset glitter- 
 ing on the panes of the upper windows —
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 233 
 
 the canal flowing down the centre of the street 
 — the white drawbridge, with a barge just 
 passing underneath — the green trees deep in 
 shadow, and the spire of the Church of St. Law- 
 rence rising beyond, against the clear warm sky. 
 When it was quite finished and about to be 
 sent away, even Hans van Koos nodded a cold 
 encouragement, and said that it deserved a 
 good position. He had himself prepared a 
 painting this year, on a more ambitious scale 
 and a larger canvas than usual. It was a 
 sacred subject, and represented the Conversion 
 of St. Paul. His pupils admired it warmly, 
 and none more than myself. We all pro- 
 nounced it to be his masterpiece, and the 
 artist was evidently of our opinion. 
 
 The day of exhibition came at last. I had 
 scarcely slept the previous night ; and the 
 early morning found me, with a number of 
 other students, waiting impatiently before the 
 yet unopened door. When I arrived, it 
 wanted an hour to the time, but half the day
 
 234 MISS CAREW. 
 
 seemed to elapse before we heard the heavy 
 bolts give way inside, and then forced our 
 Avay through the narrow barriers. I had 
 flown up the staircase, and found myself 
 in the first room, before I remembered 
 that I should have purchased a catalogue 
 at the door. I had not patience, however, 
 to go back for it ; so I strode round and 
 round the room, looking eagerly for my pic- 
 ture. It was nowhere to be seen; and I passed 
 on to the next. Here my search was equally 
 unsuccessful. 
 
 " It must be in the third room," I said to 
 myself, ^^ where all the best works are placed! 
 Well, if it be hung ever so high, or in ever so 
 dark a corner, it is, at all events, an honour 
 to have one's picture iii the third room !" 
 
 But, though I spoke so bravely, it was with 
 a sinking heart I ventured in. I could not 
 really hope for a good place among the mag- 
 nates of the art ; while in either of the other 
 rooms there had been a possibility that my
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 235 
 
 picture might receive a tolerable position. 
 The house had formerly been the mansion 
 of a merchant of enormous wealth, who had 
 left it, with his valuable collection of paintings, 
 to the State. The third room had been his 
 reception-chamber, and the space over the 
 magnificently carved chimney was assigned, 
 as the place of honour, to the best paint- 
 ing. The painter of this picture always 
 received a costly prize, for which he 
 was likewise indebted to the munificence 
 of the founder. To this spot, my eyes were 
 naturally turned as I entered the door. Was 
 I dreaming ? I stood still — I turned hot and 
 cold by turns — I ran forward. It was no illu- 
 sion ! There was my picture, my own picture, 
 in its little modest frame, installed in the 
 chief place of the gallery ! And there, too, 
 was the official card stuck in the corner, 
 with the words " Prize Painting," printed 
 upon it in shining gold letters. I ran 
 down the staircase and bought a catalogue.
 
 236 MISS CAREW. 
 
 that my eyes might be gladdened by the con- 
 firmation of this joy ; and there, sure enough, 
 was printed at the very commencement: "An- 
 nual Prize Painting — View in Rotterdam, No 
 127 — Franz Linden." I could have wept for 
 delight. I was never tired of looking at my 
 picture. I walked from one side to the other 
 — I retreated — I advanced closer to it — I 
 looked at it in every possible light, and forgot 
 all but my happiness. 
 
 " A very charming little painting, sir," 
 said a voice at my elbow. 
 
 It was an elderly gentleman, with gold 
 spectacles and an umbrella. I coloured up, 
 and said falteringly — 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "I do, sir," said the old gentleman. "I 
 am an amateur — I am very fond of pictures. 
 I presume that you are also an admirer of 
 art?" 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 " Very nice little painting, indeed ; ve-ry
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 237 
 
 nice/' he continued, as he wiped his glasses, 
 and adjusted them with the air of a connois- 
 seur. " Water very liquid, colours pure, sky 
 transparent, perspective admirable. I'll buy 
 it." 
 
 '' Will you ?" I exclaimed, joyfully. ^' Oh ! 
 thank you, sir I" 
 
 " Oh," said the old gentleman, turning 
 suddenly upon me and smiling kindly, " so 
 you are the artist, are you ? Happy to make 
 your acquaintance, Messer Linden. You are 
 a very young man to paint such a picture as 
 that. I congratulate you sir ; and — I'll buy 
 it." 
 
 So we exchanged cards, shook hands, and 
 became the best friends in the world. I was 
 burning with impatience to see Gertrude, and 
 tell her all my good fortune; but my new patron 
 took my arm, and said that he must make the 
 tour of the rooms in my company ; so I was 
 forced to comply. 
 
 We stopped before a large painting that
 
 238 MISS CAREW. 
 
 occupied the next best situation to mine : it 
 was my master's work, the Conversion of St. 
 Paul. While I was telling him of my 
 studies in the atelier of the painter, a 
 man started from before us, and glided 
 away ; but not before I had recognised 
 the pale countenance of Van Roos. There 
 was something in the expression of his face 
 that shocked me, something that stopped my 
 breath, and made me shudder. What was it ? 
 I scarcely knew ; but the glare of his dark 
 eyes and the quivering passion of his lip 
 haunted me for the rest of the day, and came 
 back again in my dreams. I said nothing of 
 it to Gertrude that afternoon, but it had effec- 
 tually sobered my exultation. I dreaded, 
 next day, to return to the studio ; but, to my 
 surprise, my master received me as he never 
 had received me before. He advanced, and ex- 
 tended his hand to me. 
 
 ^' Welcome, Franz Linden," he said, smiling; 
 " I am proud to call you my pupil."
 
 THE TAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 239 
 
 The hand was cold — the voice was harsh — 
 the smile was passionless. My companions 
 crowded round, and congratulated me ; and 
 in the warm tones of tlieir young, cheerful 
 voices, and the close pressure of their friendly 
 hands, I forgot all that had troubled me in the 
 manner of Van Roos. 
 
 Not long after this event, Gertrude's 
 father desired to have her portrait painted — 
 to console him for her absence, he said, when 
 I should be so wicked as to take her away 
 from him. I recommended my old master, 
 whose tutelage I had recently left ; and Van 
 Roos was summoned to fulfil a task that I 
 would gladly have performed, had it been 
 in my power to do so. But portraiture 
 was not my line. I could paint a sleek, 
 spotted milch cow, or a drove of sheep, far 
 better than the fair skin and golden curls of 
 my darling Gertrude. 
 
 She could not endure the artist from the 
 first. In vain I reasoned with her — all
 
 240 MISS CAREW. 
 
 was of no use ; and she used to say, at the 
 end of every such conversation, that she 
 wished the portrait were finished, and that 
 she could no more help disliking him than — 
 than she could help loving me. So our argu- 
 ments always ended with a kiss. 
 
 But this portrait took a long time. Van 
 Eoos was in general a rapid painter; yet 
 Gertrude's likeness progressed at a very slow 
 pace, and, like Penelope's web, seemed never 
 to be completed. One morning I happened 
 to be in the room — a rare event at that time, 
 for I was hard at work upon my new landscape ; 
 and I was struck by the change that had come 
 over my late master. He was no longer 
 the same man. There was a light in his eye, 
 and a vibration in his voice, that I had 
 never observed before ; and when he rose to 
 take leave, there was a studied courtesy in his 
 bow and manner that took me quite by sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Still, I never suspected the truth, and still
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 241 
 
 the portrait was as far as ever from being 
 finished. 
 
 It all came out at last ; and one morning 
 Hans van Eoos made a formal offer of his 
 hand and heart. Of course, he was re- 
 fused. 
 
 " But as kindly as was possible, dear 
 Franz/' she said, when she told me in the 
 evening ; " because he is your friend, and 
 because he seemed to feel it so deeply. And 
 — and you don't know how dreadfully white 
 he turned, and how he tried to restrain his 
 tears. I pitied him, Franz — indeed, I was 
 very sorry V' 
 
 And the gentle creature could scarcely keep 
 from weeping herself as she told me. 
 
 I did not see Van Eoos for some months 
 after this disclosure. At last I met him acci- 
 dentally in front of the stadthouse, and, to my 
 surprise, for the second time in his life, he 
 held out his hand. 
 
 ^^ A good day to you, Messer Linden," said 
 
 VOL. I. It
 
 242 MISS CAREW. 
 
 he. ^^ I hear that you are on the liigh road 
 to fame and fortune." 
 
 " I have been very prosperous, Messer van 
 Eoos," I replied, taking the proffered hand. 
 " But I never forget that I owe my pre- 
 sent proficiency to the hours spent in your 
 atelier.' 
 
 A peculiar expression flitted over his 
 face. 
 
 " If I thought that/' said he, hastily, '' I 
 . . . Ishould esteem myself particularly happy." 
 
 There was so odd a difference in the way 
 in which he uttered the beginning and end of 
 this sentence — so much hurry and passion in 
 the first half, such deliberate politeness in the 
 last, that I started and looked him* full in the 
 face. He was as smiling and impenetrable as 
 a marble statue. 
 
 " I, too, have been fortunate," he said, 
 after a moment's pause. *' Have you seen 
 the new church lately built near the east end 
 of the Haring-vliet ?"
 
 THE PAINTER OFROTTERDAM. 243 
 
 I replied that I had observed it in passing, 
 hut had not been inside. 
 
 " I have been entrusted," he said, "with the 
 superintendence of the interior decorations. 
 My ^ Conversion of St. Paul ' is purchased 
 for the altar-piece, and I am now engaged in 
 painting a series of frescoes upon the ceiling. 
 Will you come in one day, and give me your 
 opinion upon them ?" 
 
 I professed myself much flattered, and ap- 
 pointed to visit him in the church on the 
 following morning. He was waiting for me 
 at the door when I arrived, with the heavy 
 keys in his hand. We passed in, and he 
 turned the key in the lock. 
 
 " I always secure myself against intruders," 
 he said, smiling. " People will come into the 
 church if I leave the doors unfastened ; and I 
 do not choose to carry on my art, like a sign- 
 painter, in the presence of every blockhead 
 who chooses to stand and stare at me." 
 
 It was surprising in what a disagreeaole 
 
 r2
 
 244 MISS CAREW. 
 
 manner this man shewed his teeth when he 
 smiled. 
 
 The church was a handsome building, in 
 that Italian style which imitates the antique, 
 and prefers grace and magnificence to the 
 dignified sanctity of the Gothic order. A row 
 of elegant Corinthian columns supported the 
 roof at each side of the nave ; gilding and 
 decorative cornices were lavished in every 
 direction ; the gorgeous altar-piece already 
 occupied its appointed station ; and a little 
 to the left of the railed space where the com- 
 munion-table was to be placed, a lofty scafibld- 
 ing was erected, that seemed, from where I 
 stood, almost to come in contact with the 
 roof, and above which I observed the yet 
 unfinished sketch of a masterly fresco. Three 
 or four more, already completed, were sta- 
 tioned at regular intervals, and some others 
 were merely outlined in charcoal upon their 
 intended site. 
 
 ^^ Will you not come up with me ?" asked
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 245 
 
 the painter, when I had expressed my ad- 
 miration sufficiently ; * or are you afraid of 
 turning giddy ?" 
 
 I felt some\Yhat disinclined to impose this 
 trial on my nerves, but still more disinclined 
 to confess it ; so I followed him up from flight 
 to flight of the frail structure, without once 
 daring to look down. 
 
 At last we reached the summit. As I had 
 supposed, there was not even room enough 
 for the artist to assume a sitting posture, and 
 he had to paint while lying on his back. I 
 had no fancy to extend myself on this lofty 
 couch ; so I only lifted my head above the 
 level of his flooring, looked at the fresco, and 
 descended immediately to the flight beluw, 
 where I waited till he rejoined me. 
 
 *^ How dangerous it must be," said I, shud- 
 dering, ^' to let yourself down from that abo- 
 minable perch I" 
 
 " I used to think so at first," he replied, 
 ^' but I am now^ quite accustomed to it.
 
 24:6 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Fancy/' said be, approaching close to the edge 
 of the scaffolding — ''- fancy falling from here 
 into the church below !" 
 
 "Horrible!" cried I. 
 
 " I wonder how high it is from the level of 
 the pavement," continued Van Roos musingly ; 
 " a hundred and eighty feet, I daresay — per- 
 haps two hundred." 
 
 I drew back, giddy at the thought. 
 
 " No man could survive such a fall," said 
 the painter, still looking over. " The thickest 
 skull would be dashed to atoms on the mar- 
 ble down there." 
 
 " Pray, come away," said I, hastily. " My 
 head swims at the very idea." 
 
 "• Does it ?" said he, turning suddenly upon 
 me with the voice and eye of a hend — " does 
 it ? Fool !" he cried as he seized me round 
 the body in his iron clasp — " fool, to trust 
 yourself here with me — me whom you have 
 wronged, whose life you have blasted ! — me 
 whom you have crossed in fame and in love !
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 247 
 
 Down, wretch, down ! I've vowed to have 
 your blood, and my time has come !" 
 
 It sickens me even now to recall that des- 
 perate struggle. At the first word, I had 
 sprung back and seized a beam above my head. 
 He strove to tear me from it. He foamed 
 at the mouth ; the veins rose like knots upon 
 his forehead; and still — though I felt my wrists 
 strained and my fingers cruelly lacerated — 
 still I held on with the terrible energy of one 
 who struggles for dear life. It lasted a long 
 time — at least it seemed long to me — and 
 the scaffolding rocked beneath our feet. At 
 length I saw^ his strength failing. Suddenly 
 I loosed my hold, and threw my whole weight 
 upon him. He staggered — he shrieked — he 
 fell! 
 
 I dropped upon my face in mute horror. 
 An age of silence seemed to elapse, and the 
 cold dews stood upon my brow. Presently I 
 heard a dull sound far below. I crawled to 
 the brink of the scaffolding, and looked over
 
 248 MISS CAREW. 
 
 — a shapeless mass was lying on the mar- 
 hie pavement, and all around it was red with 
 hlood. 
 
 I think an hour must have elapsed before 
 I could summon courage to descend. When, 
 at length, I reached the level ground, I turned 
 my face from what was so near my feet, and 
 tottered to the door. With trembling hands 
 and misty eyes, I unlocked it, and rushed 
 into the street. 
 
 It was many months before I recovered 
 from the brain fever brought on by that ter- 
 rible day. My ravings, I have been told, 
 were fearful ; and had any doubt existed 
 in the minds of men as to which of us two 
 had been the guilty one, those ravings were 
 alone sufficient to establish my innocence. A 
 man in a delirious fever is pretty sure to 
 speak the truth. By the time I was able to 
 leave my chamber, Gertrude also had grown 
 pale and spiritless, and all unlike her former
 
 THE PAINTER OF ROTTERDAM. 249 
 
 self. Rotterdam was insupportable to me. I 
 found myself a hero of romance ; a lion ; a 
 thing to be stared after wherever I went — 
 all of which only served to shatter my nerves 
 still more. In short, change of air and scene 
 was recommended for us both ; so we thought 
 we could not do better than marry, and take 
 our wedding tour for the sake of our healths. 
 And I assure you, reader, it did us both a 
 great deal of good.
 
 250 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 
 
 TpMS is a charming place. It lies about 
 twelve miles to the south-east of Coblentz, 
 in the valley of the Lahn, — that miniature 
 Rhine, all bordered with orchards and vine- 
 yards, and steep wooded hills. The town 
 consists of one irregular line of hotels and 
 lodging-houses, with the mountains at the 
 back, the river in front, and long double rows 
 of acacias and lindens planted at each side of 
 the carriage-way. Swarms of donkeys with 
 gay saddles, attended by drivers in blue
 
 LOYE AND MONEY. 251 
 
 blouses and scarlet-trimmed caps, loiter be- 
 neath the trees, soliciting hire. The Duke 
 of Nassau's band plays alternate selections 
 from German, Italian, and French music 
 in the public garden. Fashionable invalids 
 are promenading. Gaming is going forward 
 busily in the Conversation-Haus alike daily 
 and nightly. Ladies are reading novels and 
 eating ices within hearing of the band ; or 
 go by, with coloured-glass tumblers in their 
 hands, towards the Kurhaus, where the hot 
 springs came bubbling up from their nauseous 
 sources down in the low vaulted galleries 
 filled with bazaar-like shops, loungers, touters, 
 and health-seekers. All is pleasure, indo- 
 lence, and flirtation. 
 
 To Ems, therefore, came the Herr Graff 
 von Steinberg — or, as we should say, the 
 Count von Steinberg — to drink the waters, 
 and while away a few weeks of the 
 summer season. He was a tall, fair, hand- 
 some young man ; an excellent specimen of
 
 252 MISS CAREW. 
 
 the German dragoon. You would never have 
 supposed, to look at him, that illness 
 could have brought him to Ems ; and 
 yet he suffered from two very serious 
 maladies, both of which, it was to be feared, 
 were incurable by any springs, medicinal or 
 otherwise. In a word he was hopelessly in 
 love, and desperately poor The case was 
 this : — His grandfather had left a large pro- 
 perty, which his father, an irreclaimable 
 gamester, had spent to the uttermost farthing. 
 The youth had been placed in the army, 
 through the interest of a friend. His 
 father was now dead ; the inheritance for 
 ever gone ; and he had absolutely nothing 
 beyond his pay as a captain of dragoons, and 
 the distant prospect of one day retiring with 
 the title and half- pay of major. A sorry 
 future for one who was disinterestedly and 
 deeply in love with one of the richest heiresses 
 in Germany ! 
 
 '^ Who marries my daughter will receive
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 253 
 
 with her a dowry of 200,000 florins, and I 
 shall expect her hushand to possess, at the 
 least, an equal fortune." 
 
 So said the Baron von Hohendorf, in cold 
 reply to the lover's timid declaration ; and 
 with these words still sounding in his ears, 
 weighing on his spirits, and lying by day and 
 night heavily upon his heart, came the Count 
 Ton Steinberg to seek forgetfulness, or, at 
 least, temporary amusement, at the Brunnen 
 of Ems. But in vain. Pale and silent, he 
 roamed restlessly to and fro upon the public 
 promenades, or wandered away to hide his 
 wretchedness in the forests and valleys 
 round about. Sometimes he would mingle 
 Avith the gay crowd in the Kurhaus, and 
 taste the bitter waters ; sometimes linger 
 mournfully round the tables of the gaming 
 company, gazing enviously, yet with a 
 kind of virtuous horror, at the glittering 
 heaps of gold, and the packets of crisp 
 yellow notes which there changed hands so
 
 254 MISS CAREW. 
 
 swiftly and in such profusion. But Albert 
 von Steinberg was no gambler. He had 
 seen and experienced the evil of that terrible 
 vice too keenly already in his own father, to 
 fall a prey to it himself. Years ago, he 
 had vowed never to play ; and kept his 
 oath. Even now, when he found himself, 
 as it might happen now and then, looking on 
 with some little interest at the gains and 
 losses of others, he would shudder, turn 
 suddenly away, and not return again for 
 days. Nothing could be more regular than 
 his mode of life. In the morning he took the 
 waters ; at noon he walked, or read, or 
 wrote ; in the evening he strolled out again 
 and heard the band, and by the time that all 
 the society of the place was assembled in the 
 ball-room or at the tables, he had returned to 
 his quiet lodgings, and, perhaps, already gone 
 to bed, in order that he might rise early the 
 next morning to study some scientific work, 
 or take a pedestrian excursion to the ruins
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 255 
 
 of some old castle within the limits of a long 
 walk. 
 
 It was a dull life for a young man — es- 
 pecially with that sweet, sad recollection of 
 Emma von Hohendorf pervading every 
 thought of the day. And all because 
 he was poor ! Was poverty a crime, he 
 asked himself, that he should be punished 
 for it thus ? He had a great mind to throw 
 himself off the rock where he was standing — 
 or to precipitate himself into the river, if it were 
 deep enough — or to go to the baron's own 
 castle-gate, and shoot himself — or — or, in 
 short, to do anything desperate, if it were 
 only sufficiently romantic ; for his hot young 
 German head, full of sentiment and Schiller, 
 would be content with nothing less than an 
 imposing tragedy. 
 
 He thought all this, sitting in a little fan- 
 tastic summer-house perched high up on a 
 ledge of steep rock just in front of the 
 gardens and public buildings. He looked
 
 256 MISS CAREW. 
 
 down at the gay company far beneath, and he 
 heard the faint music of the royal band. The 
 sun was just setting — the landscape was 
 lovely — life was still sweet, and he thought 
 that he would not commit suicide that even- 
 ing, at all events. So he went moodily down 
 the winding pathway, across the bridge, and, 
 quite by chance, wandered once more into the 
 Conversation Haus. The gaming was going 
 on, the glittering gold pieces were changing 
 hands, the earnest players sitting round as 
 usual. The sight only made him more unhappy. 
 
 '' Two hundred thousand florins !" he 
 thought to himself. ^' Two hundred thousand 
 florins would make me the happiest man on 
 earth, and I cannot get them. These men 
 win and lose two hundred thousand florins ten 
 times over in a week, and think nothing of 
 the good, the happiness, the wealth that sum 
 would be to numbers of their fellow-creatures. 
 What a miserable dog I am !'' 
 
 And he pulled his hat on fiercely, folded
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 257 
 
 his arms, and strode out of the rooms, taking 
 the road to his own lodging with so dismal an 
 air that the people in the streets turned and 
 looked after him, saying, " He has lost money 
 — we saw him come out of the gaming- 
 rooms." 
 
 " Lost money !" muttered he to himself, as 
 he went into his garret and locked the door. 
 '' Lost money, indeed ! I wish I had any to 
 lose." 
 
 And poor Albert von Steinberg fell asleep, 
 lamenting that the age of fairies and gnomes 
 had passed away. 
 
 His sleep was long, sound, dreamless — for 
 young men, in spite of love and poverty, 
 sleep pleasantly. He woke somewhat later 
 than he had intended, rubbed his eyes, yawned, 
 looked hazily at his watch, lay down again, 
 once more opened his eyes, and at last sprang 
 valiantly out of bed. 
 
 Is he still dreaming ? Is it an halluci- 
 nation ? Can he be mad ? No, it is real, 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 MISS CAREW. 
 
 true, wonderful ! There upon the table lies 
 a brilliant heap of golden pieces — hard, ring- 
 ing, real golden pieces, and he turns them 
 over, weighs them in his hands, lets them 
 drop through his fingers to test the evidence 
 of his senses. 
 
 How did they come there? That is the im- 
 portant question. He rings the bell violently, 
 once — twice — thrice. The servant runs up, 
 thinking some dreadful accident has occurred. 
 
 ^^ Some one has been here to call upon me 
 this morning ?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur." 
 
 " Indeed ! Somebody, then, has been up- 
 stairs since I have been asleep." 
 
 " No, Monsieur." 
 
 " Are you sure ?" 
 
 " Quite sure. Monsieur." 
 
 " Now speak the truth, Bertha ; some one 
 has been here. You are paid to deny it. Only 
 tell me who it was, and I will give you double 
 for your information."
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 259 
 
 The servant looked both alarmed and as- 
 tonished. 
 
 " Indeed there has not been a soul. Does 
 monsieur miss anything from his apartment ? 
 Shall I send for the gendarmes ? ^^ 
 
 The count looked searchingly in the girl's 
 face. She seemed wholly sincere and truth- 
 ful. He tried every means yet left — adroit 
 questions, insinuations, bribes, sudden accusa- 
 tions ; but in vain. She had seen no one — 
 heard no one. The door of the house was 
 closed, and had not been left open. No one 
 — absolutely no one — had been there. 
 
 Puzzled, troubled, bewildered, our young 
 friend dismissed her, believing, in spite of his 
 surprise, the truth of what she stated. He 
 then locked the door and counted the money. 
 
 Ten thousand florins ! not a groschen more 
 or less ! 
 
 Well, it was there; but whence it came 
 remained a mystery. 
 
 ^^ All mysteries clear themselves up in 
 
 s2
 
 260 MISS CAREW. 
 
 time," said he, as he locked the money up in 
 his bureau. '^ I daresay T shall find it all 
 out by-and-by. In the meantime I will not 
 touch a single florin of it." 
 
 He tried not to think of it, but it was so 
 strange a thing that he could not prevent it 
 running in his head. It even kept him awake 
 at night, and took away his appetite by day. 
 At last he began to forget it ; at all events, 
 he became used to it, and at the end of a 
 week it had ceased to trouble him. 
 
 About eight days from the date of this 
 occurrence he woke, as before, thinking of 
 Emma, and not at all of the money, when, on 
 looking round, lo ! there it was again. The 
 table was once more covered with glittering 
 gold ! 
 
 His first impulse was to run to the bureau 
 in which the first ten thousand florins were 
 stored away. Surely he must have taken 
 them out the night before, and forgotten to re- 
 place them. No, there they lay in the drawer
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 261 
 
 Tvhere he had hidden them, and there upon 
 the table was a second supply, larger, if any- 
 thing, than the first ! 
 
 Pale and trembling, he turned them over. 
 This time there were some notes — Prussian 
 and French — mingled with the gold. In all, 
 twelve thousand florins. 
 
 He had locked his door — could it be 
 opened from without by a skeleton key ? He 
 had a bolt fixed within, that very day. 
 Honest Albert von Steinberg ! he took as 
 much pains against fortune as others do 
 against robbery ! 
 
 Two days later, however, his invisible 
 benefactor came again ; and this time he found 
 himself fourteen thousand florins the richer. 
 It was an inexplicable prodigy ! Xo one could 
 have entered by the bolted door, or from the 
 window; for he lived in a garret on the fourth 
 story — or by the chimney, for the room was 
 heated by a stove, the funnel of which was 
 no thicker than his arm ? Was it a plot to
 
 262 MISS CAREAY. 
 
 ruin him ? or was he tempted by the powers 
 of evil ? He had a great mind to apply to 
 the police, or to a priest (for he was a good 
 Catholic), — still he thought he would wait a 
 little longer. After all, there might be more 
 unpleasant visitations ! 
 
 He went out, greatly agitated, and walked 
 about the entire day, pondering this strange 
 problem. Then he resolved, if ever it re- 
 curred, to state his case to the chef de police, 
 and to set a watch upon the house by night. 
 
 Full of this determination, he came home 
 and went to bed. In the morning, when he 
 woke, he found that Fortune had again 
 visited him. The first wonder of the thing 
 had now worn off ; so he rose, dressed him- 
 self, and sat down leisurely to count the 
 money over, before lodging his declaration at 
 the bureau de police. While he was engaged 
 in making up little rouleaux of gold, twenty in 
 each rouleau, there came a sudden knocking 
 at his door.
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 263 
 
 He had no friends in Ems. He started 
 like a guilty man, and threw an overcoat 
 hastily upon the table, so as to conceal the 
 gold. Could it be that this summons had 
 anything to do with the money ? Was he 
 
 suspected of something that . The knock 
 
 was repeated, this time more imperatively. 
 He opened the door. It was the Baron von 
 Hohendorf ! 
 
 *'* How ! The Baron von Hohendorf in 
 Ems ! I am rejoiced — this honour — I — pray 
 be seated." 
 
 The poor young dragoon's heart beat so 
 fast, and he trembled so with pleasure, 
 hope, and astonishment, that he could scarcely 
 speak. 
 
 The baron looked at him steadily, but 
 sternly ; thrust back the proffered chair ; and 
 took no notice of the extended hand. 
 
 ''Yes, Herr Count," he said drily. "I 
 arrived yesterday in this place. You did not 
 expect to see me."
 
 264 MISS CAREW. 
 
 '^ Indeed, no. It is a pleasure — a — delight 
 —a " 
 
 He was so agitated that he forgot his 
 visitor was standing, and sat down ; but rose 
 again directly. 
 
 " And yet I saw you, Herr Count, yester- 
 day evening, as you came out of the Conver- 
 sation-rooms." 
 
 " Me ? Indeed, sir, I never visited the 
 Conversation-rooms at all yesterday ; but I 
 am very sorry that I was not there, since I 
 should have had the honour of meeting you.'* 
 
 " Pardon me, Herr Count, I saw you. It 
 is useless to argue the point with me, for I 
 stood close behind your chair for the greater 
 part of an hour. Do you know why I am 
 here this morning in your apartment ?" 
 
 The young man blushed, faltered, turned 
 pale. He knew but one reason that could 
 have brought a visit from the baron. 
 Had he relented ? Could it be his generous 
 design to make two lovers' hearts happy by
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 265 
 
 granting that consent which he formerly re- 
 fused ? There were things more impossible. 
 The baron was capable of such goodness ! 
 Something to this effect he stammered in 
 broken sentences, his eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, and his hands playing nervously with 
 a pen. 
 
 The baron drew himself to his full height. 
 If he had looked stern before, he looked 
 furious now. For a few moments he could 
 hardly speak for rage. At last his wrath 
 broke forth. 
 
 *^ Impertinence such as this, Herr Count, 
 I did not expect ! I came here, sir, to give 
 some words of advice to your father's son — 
 to warn — to interpose, if possible, between 
 you and your destruction. I did not come 
 to be insulted !" 
 
 "Insulted, baron?'' repeated the young 
 man, somewhat haughtily. " I have said 
 nothing to call for such a phrase at your lips, 
 unless, indeed, my poverty insults you. The
 
 266 MISS CAREW. 
 
 richest man in this land could do no more 
 than love your daughter, and were she a 
 queen, the homage of the poorest would not 
 disgrace her." 
 
 ^^ Permit me to ask you one question. 
 What brings you to Ems ?" 
 
 The young man hesitated^ and the baron 
 smiled ironically. 
 
 ^^ I came, sir," he said at length, *' in 
 search of — I will confess it — in search of 
 peace, of forgetfulness, of consolation." 
 
 His Yoice broke : he looked down, and re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 The baron laughed aloud — a harsh mocking 
 laugh that caused Albert to raise his head 
 with a movement of sudden indignation. 
 
 ** I have not deserved this treatment at your 
 hands. Baron Hohendorf," he said, turning 
 towards the window. 
 
 *'A gambler deserves only the contempt of 
 honourable men," replied the baron. 
 
 ^' A gambler !" repeated Albert. " Good
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 267 
 
 heavens, sir ! I have never touched a card in 
 my life." 
 
 " What effrontery ! You forget, then, that 
 it is in my power to confront you with the 
 proof of your vice ; nay, at this instant to 
 confound and convict you. What gold is 
 this?" 
 
 And the old gentleman, whose eyes had 
 already detected the glimmer of the coin 
 beneath the coat, lifted the garment away 
 upon the end of his walking-stick. The lover 
 turned pale, and could not speak. 
 
 ^* Der Teufel! For a poor man you have, 
 it seems, a well-filled travelling purse ! Ah ! 
 you never play ! " 
 
 " Never, sir." 
 
 ^* Indeed ! Pray, then, if your gold be 
 not the fruit of the gaming-table, whence 
 comes it ?" 
 
 " I know not. You will not believe me, I 
 am aware; but I swear that I speak the truth. 
 This gold comes here, I know not how. This
 
 268 MISS CAREW. 
 
 is the fourth time I have found it upon 
 my table. I know not why it is here, who 
 brings it, or how it is brought. By my 
 honour as a gentleman and a soldier — by all 
 my hopes of happiness in this life or the next, 
 I am utterly ignorant of everything about it !'^ 
 
 " This is too much !" cried the baron, 
 furiously. '^ Do you take me for an idiot or 
 a dotard? Good morning to you, sir, and I 
 hope I may never see your face again !" 
 
 He slammed the door violently behind 
 him, and went away down the stairs, leaving 
 poor Yon Steinberg utterly overwhelmed and 
 broken-hearted. 
 
 '^ Cursed gold V^ he exclaimed, dashing it 
 upon the floor in his anger, ^* what brought 
 thee here, and why dost thou torment me !'' 
 
 Then the poor fellow thought of Emma, 
 and of how his last chance was wrecked ; 
 and he was so miserable, that he threw 
 himself upon his bed, and wept bitterly. All 
 at once he remembered that the baron had a
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 269 
 
 sister at Langenschwalbach ; she, perhaps, 
 would believe him, would intercede for him ! 
 He started up, resolved to go thither at once ; 
 hastily gathered together the scattered pieces 
 of money ; locked them up in the drawer 
 with the rest ; ran down to a neighbouring 
 carriage-stand ; hired a vehicle to convey 
 him to the railway-station, and in less than 
 half an hour was on his way. In about 
 three hours he arrived. He passed nearly 
 the whole day in trying to discover the lady's 
 address, and, when he had found it, was told 
 that she had been for the last two months at 
 Vienna. It was a foolish journey, with dis- 
 appointment at the end of it ! He came back 
 quite late in the evening to Ems, and entered 
 his own room, utterly broken down by anxiety 
 and fatigue. 
 
 In the meantime the baron, crimson with 
 rage, had returned to his hotel, and told all 
 the circumstances to his daughter. She 
 would not believe in the guilt of her lover.
 
 270 MISS CAREW. 
 
 " He a gambler !" she exclaimed. " It is 
 impossible !" 
 
 " But I saw the gold upon his table !" 
 *' He says he knows nothing of it, and he 
 never told an untruth in his life. It will all 
 be explained by-and-by.'^ 
 
 " But I saw him playing at the tables V* 
 ^^ It was some other who resembled him.'' 
 ^^ Will you believe it, if you see him your- 
 self?" 
 
 *^ I will, my father, and I will renounce 
 him for ever. But not till then." 
 
 ** Then you shall be convinced this even- 
 ing." 
 
 The evening came, and the rooms were 
 more than usually crowded. There was a 
 ball in the salon de danse ; supper in the 
 ante-room ; gaming, as usual, in the third 
 apartment. The Baron von Hohendorf was 
 there with his daughter and some friends. 
 They made their way to the tables, but he 
 whom they sought was not there. Eager
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 271 
 
 faces enough were there around the board — 
 faces of old women, cunning and avaricious ; 
 faces of pale dissipated boys, scarce old 
 enough, one would have thought, to care for 
 any games save those of the school-ground ; 
 faces of hardened, cool, determined gamblers ; 
 faces of girls young and beautiful, and of men 
 old and feeble. Strange table, around which 
 youth and beauty, age, deformity, and vice, 
 meet on equal ground ! 
 
 Suddenly there was a movement at the far- 
 ther end of the room ; a whisper went round ; 
 the spectators made way, and the players drew 
 aside for one who now approached and took 
 his place amongst them. This deference is 
 shown only to those who play high and play 
 frequently. Who is this noted gambler? 
 Albert von Steinberg. 
 
 A cry of agony breaks from the pale lips of 
 a young girl at the other end of the room. 
 Alas ! it is too surely he ! He neither hears 
 nor heeds anything around him. He does not
 
 272 MISS CAREW. 
 
 even look towards her. He seats himself 
 very quietly, as a matter of course; takes some 
 rouleaux of gold and a packet of notes from 
 his pocket ; stakes a large sum ; and begins to 
 play with all the cool audacity of one whose 
 faith in his own luck is unshakeable, and who 
 is perfect master of the game. Besides this, 
 he carried his self-command to that point 
 which is only attained by years of prac- 
 tice. It was splendid to see him so impassive. 
 His features were fixed and inexpressive as 
 those of a statue ; the steady earnestness of 
 his gaze had something terrible in it ; his very 
 movements were scarcely those of a man liable 
 to human frailties and human emotions ; and 
 the right hand with which he staked and 
 swept up the gold, was stiff and passionless as 
 that of the commandant in Don Giovanni. 
 
 The baron could contain his indignation no 
 longer. Leaving his daughter with her friends, 
 he made his way round the tables, and ap- 
 proached the young man's chair. He extended
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 273 
 
 his hand to seize the player's arm, when his 
 own was forcibly caught and held back. He 
 turned, and saw a celebrated Prussian phy- 
 sician standing beside him. 
 
 '' Stop, for heaven's sake !" he exclaimed. 
 ^'Do not speak to him. You know not the 
 injury you might do him !" 
 
 ^^ That is exactly my object. I'll spoil his 
 game for him, the unprincipled hypocrite !" 
 
 ''You will kill him," 
 
 '' Absurd !" 
 
 '' I am perfectly serious. Look at him. 
 He sleeps ! A sudden shock might be his death. 
 You cannot see this, but I can. I have studied 
 this thing narrowly, and I never beheld a 
 more remarkable case of somnambulism." 
 
 The physician continued for some time con- 
 versing with the baron in an under tone. 
 Presently the bank gave the signal ; the 
 players rose ; the tables closed for that even- 
 ing ; and the Count von Steinberg, gathering 
 up his enormous winnings, pushed back his 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 MISS CAREW. 
 
 chair and left the rooms, passing close before 
 the baron without seeing him. 
 
 They followed him down the street to his 
 own door. He entered by means of his latch- 
 key, and closed it behind him without a 
 sound. There was no light in his window — 
 no one stirring in the house. None but those 
 two had seen him enter. 
 
 The next morning, when he awoke, he 
 found a larger pile of gold than ever on his 
 table. He counted it with a shudder, and 
 told over 44,000 florins. 
 
 Again there came a knock at his chamber- 
 door. This time he did not even attempt to 
 conceal the money ; and when the baron and 
 physician entered, he was too unhappy even 
 to feel surprise at the sight of a stranger. 
 
 '^ You have again come to tell me that I 
 am a gambler !" he exclaimed, despairingly, 
 as he pointed to the gold, and leaned his head 
 listlessly upon his hands. 
 
 ** I say it, Count, because I saw it," replied
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 275 
 
 the baron ; *' but at the same time I come to 
 entreat your pardon for what passed at our 
 last interview. You have gambled ; but you 
 are no gambler." 
 
 "Yes," interrupted the physician; "for 
 somnambulists often perform the very actions 
 which they would most abhor, if in a waking 
 condition. But you are not a confirmed som- 
 nambulist. Yours is a mere functional de- 
 rangement, and I can easily cure you. But, 
 perhaps," he added, smiling, " you do not wish 
 to lose so profitable a malady. You may be- 
 come a millionnaire.'^ 
 
 "Nay, doctor!" cried the count, "I place 
 myself in your hands. Cure me, I entreat 
 you I" 
 
 "Well, well, there is time enough for that," 
 said the baron. " First of all, let us shake 
 hands, and be friends." 
 
 " I have so great a horror of phiy/' I'e- 
 plied the involuntary gambler, " that I shall 
 instantly restore this money to the bank. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MISS CAREW. 
 
 See, here are, altogether, 130,000 florins!" 
 ^' Take my advice, Albert," said the baron, 
 " and do no such thing. Suppose that in your 
 sleep you had lost 130,000 florins, do you 
 think the bank would have restored it to you ? 
 No, no ; entertain no such scruples. Your 
 father lost more than thrice that sum at those 
 very tables, — ^it is but a restitution in part. 
 Keep your florins, and return with me to my 
 hotel, where Emma is waiting to receive you. 
 You haA^e 130,000 there. I will excuse 
 the other 70,000 upon which I formerly in- 
 sisted, and you can make it up in love. Are 
 you content ; or must you restore the money 
 to the bank ?" 
 
 History has not recorded the lover's reply ; 
 at all events, he quitted Ems that same day in 
 company with the Baron von Hohendorf and 
 his pretty daughter. The prescriptions of the 
 learned physician have, it is said, already 
 affected a cure, and the Frankfort Journal
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 277 
 
 announces the approaching marriage of Frau- 
 lein von Hohendorf with Albert, Count Stein- 
 berg.
 
 278 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 NUMBER THREE. 
 
 T AM a plain man, and you may not dislike 
 to hear a plain statement of facts from me. 
 Some of those facts lie beyond my under- 
 standing. I do not pretend to explain them. 
 I only know that they happened as I relate 
 them, and that I pledge myself for the truth 
 of every word of them. 
 
 I began life roughly enough, down among 
 the Worcestershire Potteries. I was an or- 
 phan ; and my earliest recollections are 
 of a great porcelain manufactory, where 
 I helped about the yard, picked up what 
 halfpence fell in my way, and slept in a
 
 NUMBER THREE. 279 
 
 harness-loft over the stable. Those were hard 
 times ; but things bettered themselves as I 
 grew older and stronger, especially after 
 George Barnard had come to be foreman of 
 the yard. 
 
 George Barnard was a Wesleyan — we were 
 mostly dissenters in the Potteries — sober, 
 clear-headed, somewhat sulky and silent, but 
 a good fellow every inch of him, and my 
 best friend at the time when I most needed 
 one. He took me out of the yard, and set 
 me to the furnace-work. He entered me on 
 the books at a fixed rate of wages. He helped 
 me to pay for a little cheap schooling four 
 nights a week ; and he led me to go with him 
 on Sundays to the chapel down by the river- 
 side, where I first saw Leah Payne. She was 
 his sweetheart, and so pretty that I used to 
 forget the preacher and everybody else when 
 Hooked at her. When she joined in the sing- 
 ing, I heard no voice but hers. If she asked 
 me for the hymn-book, I used to blush and
 
 280 MISS CAREW. 
 
 tremble. I believe I worshipped her, in my 
 stupid ignorant way ; and I think I wor- 
 shipped Barnard almost as blindly, though 
 after a different fashion. I felt I owed him 
 everything. I knew that he had saved me, 
 body and mind ; and I looked up to him as a 
 savage might look up to a missionary. 
 
 Leah was the daughter of a plumber who 
 lived close by the chapel. She was twenty, 
 and George about seven or eight-and-thirty. 
 Some captious folks said there was too much 
 difference in their ages ; but she was so 
 serious-minded, and they loved each other so 
 earnestly and quietly, that, if nothing had 
 come between them during their courtship, I 
 don't believe the question of disparity would 
 ever have troubled the happiness of their mar- 
 ried lives. Something did come, however ; 
 and that something was a Frenchman called 
 Louis Laroche. He was a painter on porce- 
 lain, from the famous works at Sevres ; and 
 our master, it was said, had engaged him for
 
 NUMBER THREE. 281 
 
 three years certain, at such wages as none of 
 our own people, however skilful, could hope 
 to command. It was about the beginning or 
 middle of September when he first came among 
 us. He looked very young, w^as small, dark, and 
 well-made ; had little white soft hands, and a silky 
 moustache ; and spoke English nearly as well 
 as I do. Xone of us liked him ; but that was 
 only natural, seeing how he was put over the 
 head of every Englishman in the place. 
 Besides, though he w^as always smiling and 
 civil, we couldn't help seeing that he thought 
 himself ever so much better than the rest of 
 us ; and that was not pleasant. Neither was 
 it pleasant to see him strolling about the town, 
 dressed just like a gentleman, when working 
 hours were over ; smoking good cigars, when 
 we were forced to be content with a pipe of 
 common tobacco ; hiring a horse on Sunday 
 afternoons, when we were trudging afoot ; and 
 taking his pleasure as if the world was made 
 for him to enjoy, and us to work in.
 
 282 MISS CAREW. 
 
 " Ben, boy/^ said George, " there's some- 
 thing wrong about that Frenchman." 
 
 It was on a Saturday afternoon, and we 
 were sitting on a pile of empty seggars against 
 the door of my furnace-room, waiting till the 
 men should all have cleared out of the yard. 
 Seggars are deep earthen boxes in which the 
 pottery is put, while being fired in the kiln. 
 
 I looked up inquiringly. 
 
 " About the Count ?" said I ; for that was 
 the nickname by which he went in the 
 pottery. 
 
 George nodded, and paused for a moment 
 with his chin resting on his palms. 
 
 ^' He has an evil eye," said he, ^^ and a 
 false smile. Something wrong about him." 
 
 I drew nearer, and listened to George as if 
 he had been an oracle. 
 
 ^' Besides," added he, in his slow quiet way, 
 with his eyes fixed straight before him as if 
 he was thinking aloud, ^* there's a young look 
 about him that isn't natural. Take him just
 
 NUMBER THREE. 283 
 
 at sight, and you'd think he was almost a 
 boy ; but look close at him — see the little 
 fine wrinkles under his eyes, and the hard 
 lines about his mouth, and then tell me his 
 age, if you can ! Why, Ben, boy, he's as old 
 as I am, pretty near ; ay, and as strong, too. 
 You stare ; but I tell you that, slight as he 
 looks, he could fling you over his shoulder as 
 if you were a feather. And as for his hands, 
 little and white as they are, there are mus- 
 cles of iron inside them, take my word for 
 it." 
 
 " But, George, how can you know ?" 
 " Because I have a warning against him," 
 replied George, very gravely. '^ Because, 
 whenever he is by, I feel as if my eyes saw 
 clearer, and my ears heard keener, than at 
 other times. Maybe it's presumption, but I 
 sometimes feel as if I had a call to guard my- 
 self and others against him. Look at the 
 children, Ben, how they shrink away from 
 him ; and see there, now ! Ask Captain
 
 284 MISS CAREW. 
 
 what he thinks of him ! Ben, that dog likes 
 him no better than I do.'^ 
 
 I looked, and saw Captain crouching by his 
 kennel with his ears laid back, growling 
 audibly as the Frenchman came slowly down 
 the steps leading from his own workshop at 
 the upper end of the yard. On the last step 
 he paused, lighted a cigar, glanced round, 
 as if to see whether any one was by, and then 
 walked straight over to within a couple of 
 yards of the kennel. Captain gave a short 
 angry snarl, and laid his muzzle close down upon 
 his paws, ready for a spring. The French- 
 man folded his arms deliberately, fixed his 
 eyes on the dog, and stood calmly smoking. 
 He knew exactly how far he dared go, and 
 kept just that one foot out of harm's way. 
 All at once he stooped, puffed a mouthful of 
 smoke in the dog's eyes, burst into a mocking 
 laugh, turned lightly on his heel, and walked 
 away, leaving Captain straining at his chain, 
 and barking after him like a mad creature.
 
 NUMBER THREE. 285 
 
 Days went by, and I, at work in my own 
 department, saw no more of the Count. Sun- 
 day came — the third, I think, after I had 
 talked with George in the yard. Going Avith 
 George to chapel, as usual, in the morning, I 
 noticed that there was something strange and 
 anxious in his face, and that he scarcely 
 opened his lips to me on the way. Still I 
 said nothing. It was not my place to ques- 
 tion him ; and I remember thinking to myself 
 that the cloud would all clear off as soon as 
 he found himself by Leah's side, holding the 
 same book, and joining in the same hymn. It 
 did not, however, for no Leah was there. I 
 looked every moment to the door, expecting 
 to see her sweet face coming in ; but George 
 never lifted his eyes from his book, or seemed 
 to notice that her place was empty. Thus 
 the whole service went by, and my thoughts 
 wandered continually from the words of the 
 preacher. As soon as the last blessing was 
 spoken, and we were fairly across the thres-
 
 286 MISS CAREW. 
 
 hold, I turned to George, and asked if Leah 
 was ill ? 
 
 ^^No," said he, gloomily. '^ She's not 
 ill." 
 
 *^ Then why wasn't she ....?" 
 
 ** ril tell you why," he interrupted im- 
 patiently. ^^ Because you've seen her here 
 for the last time. She's never coming to 
 chapel again." 
 
 ^^ Never coming to chapel again ?" I fal- 
 tered, laying my hand on his sleeve in the 
 earnestness of my surprise. *' Why, George, 
 what is the matter ?" 
 
 But he shook my hand off, and stamped 
 with his iron heel till the pavement rang 
 again. 
 
 '^ Don't ask me," said he, roughly. " Let 
 me alone. You'll know soon enough." 
 
 And with this he turned off down a by-lane 
 leading towards the hills, and left me without 
 another word. 
 
 I had had plenty of hard treatment in my
 
 NUMBER THREE. 287 
 
 time ; but never, until that moment, an angry- 
 look or syllable from George. I did not know 
 how to bear it. That day my dinner seemed 
 as if it would choke me ; and in the afternoon 
 1 went out and wandered restlessly about the 
 fields till tlie hour for evening prayers came 
 round. I then returned to the chapel, and 
 sat down on a tomb outside, waiting for 
 George. I saw the congregation go in by 
 twos and threes ; heard the j5rst psalm-tune 
 echo solemnly through the evening stillness ; 
 but no George came. Then the service began, 
 and I knew that, punctual as his habits were, 
 it was of no use to expect him any longer. 
 Where could he be ? What could have hap- 
 pened ? Why should Leah Payne never come 
 to chapel again ? Had she gone over to some 
 other sect, and was that why George seemed 
 so unhappy? 
 
 Sitting there in the little dreary church- 
 yard, with the darkness fast gathering around 
 me, I asked myself these questions over and
 
 288 MISS CAREW. 
 
 over again, till my brain ached; for I was not 
 much used to thinking about anything in those 
 times. At last, I could bear to sit quiet no 
 longer. The sudden thought struck me that 
 I would go to Leah, and learn what the mat- 
 ter was from her own lips. I sprang to 
 my feet, and set off at once towards her 
 home. 
 
 It was quite dark, and a light rain was be- 
 ginning to fall. I found the garden-gate open, 
 and a quick hope flashed across me that 
 George might be there. I drew back for a 
 moment, hesitating whether to knock or ring, 
 when a sound of voices in the passage, and the 
 sudden gleaming of a bright line of light under 
 the door, warned me that some one was coming 
 out. Taken by surprise, and quite unprepared 
 for the moment with anything to say, I shrank 
 back behind the porch, and waited until those 
 within should have passed out. The door 
 opened, and the light streamed suddenly upon 
 the roses and the wet gravel.
 
 NUMBER THREE. 289 
 
 ^'It rains/' said Leah, bending forward and 
 shading the candle with her hand. 
 
 "And is as cold as Siberia." added another 
 voice, which was not George's, and yet sounded 
 strangely familiar. " Ugh ! what a climate 
 for such a flower as my darling to bloom 
 in !" 
 
 " Is it so much finer in France ?" asked 
 Leah, softly. 
 
 " As much finer as blue skies and sunshine 
 can make it. Why, my angel, even your 
 bright eyes will be ten times brighter, and 
 your rosy cheeks ten times rosier, when they 
 are transplanted to Paris. Ah ! I can give 
 you no idea of the wonders of Paris — the 
 broad streets planted with trees, the palaces, 
 the shops, the gardens ! — it is a city of en- 
 chantment." 
 
 " It must be, indeed !" said Leah. " And 
 you will really take me to see all those beauti- 
 ful shops ?" 
 
 " Every Sunday, my darling — Bah ! don't 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 MISS CAREW. 
 
 look so shocked. The shops in Paris are 
 always open on Sunday, and everybody makes 
 holiday. You will soon get over these pre- 
 judices." 
 
 '^ I fear it is very wrong to take so much 
 pleasure in the things of this world/' sighed 
 Leah. 
 
 The Frenchman laughed, and answered her 
 with a kiss. 
 
 ^' Good night, my sweet little saint! "said he, as 
 he ran lightly down the path, and disappeared 
 in the darkness. Leah sighed again, lingered 
 a moment, and then closed the door. 
 
 Stupefied and bewildered, I stood for some 
 seconds like a stone statue, unable to move, 
 scarcely able to think. A.i length, I roused 
 myself, as it were mechanically, and went 
 towards the gate. At that instant a heavy 
 hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a hoarse 
 voice close beside my ear, said : — 
 
 ''Who are you? What are you doing 
 here ?"
 
 NUMBER THREE. 291 
 
 It was George. I knew him at once, in 
 spite of the darkness, and stammered his 
 name. He took his hand quickly from my 
 shoulder. 
 
 " How long have you been here ?" said he, 
 fiercely. " What right have you to lurk 
 about, like a spy in the dark ? God help me, 
 Ben — I'm half mad. I don't mean to be harsh 
 to you." 
 
 *' I'm sure you don't," I cried, earnestly. 
 
 ^' It's that cursed Frenchman," he went on, 
 in a voice that sounded like the groan of one 
 in pain. " He's a villain. I know he's a 
 villain ; and I've had a warning against him 
 ever since the first moment he came among 
 us. He'll make her miserable, and break her 
 heart some day — my pretty Leah — and I 
 loved her so ! But I'll be revenged — as sure 
 as there's a God in heaven, I'll be revenged!" 
 
 His vehemence terrified me. I tried to 
 persuade him to go home ; but he would not 
 listen to me. 
 
 u2
 
 292 MISS CAREW. 
 
 '* No, no/' he said. '^ Go home yourself, 
 boy, and let me be. My blood is on fire : 
 this rain is good for me, and I am better 
 alone.'' 
 
 '^If I could only do something to help 
 you .... 
 
 "You can't," interrupted he. '^Nobody 
 can help me. I'm a ruined man, and I don't 
 care what becomes of me. The Lord forgive 
 me ! my heart is full of wickedness, and my 
 thoughts are the promptings of Satan. There 
 go — for heaven's sake, go. I don't know 
 what I say, or what I do." 
 
 I went, for I did not dare refuse any 
 longer ; but I lingered awhile at the corner 
 of the street, and watched him pacing to and 
 fro, to and fro, in the driving rain. At length 
 I turned reluctantly away, and went home. 
 
 I lay awake that night for hours, thinking 
 over the events of the day, and hating the 
 Frenchman from my very soul. I could not 
 hate Leah. I had worshipped her too long
 
 NUMBER THREE. 293 
 
 and too faithfully for that ; but I looked upon 
 her as a creature given over to destruction. 
 I fell asleep towards morning, and woke again 
 shortly after daybreak. When I reached the 
 pottery, I found George there before me, look- 
 ing very pale, but quite himself, and setting 
 the men to their work the same as usual. I 
 said nothing about Tvhat had happened the day 
 before. Something in his face silenced me ; 
 but seeing him so steady and composed, I 
 took heart, and began to hope he had fought 
 through the worst of his trouble. By-and-by 
 the Frenchman came through the yard, gay 
 and off-hand, with his cigar in his mouth, and 
 his hands in his pockets. George turned 
 sharply away into one of the workshops, and 
 shut the door. I drew a deep breath of re- 
 lief. My dread was to see them come to an 
 open quari'el ; and I felt that as long as they 
 kept clear of that all would be well. 
 
 Thus the Monday went by, and the Tues- 
 day ; but still George kept aloof from me. 1
 
 294 MISS CAREW. 
 
 had sense enough not to be hurt by this. I 
 felt he had a good right to be silent, if silence 
 helped him to bear his trial better; and I made 
 up my mind never to breathe another syllable 
 on the subject, unless he began. 
 
 Wednesday came. I had overslept myself 
 that morning, and came to work a quarter 
 after the hour, expecting to be fined ; for 
 George was very strict as foreman of the yard, 
 and treated friends and enemies just the same, 
 instead of blaming me, however, he called me 
 up, and said : — 
 
 ^^ Ben, whose turn is it this week to sit up ?'* 
 
 '' Mine, sir." I replied. (I always called 
 him " Sir " in working hours.) 
 
 " Well, then, you may go home to-day, and 
 the same on Thursday and Friday ; for there's 
 a large batch of work for the ovens to-night, 
 and there'll be the same to-morrow night and 
 the night after." 
 
 ^^All right, sir," said I. ^^Then I'll be 
 here by seven this evening."
 
 NUMBER THREE. 295 
 
 "No, half-past nine will be soon enongh. 
 I've some accounts to make up, and I shall be 
 here myself till then. Mind you are true to 
 time, though." 
 
 " ril be as true as the clock, sir," I replied, 
 and was turning away when he called me back 
 again. 
 
 *^ You're a good lad, Ben," said he. 
 '' Shake hands." 
 
 I seized his hand and pressed it warmly. 
 
 " If I'm good for anything, George," I an- 
 swered with all my heart, '^ it's you who have 
 made me so. God bless you for it !" 
 
 " Amen I" said he in a troubled voice, put- 
 ting his hand to his hat. 
 
 And so we parted. 
 
 In general, I went to bed by day when I 
 was attending to the firing by night ; but this 
 morning I had already slept longer than usual, 
 and wanted exercise more than rest. So I 
 ran home ; put a bit of bread and meat in my 
 pocket ; snatched up my big thorn stick ; and
 
 296 MISS CAREW. 
 
 started off for a long day in the country. 
 When I came home, it was quite dark and 
 beginning to rain, just as it had begun to rain 
 at about the same time that wretched Sunday 
 evening ; so I changed my wet boots, had an 
 early supper and a nap in the chimney-corner, 
 and went down to the works at a few minutes 
 before half -past nine. Arriving at the factory 
 gate, I found it ajar, and so walked in and 
 closed it after me. I remember thinking at 
 the time that it was unlike George's usual 
 caution to leave it so ; but it passed from my 
 mind next moment. Having slipped in the 
 bolt, then went straight over to George's 
 little counting-house, where the gas was shin- 
 ing cheerfully in the window. Here, also, 
 somewhat to my surprise, I found the door 
 open, and the room empty. I went in. The 
 threshold and part of the floor were wetted by 
 the driving rain. The wages-book was open 
 on the desk, George's pen stood in the ink, and 
 his hat hung on its usual peg in the corner.
 
 NUMBER THREE. 297 
 
 I concluded, of course, that he had gone round 
 to the ovens ; so, following him, I took down 
 his hat and carried it with me, for it was now 
 raining fast. 
 
 The baking-houses lay just opposite, on the 
 other side of the yard. There were three of 
 them, opening one out of the other ; and in 
 each the great furnace filled all the middle 
 of the room. These furnaces are, in fact, 
 large kilns built of brick, with an oven closed 
 in by an iron door in the centre of each, and 
 a chimney going up through the roof. The 
 pottery, enclosed in seggars, stands round in- 
 side on shelves, and has to be turned from 
 time to time while the firing is going on. To 
 turn these seggars, test the heat, and keep 
 the fires up, was my work at the period of 
 which I am now telling you. 
 
 Well ! I went through the baking-houses 
 one after the other, and found all empty alike. 
 Then a strange, vague, uneasy feeling came 
 over me, and I began to wonder what could
 
 298 MISS CAREW. 
 
 have become of George. It was possible that 
 he might be in one of the workshops ; so I ran 
 over to the counting-house, lighted a lantern, 
 and made a thorough survey of the yards. I 
 tried the doors ; they Avere all locked as usual. 
 I peeped into the open sheds ; they were all 
 vacant. I called '^ George ! George !" in 
 every part of the outer premises ; but the 
 wind and rain drove back my voice, and no 
 other voice replied to it. Forced at last to 
 believe that he was really gone, I took his hat 
 back to the counting-house, put away the 
 wages-book, extinguished the gas, and pre- 
 pared for my solitary watch. 
 
 The night was mild, and the heat in the 
 baking-rooms intense. I knew, by experience, 
 that the ovens had been overheated, and that 
 none of the porcelain must go in for at least 
 the next two hours ; so I carried my stool to 
 the door, settled myself in a sheltered corner 
 where the air could reach me, but not the 
 rain, and fell to wondering where George
 
 NUMBER THREE. 299 
 
 could have gone, and why he should not have 
 waited till the time appointed. That he had 
 left in haste was clear — not because his hat 
 remained behind, for he might have had a cap 
 with him — but because he had left the book 
 open, and the gas lighted. Perhaps one of 
 the workmen had met with some accident, 
 and he had been summoned away so urgently 
 that he had no time to think of anything ; 
 perhaps he would even now come back pre- 
 sently to see that all was right before he went 
 home to his lodgings. Turning these things 
 over in my mind, I grew drowsy, my thoughts 
 wandered, and I fell asleep. 
 
 I cannot tell how long my nap lasted. I 
 bad walked a great distance that day, and I 
 slept heavily ; but I awoke all in a moment, 
 with a sort of terror upon me, and, looking up, 
 saw George Barnard sitting on a stool before 
 the oven door, with the firelight full upon his 
 face. 
 
 Ashamed to be found sleeping, I started to
 
 300 MISS CAREW. 
 
 my feet. At the same instant, he rose, turned 
 away without even looking towards me, and 
 went out into the next room. 
 
 ^' Don't be angry, George !" I cried, follow- 
 ing him. ^' None of the seggars are in. I 
 knew the fires were too strong, and- " 
 
 The words died on my lips. I had followed 
 him from the first room to the second, from 
 the second to the third, and in the third — I 
 lost him ! 
 
 I could not believe my eyes. I opened the 
 end door leading into the yard, and looked 
 out ; but he was nowhere in sight. I went 
 round to the back of the baking-houses, looked 
 behind the furnaces, ran over to the counting- 
 house, called him by his name over and over 
 again ; but all was dark, silent, lonely, as 
 ever. 
 
 Then I remembered how I had bolted the 
 outer gate, and how impossible it was that he 
 should have come in without ringing. Then, 
 too, I began again to doubt the evidence of
 
 NUMBER THREE. 301 
 
 ray own senses, and to think I must have been 
 dreaming. 
 
 I Avent back to my old post by the door of 
 the first baking-house, and sat down for a mo- 
 ment to collect my thoughts. 
 
 *^ In the first place," said I to myself, ^^there 
 is but one outer gate. That outer gate I 
 bolted on the inside, and it is bolted still. In 
 the next place, I searched the premises, and 
 found all the sheds empty, and the workshop- 
 doors padlocked as usual on the outside. I 
 proved that George was nowhere about, when 
 I came, and I know he could not have come 
 in since, without my knowledge. Therefore 
 it is a dream. It is certainly a dream, and 
 there's an end of it." 
 
 And with this I trimmed my lantern and 
 proceeded to test the temperature of the 
 furnaces. We used to do this, I should tell 
 you, by the introduction of little roughly- 
 moulded lumps of common fire-clay. If the 
 heat is too great, they crack ; if too little, they
 
 302 MISS CAREW. 
 
 remain damp and moist ; if just right, they 
 become firm and smooth all over, and pass 
 into the biscuit stage. Well ! I took my 
 three little lumps of clay, put one in each 
 oven, waited while I counted five hundred, 
 and then went round again to see the results. 
 The two first were in capital condition, the 
 third had fiown into a dozen pieces. This 
 proved that the seggars might at once go into 
 ovens One and Two, but that number Three 
 had been over-heated, and must be allowed to 
 go on cooling for an hour or two longer. 
 
 I therefore stocked One and Two with nine 
 rows of seggars, three deep on each shelf ; left 
 the rest waiting till number Three was in a 
 condition to be trusted ; and, fearful of falling 
 asleep again, now that the firing was in pro- 
 gress, walked up and down the rooms to keep 
 myself awake. This was hot work, however, 
 and I could not stand it very long ; so I went 
 back presently to my stool by the door, and 
 fell to thinking about my dream. The more
 
 NUMBER THREE, 303 
 
 I thought of it, the more strangely real it 
 seemed, and the more I felt convinced that 
 I was actually on my feet, when I saw George 
 get up and walk into the adjoining room. I 
 was also certain that I had still continued to 
 see him as he passed out of the second room 
 into the third, and that at that time I was 
 even following his very footsteps. Was it 
 possible, I asked myself, that I could have 
 been up and moving, and yet not quite 
 awake? I had heard of people walking in 
 their sleep. Could it be that I was walking 
 in mine, and never waked till I reached the 
 cool air of the yard? All this seemed likely 
 enough, so I dismissed the matter from my 
 mind, and passed the rest of the night in at- 
 tending to the seggars, adding fresh fuel from 
 time to time to the furnaces of the first and 
 second ovens, and now and then taking a turn 
 through the yards. As for number Three, itkept 
 up its heat to such a degree that it was almost 
 day before I dared trust the seggars to go in it.
 
 304 MISS CAREW. 
 
 Thus the hours went by ; and at half-past 
 seven on Thursday morning, the men came to 
 their work. It was now my turn to go off 
 duty, but I wanted to see George before I left, 
 and so waited for him in the counting-house, 
 while a lad name Steve Storr took my place 
 at the ovens. But the clock went on from 
 half-past seven to a quarter to eight ; then to 
 eight o'clock ; then to a quarter-past eight — 
 and still George never made his appearance. 
 At length, when the hand got round to half- 
 past eight, I grew weary of waiting, took up 
 my hat, ran home, went to bed, and slept pro- 
 foundly until past four in the afternoon. 
 
 That evening I went down to the factory 
 quite early ; for I had a restlessness upon me, 
 and I wanted to see George before he left for 
 the night. This time, I found the gate bolted, 
 and I rang for admittance. 
 
 '' How early you are, Ben !" said Steve Storr, 
 as he let me in. 
 
 " Mr. Barnard's not gone ?" I asked, quick-
 
 NUMBER THREE. 305 
 
 ly ; for I saw at the first glance that the gas 
 was out in the counting-house. 
 
 ^^He's not gone," said Steve, "because he's 
 never been." 
 
 " Never been ?" 
 
 " No : and what's stranger still, he's not 
 been home either, since dinner yesterday." 
 
 " But he was here last night." 
 
 " Oh yes, he was here last night, making 
 up the books. John Parker was with him till 
 past six ; and you found him here, didn't you, 
 at half-past nine ?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "Well, he's gone, anyhow. Good night !" 
 
 " Good night !" 
 
 I took the lantern from his hand, bolted 
 him out mechanically, and made my way to 
 the baking-houses, like one in a stupor. George 
 gone ? Gone without a word of warning to 
 his employer, or of farewell to his fellow-work- 
 men? I could not understand it. I could 
 not believe it. I sat down bewildered, in- 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 MISS CAREW. 
 
 credulous, stunned. Then came hot tears, 
 doubts, terrifying suspicions. I remembered 
 the wild words he had spoken a few nights 
 back ; the strange calm by which they were 
 followed; my dream of the evening before. 
 I had heard of men who drowned themselves 
 for love ; and the turbid Severn ran close by 
 — so close, that one might pitch a stone into 
 it from some of the workshop windows. 
 
 These thoughts were too horrible. I dared 
 not dwell upon them. I turned to work, to 
 free myself from them, if I could ; and began 
 by examining the ovens. The temperature of 
 all was much higher than on the previous night, 
 the heat having been gradually increased dur- 
 ing the last twelve hours. It was now my 
 business to keep the heat on the increase for 
 twelve more ; after which it would be allowed, 
 as gradually, to subside, until the pottery was 
 cool enough for removal. To turn the seggars, 
 and add fuel to the two first furnaces, was my 
 first work. As before, I found number three
 
 NUMBER THREE. 307 
 
 in advance of the others, and so left it for 
 half an hour, or an hour. I then went round 
 the yard ; tried the doors ; let the dog loose ; 
 and brought him back with me to the baking- 
 houses, for company. After that, I set my 
 lantern on a shelf beside the door, took a book 
 from my pocket, and began to read. 
 
 I remember the title of the book as well as 
 possible. It was called ^' Bowlker's Art of An- 
 gling," and contained little rude cuts of all 
 kinds of artificial flies, hooks, and other 
 tackle. But I could not keep my mind to 
 it for two minutes together ; and at last I 
 gave it up in despair, covered my face with 
 mv hands, and fell into a lonsr, absorbinfr, 
 painful train of thought. A considerable time 
 had gone by thus — maybe an hour — when I 
 was roused by a low whimpering howl from 
 Captain, who was lying at my feet. I looked 
 up with a start, just as I had started from 
 sleep the night before, and with the same 
 vague terror ; and saw, exactly in the same
 
 308 MISS CAREW. 
 
 place and in the same attitude, with the fire- 
 light full upon him — George Barnard ! 
 
 At this sight, a fear heavier than the fear 
 of death fell upon me, and my tongue seemed 
 paralysed in my mouth. Then, just as last 
 night, he rose, or seemed to rise, and went 
 slowly out into the next room. A power 
 stronger than myself compelled me, re- 
 luctantly, to follow him. I saw him pass 
 through the second room — cross the thres- 
 hold of the third — walk straight up to 
 the oven — and there pause. He then turned, 
 for the first time, with the glare of the red 
 firelight pouring out upon him from the open 
 door of the furnace, and looked at me, face to 
 face. In the same instant, his whole frame 
 and countenance seemed to glow and become 
 transparent, as if the fire were all within him 
 and around him — and in that glow he became, 
 as it were, absorbed into the furnace, and dis- 
 appeared ! 
 
 I uttered a wild cry, tried to stagger from
 
 NUMBER THREE. 309 
 
 the room, and fell insensible before I reached 
 the door. 
 
 When I next opened my eyes, the grey 
 dawn was in the sky ; the furnace doors were 
 all closed as I had left them when I last went 
 round ; the dog was quietly sleeping not far 
 fi'om my side ; and the men were ringing at 
 the gate, to be let in. 
 
 I told my tale from beginning to end, and 
 was laughed at, as a matter of course, by all 
 who heard it. When it was found, however, 
 that my statements never varied, and, above 
 all, that George Barnard continued absent, 
 some few began to talk it over seriously, and 
 among those few, the master of the works. 
 He forbade the furnace to be cleared out, 
 called in the aid of a celebrated naturalist, 
 and had the ashes submitted to a scientific 
 examination. The result was as follows : 
 
 The ashes were found to have been largely 
 saturated with some kind of fatty animal matter.
 
 310 MISS CAREW. 
 
 A considerable portion of those ashes consisted 
 of charred bone. A semi-circular piece of 
 iron, which had evidently once been the heel 
 of a workman's heavy boot, was found, half 
 fused, at one corner of the furnace. Near it, 
 a tibia bone, which still retained sufficient of 
 its original form and texture to render 
 identification possible. This bone, however, 
 was so much charred, that it fell into pow- 
 der on being handled. 
 
 After this, not many doubted that George 
 Barnard had been foully murdered, and that 
 his body had been thrust into the furnace. 
 Suspicion fell upon Louis Laroche. He was 
 arrested, a coroner's inquest was held, and 
 every circumstance connected with the night 
 of the murder was as thoroughly sifted and in- 
 vestigated as possible- All the sifting in the 
 world, however, failed either to clear or to 
 condemn Louis Laroche. On the very night 
 of his release, he left the place by the mail 
 train, and was never seen or heard of there,
 
 NUMBER THREE. 311 
 
 again. As for Leah, I know not what became 
 of her. I went away myself before many 
 Aveeks were over, and never have set foot 
 amonir the Potteries from that hour to this. 
 
 EXD OF THE FIRST VOLLME. 
 
 LOXDOX : I-RTNTED BY ifACDOXALD AXD TL'GWELL. BLEXflEEil HOUSE