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diff --git a/old/50676.txt b/old/50676.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 95bf7b3..0000000 --- a/old/50676.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14261 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Infidel, by M. E. (Mary Elizabeth) Braddon - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Infidel - A Story of the Great Revival - - -Author: M. E. (Mary Elizabeth) Braddon - - - -Release Date: December 12, 2015 [eBook #50676] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INFIDEL*** - - -E-text prepared by Clare Graham & Marc D'Hooghe -(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available -by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/infidelstoryofgr00brad - - - - - -THE INFIDEL - -A Story of the Great Revival - -by - -M. E. BRADDON - -Author of "Lady Audley's Secret," "Vixen," -"London Pride," etc._ - - - - - - - -London -Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. Ltd. -1900 - - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER I. - GRUB-STREET SCRIBBLERS - - CHAPTER II. - MISS LESTER, OF THE PATENT THEATRES - - CHAPTER III. - AT MRS. MANDALAY'S ROOMS - - CHAPTER IV. - A MORNING CALL - - CHAPTER V. - A SERIOUS FAMILY - - CHAPTER VI. - A WOMAN WHO COULD SAY NO - - CHAPTER VII. - PRIDE CONQUERS LOVE - - CHAPTER VIII. - THE LOVE THAT FOLLOWS THE DEAD - - CHAPTER IX. - THE SANDS RUN DOWN - - CHAPTER X. - A DUTY VISIT - - CHAPTER XI. - ANTONIA'S INITIATION - - CHAPTER XII. - "SO RUN THAT YE MAY OBTAIN" - - CHAPTER XIII. - IN ST. JAMES'S SQUARE - - CHAPTER XIV. - "ONE THREAD IN LIFE WORTH SPINNING" - - CHAPTER XV. - "MY LADY AND MY LOVE" - - CHAPTER XVI. - DEATH AND VICTORY - - CHAPTER XVII. - SWORD AND BIBLE - - CHAPTER XVIII. - "AS A GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED" - - CHAPTER XIX. - "CHOOSE OF TWO LOVERS" - - CHAPTER XX. - "AND CLEAVE UNTO THE BEST" - - EPILOGUE. - - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -GRUB-STREET SCRIBBLERS. - - -Father and daughter worked together at the trade of letters in the days -when George the Second was king and Grub Street was a reality. For -them literature was indeed a trade, since William Thornton wrote only -what the booksellers wanted, and adjusted the supply to the demand. No -sudden inspirations, no freaks of a vagabond fancy ever distracted him -from the question of bread and cheese; so many sides of letter-paper -to produce so many pounds. He wrote everything. He contributed verse -as well as prose to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and had been the -winner of one of those prizes which the liberal Mr. Cave offered for -the best poem sent to him. Nothing came amiss to his facile pen. In -politics he was strong--on either side. He could write for or against -any measure, and had condemned and applauded the same politicians in -fiery articles above different aliases, anticipating by the vehemence -of his phrases the coming guineas. He wrote history or natural history -for the instruction of youth, not so well as Goldsmith, but with a -glib directness that served. He wrote philosophy for the sick-bed of -old age, and romance to feed the dreams of lovers. He stole from the -French, the Spaniards, the Italians, and turned Latin epigrams into -English jests. He burnt incense before any altar, and had written much -that was base and unworthy when the fancy of the town set that way, and -a ribald pen was at a premium. He had written for the theatres with -fair success, and his manuscript sermons at a crown apiece found a -ready market. - -Yes, Mr. Thornton wrote sermons--he, the unfrocked priest, the -audacious infidel, who believed in nothing better than this earth upon -which he and his kindred worms were crawling; nothing to come after -the tolling bell, no recompense for sorrows here, no reunion with the -beloved dead--only the sexton and the spade, and the forgotten grave. - -It was eighteen years since his young wife had died and left him with -an infant daughter--this very Antonia, his stay and comfort now, his -indefatigable helper, his Mercury, tripping with light foot between his -lodgings and the booksellers or the newspaper offices, to carry his -copy, or to sue for a guinea or two in advance for work to be done. - -When his wife died he was curate-in-charge of a remote Lincolnshire -parish, not twenty miles from that watery region at the mouth of the -Humber, that Epworth which John Wesley's renown had glorified. Here in -this lonely place, after two years of widowhood, a great trouble had -fallen upon him. He always recurred to it with the air of a martyr, and -pitied himself profoundly, as one more sinned against than sinning. - -A farmer's daughter, a strapping wench of eighteen, had induced him to -elope with her. This Adam ever described Eve as the initiator of his -fall. - -They went to London together, meaning to sail for Jersey in a trading -smack, which left the docks for that fertile island twice in a month. -The damsel was of years of discretion, and the elopement was no felony; -but it happened awkwardly for the parson that she carried her father's -cash-box with her, containing some two hundred pounds, upon which Mr. -Thornton was to start a dairy farm. They were hotly pursued by the -infuriated father, and were arrested in London as they were stepping on -board the Jersey smack, and Thornton was caught with the cash on his -person. - -He swore he believed it to be the girl's money; and she swore she had -earned it in her father's dairy--that, for saving, 'twas she had saved -every penny of it. This plea lightened the sentence, but did not acquit -either prisoner. The girl was sent to Bridewell for a year, and the -parson was sentenced to five years' imprisonment; but by the advocacy -of powerful friends, and by the help of a fine manner, an unctuous -piety, and general good conduct, was restored to the world at the end -of the second year--a happy escape in an age when the gifted Dr. Dodd -died for a single slip of the pen, and when the pettiest petty larceny -meant hanging. - -Having bored himself to death by an assumed sanctimony for two years, -Thornton came out of the house of bondage a rank atheist, a scoffer at -all things holy, a scorner of all men who called themselves Christians. -To him they seemed as contemptible as he had felt himself in his -hypocrisy. Did any of them believe? Yes, the imbeciles and hysterical -women, the ignorant masses who fifty years ago had believed in -witchcraft and the ubiquitous devil as implicitly as they now believed -in Justification by Faith and the New Birth. But that men of brains--an -intellectual giant like Sam Johnson, for instance--could kneel in dusty -city churches Sunday after Sunday and search the Scriptures for the -promise of life immortal! Pah! What could Voltaire, the enlightened, -think of such a time-serving hypocrisy, except that the thing paid? - -"It pays, sir," said Thornton, when he and his little knot of friends -discussed the great dictionary-maker in a tavern parlour which they -called "The Portico," and which they fondly hoped to make as famous -as the Scribbler's Club, which Swift founded, and where he and Oxford -and Bolingbroke, Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot talked grandly of abstract -things. The talk in "The Portico" was ever of persons, and mostly -scandalous, the gangrene of envy devouring the minds of men whose lives -had been failures. - -The wife of Thornton's advocate, who was well off and childless, -had taken compassion on the sinner's three-year-old daughter, and -had carried the little Antonia to her cottage at Windsor, where the -child was well cared for by the old housekeeper who had charge of the -barrister's rural retreat. It was a cottage _orne_ in a spacious garden -adjoining Windsor Forest, and to-day, in her twentieth year, Antonia -looked back upon that lost paradise with a fond longing. She had often -urged her father to take her to see the kind friend whose bright young -face she sometimes saw in her dreams, the very colour of whose gowns -she remembered; but he always put her off with an excuse. The advocate -had risen to distinction; he and his wife were fine people now, and Mr. -Thornton would not exhibit his shabby gentility in any such company. -He had been grateful for so beneficent a service at the time of his -captivity, and had expatiated upon his thankfulness on three sides of -letter-paper, blotted with real tears; but his virtues were impulses -rather than qualities of the mind, and he had soon forgotten how much -he owed the K.C.'s tender-hearted wife. Providence had been good to -her, as to the mother of Samuel, and she had sons and daughters of her -own now. - -Antonia knew that her father had been in prison. He was too -self-compassionate to refrain from bewailing past sufferings, and too -lazy-brained to originate and sustain any plausible fiction to account -for those two years in which his child had not seen his face. But he -had been consistently reticent as to the offence which he had expiated, -and Antonia supposed it to be of a political nature--some Jacobite plot -in which he had got himself entangled. - -From her sixth year to her seventeenth she had been her father's -companion, at first his charge--and rather an onerous one, as it seemed -to the hack-scribbler--a charge to be shared with, and finally shunted -on to the shoulders of, any good-natured landlady who, in her own -parlance, took to the child. - -Thornton was so far considerate of parental duty that, having found -an honest and kindly matron in Rupert Buildings, St. Martin's Lane, -he left off shifting his tent, and established himself for life, as -he told her, on her second floor, and confided the little girl almost -wholly to her charge. She had one daughter five years older than -Antonia, who was at school all day, leaving the basement of the house -silent and empty of youthful company, and Mrs. Potter welcomed the -lovely little face as a sunny presence in her dull parlour. She taught -Antonia--shortened to Tonia--her letters, and taught her to dust the -poor little cups and ornaments of willow-pattern Worcester china, and -to keep the hearth trimly swept, and rub the brass fender--taught her -all manner of little services which the child loved to perform. She -was what people called an old-fashioned child; for, having never lived -with other children, she had no loud boisterous ways, and her voice -was never shrill and ear-piercing. All she had learnt or observed had -been the ways of grown-up people. From the time she was ten years old -she was able to be of use to her father. She had gone on errands in -the immediate neighbourhood for Mrs. Potter. Thornton sent her further -afield to carry copy to a printer, or a letter to a bookseller, with -many instructions as to how to ask her way at every turn, and to be -careful in crossing the street. Mrs. Potter shuddered at these journeys -to Fleet Street or St. Paul's Churchyard, and it seemed a wonder to -her that the child came back alive, but she stood in too much awe of -her lodger's learning and importance to question his conduct; and when -Antonia entered her teens she had all the discretion of a woman, and -was able to take care of her father, and to copy his hurried scrawl in -her own neat penmanship, when he had written against time in a kind of -shorthand of his own, with contractions which Antonia soon mastered. -The education of his daughter was the one duty that Thornton had never -shirked. Hack-scribbler as he was, he loved books for their own sake, -and he loved imparting knowledge to a child whose quick appreciation -lightened the task and made it a relaxation. He gave her of his best, -thinking that he did her a service in teaching her to despise the -beliefs that so many of her fellow-creatures cherished, ranking the -Christian religion with every hideous superstition of the dark ages, -as only a little better than the delusions of man-eating savages in an -unexplored Africa, or the devil-dancers and fakirs of Hindostan. - -This man was, perhaps, a natural product of that dark age which went -before the Great Revival--the age when not to be a Deist and a scoffer -was to be out of the fashion. He had been an ordained clergyman of the -Church of England, taking up that trade as he took up the trade of -letters, for bread and cheese. The younger son of a well-born Yorkshire -squire, he had been a profligate and a spendthrift at Oxford, but was -clever enough to get a degree, and to scrape through his ordination. -As he had never troubled himself about spiritual questions, and knew -no more theology than sufficed to satisfy an indulgent bishop, he -had hardly considered the depth of his hypocrisy when he tendered -himself as a shepherd of souls. He had a fluent pen, and could write -a telling sermon, when it was worth his while; but original eloquence -was wasted upon his bovine flock in Lincolnshire, and he generally -read them any old printed sermon that came to hand among the rubbish -heap of his bookshelves. He migrated from one curacy to another, and -from one farmhouse to another, drinking with the farmers, hunting with -the squires; diversified this dull round with a year or two on the -Continent as bear-leader to a wealthy merchant's son and heir; brought -home an Italian wife, and while she lived was tolerably constant and -tolerably sober. That brief span of wedded life, with a woman he fondly -loved, made the one stage in his life-journey to which he might have -looked back without self-reproach. - -He was delighted with his daughter's quick intellect and growing love -for books. She began to help him almost as soon as she could write, -and now in her twentieth year father and daughter seemed upon an -intellectual level. - -"Nature has been generous to her," he told his chums at "The Portico." -"She has her mother's beauty and my brains." - -"Let's hope she'll never have your swallow for gin-punch, Bill," was -the retort, that being the favourite form of refreshment in "The -Portico" room at the Red Lion. - -"Nay, she inherits sobriety also from her mother, whose diet was as -temperate as a wood-nymph's." - -His eyes grew dim as he thought of the wife long dead--the confiding -girl he had carried from her home among the vineyards and gardens of -the sunny hillside above Bellagio to the dismal Lincolnshire parsonage, -between grey marsh and sluggish river. He had brought her to dreariness -and penury, and to a climate that killed her. Nothing but gin-punch -could ever drown those sorrowful memories; so 'twas no wonder Thornton -took more than his share of the bowl. His companions were his juniors -for the most part, and his inferiors in education. He was the Socrates -of this vulgar Academy, and his disciples looked up to him. - -The shabby second floor in Rupert Buildings was Antonia's only idea -of home. Her own eerie was on the floor above--a roomy garret, with a -casement window in the sloping roof, a window that seemed to command -all London, for she could see Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of -Parliament, and across the river to the more rustic-looking streets -and lanes on the southern shore. She loved her garret for the sake of -that window, which had a broad stone sill where she kept her garden of -stocks and pansies, pinks and cowslips, maintained with the help of an -occasional shilling from her father. - -The sitting-room was furnished with things that had once been good, -for Mrs. Potter was one of those many hermits in the great city who -had seen better days. She was above the common order of landladies, -and kept her house as clean as a house in Rupert Buildings could be -kept. Tidiness was out of the question in any room inhabited by William -Thornton, whose books and papers accumulated upon every available -table or ledge, and were never to be moved on pain of his severe -displeasure. It was only by much coaxing that his daughter could secure -the privilege of a writing-table to herself. He declared that the -destruction of a single printer's proof might be his ruin, or even the -ruin of the newspaper for which it was intended. - -Such as her home was, Antonia was content with it. Such as her life -was, she bore it patiently, unsustained by any hope of a happier life -in a world to come--unsustained by the conviction that by her industry -and cheerfulness she was pleasing God. - -She knew that there were homes in which life looked brighter than it -could in Rupert Buildings. She walked with her father in the evening -streets sometimes, when his empty pockets and his score at the Red -Lion forbade the pleasures of "The Portico." She knew the aspect of -houses in Pall Mall and St. James's Square, in Arlington Street and -Piccadilly; heard the sound of fiddles and French horns through open -windows, light music and light laughter; caught glimpses of inner -splendours through hall doors; saw coaches and chairs setting down gay -company, a street crowded with link-boys and running footmen. She knew -that in this London, within a quarter of a mile of her garret, there -was a life to which she must ever remain a stranger--a life of luxury -and pleasure, led by the high-born and the wealthy. - -Sometimes when her father was in a sentimental mood he would tell -her of his grandfather's magnificence at the family seat near York; -would paint the glories of a country house with an acre and a half of -roof, the stacks of silver plate, and a perpetual flow of visitors, -gargantuan hunt breakfasts, hunters and coach-horses without number. He -exceeded the limits of actual fact, perhaps, in these reminiscences. -The magnificence had all vanished away, the land was sold, the plate -was melted, not one of the immemorial oaks was left to show where the -park had been; but Tonia was never tired of hearing of those prosperous -years, and was glad to think she came of people who were magnates in -the land. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -MISS LESTER, OF THE PATENT THEATRES. - - -Besides Mrs. Potter, to whom she was warmly attached, Antonia had one -friend, an actress at Drury Lane, who had acted in Mr. Thornton's -comedy of _How to please her_, and who had made his daughter's -acquaintance at the wings while his play was in progress. Patty Lester -was, perhaps, hardly the kind of person a careful father would have -chosen for his youthful daughter's bosom friend, for Patty was of the -world worldly, and had somewhat lax notions of morality, though there -was nothing to be said against her personally. No nobleman's name had -ever been bracketed with hers in the newspapers, nor had her character -suffered from any intrigue with a brother actor. But she gave herself -no airs of superiority over her less virtuous sisters, nor was she -averse to the frivolous attentions and the trifling gifts of those -ancient beaux and juvenile macaronis who fluttered at the side-scenes -and got in the way of the stage-carpenters. - -Thornton had not reared his daughter in Arcadian ignorance of evil, and -he had no fear of her being influenced by Miss Lester's easy views of -conduct. - -"The girl is as honest as any woman in England, but she is not a lady," -he told Antonia, "and I don't want you to imitate her. But she has a -warm heart, and is always good company, so I see no objection to your -taking a dish of tea with her at her lodgings once in a way." - -This "once in a way" came to be once or twice a week, for Miss Lester's -parlour was all that Antonia knew of gaiety, and was a relief from the -monotony of literary toil. Dearly as she loved to assist her father's -labours, there came an hour in the day when the aching hand dropped on -the manuscript or the tired eyes swam above the closely printed page; -and then it was pleasant to put on her hat and run to the Piazza, -where Patty was mostly to be found at home between the morning's -rehearsal and the night's performance. Her lodgings were on a second -floor overlooking the movement and gaiety of Covent Garden, where the -noise of the waggons bringing asparagus from Mortlake and strawberries -from Isleworth used to sound in her dreams, hours before the indolent -actress opened her eyes upon the world of reality. - -She was at home this windy March afternoon, squatting on the hearthrug -toasting muffins, when Miss Thornton knocked at her door. - -"Come in, if you're Tonia," she cried. "Stay out if you're an odious -man." - -"I doubt you expect some odious man," said Tonia, as she entered, "or -you wouldn't say that." - -"I never know when not to expect 'em, child. There are three or four of -my devoted admirers audacious enough to think themselves always welcome -to drop in for a dish of tea; indeed, one of 'em has a claim to my -civility, for he is in the India trade, and keeps me in gunpowder and -bohea. But 'tis only old General Granger I expect this afternoon--him -that gave me my silver canister," added Patty, who never troubled about -grammar. - -"I would rather be without the canister than plagued by that old man's -company," said Tonia. - -"Oh, you are hard to please--unless 'tis some scholar with his mouth -full of book talk! I find the General vastly entertaining. Sure he -knows everybody in London, and everything that is doing or going to be -done. He keeps me _aw courrong_," concluded Patty, whose French was on -a par with her English. - -She rose from the hearth, with her muffin smoking at the end of a -long tin toasting-fork. Her parlour was full of incongruities--silver -tea-canister, china cups and saucers glorified by sprawling red and -blue dragons, an old mahogany tea-board and pewter spoons, a blue satin -_neglige_ hanging over the back of a chair, an open powder-box on -the side table. The furniture was fine but shabby--the sort of fine -shabbiness that satisfied the landlady's clients, who were mostly from -the two patent theatres. The house had a renown for being comfortable -and easy to live in--no nonsense about early hours or quiet habits. - -"Prythee make the tea while I butter the muffins," said Patty. "The -kettle is on the boil. But take your hat off before you set about it. -Ah, what glorious hair!" she said, as Antonia threw off the poor little -gipsy hat; "and to think that mine is fiery red!" - -"Nay, 'tis but a bright auburn. I heard your old General call it a trap -for sunbeams. 'Tis far prettier than this inky black stuff of mine." - -Antonia wore no powder, and the wavy masses of her hair were bound -into a scarlet snood that set off their raven gloss. Her complexion -was of a marble whiteness, with no more carnation than served to show -she was a woman and not a statue. Her eyes, by some freak of heredity, -were not black, like her mother's--whom she resembled in every other -feature--but of a sapphire blue, the blue of Irish eyes, luminous -yet soft, changeful, capricious, capable of dazzling joyousness, of -profoundest melancholy. Brown-eyed, auburn-headed Patty looked at her -young friend with an admiration which would have been envious had she -been capable of ill-nature. - -"How confoundedly handsome you are to-day!" she exclaimed; "and in that -gown too! I think the shabbier your clothes are the lovelier you look. -You'll be cutting me out with my old General." - -"Your General has seen me a dozen times, and thinks no more of me than -if I were a plaster image." - -"Because you never open your lips before company, except to say yes or -no, like a long-headed witness in the box. I wonder you don't go on the -stage, Tonia. If you were ever so stupid at the trade your looks would -get you a hearing and a salary." - -"Am I really handsome?" Tonia asked, with calm wonder. - -She had been somewhat troubled of late by the too florid compliments -of booksellers and their assistants, whom she saw on her father's -business; but she concluded it was their way of affecting gallantry -with every woman under fifty. She had a temper that repelled -disagreeable attentions, and kept the boldest admirer at arm's length. - -"Handsome? You are the beautifullest creature I ever saw, and I would -chop ten years off my old age to be as handsome, though most folks -calls me a pretty woman," added Patty, bridling a little, and pursing -up a cherry mouth. - -She was a pink-and-white girl, with a complexion like new milk, and -cheeks like cabbage-roses. She had a supple waist, plump shoulders, -and a neat foot and ankle, and was a capable actress in all secondary -characters. She couldn't carry a great playhouse on her shoulders, or -make a dull play seem inspired, as Mrs. Pritchard could; or take the -town by storm as Juliet, like Miss Bellamy. - -"Well, I doubt my looks will never win me a fortune; but I hope I may -earn money from the booksellers before long, as father does." - -"Sure 'tis a drudging life--and you'd be happier in the theatre." - -"Not I, Patty. I should be miserable away from my books, and not to be -my own mistress. I work hard, and tramp to the city sometimes when my -feet are weary of the stones; but father and I are free creatures, and -our evenings are our own." - -"Precious dull evenings," said Patty, with her elbows on the table -and her face beaming at her friend. "Have a bit more muffin. I wonder -you're not _awnweed_ to death." - -"I do feel a little _triste_ sometimes, when the wind howls in the -chimney, and every one in the house but me is in bed, and I have been -alone all the evening." - -"Which you are always." - -"Father has to go to his club to hear the news. And 'tis his only -recreation. But though I love my books, and to sit with my feet on -the fender and read Shakespeare, I should love just once in a way to -see what people are like; the women I see through their open windows -on summer nights--such handsome faces, such flashing jewels, and with -snowy feathers nodding over their powdered heads----" - -"You should see them at Ranelagh. Why does not your father take you to -Ranelagh? He could get a ticket from one of the fine gentlemen whose -speeches he writes. I saw him talking to Lord Kilrush in the wings -t'other night." - -"Who is Lord Kilrush?" - -"One of the finest gentlemen in town, and a favourite with all the -women, though he is nearer fifty than forty." - -"An old man?" - -"_You_ would call him so," said Patty, with a sigh, conscious of her -nine and twenty years. "He'd give your father a ticket for Ranelagh, -I'll warrant." - -Tonia looked down at her brown stuff gown, and laughed the laugh of -scorn. - -"Ranelagh, in this gown!" she said. - -"You should wear one of mine." - -"Good dear, 'twould not reach my ankles!" - -"I grant there's overmuch of you. Little David called you the Anakim -Venus when he caught sight of you at the side scenes. 'Who's that -magnificent giantess?' he asked." - -"The people of Lilliput took Captain Gulliver for a giant, and the -Brobdignagians thought him a dwarf. 'Tis a question of comparison," -replied Tonia, huffed at the manager's criticism. - -"Nay, don't be vexed, child. 'Tis a feather in your cap for Garrick to -give you a second thought. Well, if Ranelagh won't suit, there is Mrs. -Mandalay's dancing-room. She has a ball twice a week in the season, -and a masquerade once a fortnight. You can borrow a domino from the -costumier in the Piazza for the outlay of half a dozen shillings." - -"Do the women of fashion go to Mrs. Mandalay's?" - -"All the town goes there." - -"Then I'll beg my father to take me. I am helping him with his new -comedy, and I want to see what modish people are like--off the stage." - -"Not half so witty as they are on it. Is there a part for me in the new -play?" - -Patty would have asked that question of Shakespeare's ghost had he -returned to earth to write a new Hamlet. It was her only idea in -association with the drama. - -"Indeed, Patty, there is an impudent romp of quality you would act to -perfection." - -"I love a romp," cried Patty, clapping her hands. "Give me a pinafore -and a pair of scarlet shoes, and I am on fire with genius. I hope David -will bring out your dad's play, and that 'twill run a month." - -"If it did he would give me a silk gown, and I might see Ranelagh." - -"He is not a bad father, is he, Tonia?" - -"Bad! There was never a kinder father." - -"But he lets you work hard." - -"I love the work next best to him that sets me to it." - -"And he has been your only schoolmaster, and you are clever enough to -frighten a simpleton like me." - -"Nay, Patty, you are the cleverest, for you can do things--act, sing, -dance. Mine is only book-learning; but such as it is, I owe it all to -my father." - -"I hate books. 'Twas as much as I could do to learn to read. But -there's one matter in which your father has been unkind to you." - -"No, no--in nothing." - -"Yes," said Patty, shaking her head solemnly, "he has brought you up an -atheist, never to go to church, not even on Christmas Day; and to read -Voltaire"--with a shudder. - -"Do you go to church, Patty? 'Tis handy enough to your lodgings." - -"Oh, I am too tired of a Sunday morning, after acting six nights in a -week; for if Bellamy and Pritchard are out of the bill and going out -a-visiting, and strutting and grimacing in fine company, there's always -a part for a scrub like me; and if I'm not in the play I'm in the -burletta." - -"And do you think you're any wickeder for not going to church twice -every Sunday?" - -"I always go at Christmas and at Easter," protested Patty, "and I -feel myself a better woman for going. You've been brought up to hate -religion." - -"No, Patty, only to hate the fuss that's made about it, and the -cruelties men have done to each other, ever since the world began, in -its name." - -"I wouldn't read Voltaire if I was you," said Patty. "The General told -me 'twas an impious, indecent book." - -"Voltaire is the author of more than forty books, Patty." - -"Oh, is it an author? I thought 'twas the name of a novel, like 'Tom -Jones,' only more impudent." - -There came a knock at the door, and this time Patty knew it was her old -General. - -"Stop out, Beast!" she cried. "There's nobody at home to an old fool!" -upon which courteous greeting the ancient warrior entered smiling. - -"Was there ever such a witty puss?" he exclaimed. "I kiss Mrs. -Grimalkin's velvet paw. Pray how many mice has Minette crunched since -breakfast?" - -His favourite jest was to attribute feline attributes to Patty, whose -appreciation of his humour rose or fell in unison with his generosity. -A pair of white gloves worked with silver thread, or a handsome ribbon -for her hair secured her laughter and applause. - -To-day Patty's keen glance showed her that the General was -empty-handed. He had not brought her so much as a violet posy. He -saluted Antonia with his stateliest bow, blinking at her curiously, but -too short-sighted to be aware of her beauty in the dim light of the -parlour, where evening shadows were creeping over the panelled walls. - -Patty set the kettle on the fire and washed out the little china -teapot, while she talked to her ancient admirer. He liked to watch -her kitten-like movements, her trim sprightly ways, to take a cup of -weak tea from her hand, and to tell her his news of the town, which -was mostly wrong, but which she always believed. She thought him a -foolish old person, but the pink of fashion. His talk was a diluted -edition of the news we read in Walpole's letters--talk of St. James's -and Leicester House, of the old king and his grandson, newly created -Prince of Wales, of the widowed princess and Lord Bute, of a score of -patrician belles whose histories were more or less scandalous, and of -those two young women from Dublin, the penniless Gunnings, whose beauty -had set the town in a blaze--sisters so equal in perfection that no two -people were of a mind as to which was the handsomer. - -Tonia had met the General often, and knew his capacity for being -interesting. She rose and bade her friend good-bye. - -"Nay, child, 'tis ill manners to leave me directly I have company. The -General and I have no secrets." - -"My Minette is a cautious puss, and will never confess to the -singing-birds she has killed," said the dodderer. - -Tonia protested that her father would be at home and wanting her. She -saluted the soldier with her stateliest curtsey, and departed with the -resolute _aplomb_ of a duchess. - -"Your friend's grand manners go ill with her shabby gown," said the -General. "With her fine figure she should do well on the stage." - -"There is too much of her, General. She is too tall by a head for an -actress. 'Tis delicate little women look best behind the lamps." - - * * * * * - -Thornton was fond of his daughter, and had never said an unkind word to -her; but he had no scruples about letting her work for him, having a -fixed idea that youth has an inexhaustible fund of health and strength -upon which age can never overdraw. He was proud of her mental powers, -and believed that to help a hack-scribbler with his multifarious -contributions to magazines and newspapers was the finest education -possible for her. If they went to the playhouse together 'twas she who -wrote a critique on the players next morning, while her father slept. -Dramatic criticism in those days was but scurvily treated by the Press, -and Tonia was apt to expatiate beyond the limits allowed by an editor, -and was mortified to see her opinions reduced to the baldest comment. - -She talked to her father of Mrs. Mandalay's dancing-rooms. He knew -there was such a place, but doubted whether 'twas a reputable resort. -He promised to make inquiries, and thus delayed matters, without the -unkindness of a refusal. Tonia was helping him with a comedy for -Drury Lane--indeed, was writing the whole play, his part of the work -consisting chiefly in running his pen across Tonia's scenes, and -bidding her write them again in accord with his suggestions, which she -did with equal meekness and facility. He grew a little lazier every day -as he discovered his daughter's talent, and encouraged her to labour -for him. He praised himself for having taught her Spanish, so that she -had the best comedies in the world, as he thought, at her fingers' -ends. - -It was for the sake of the comedy Tonia urged her desire to see the -_beau monde_. - -"'Tis dreadful to write about people of fashion when one has never seen -any," she said. - -"Nay, child, there's no society in Europe will provide you better -models than you'll find in yonder duodecimos," her father would say, -pointing to Congreve and Farquhar. "Mrs. Millamant is a finer lady than -any duchess in London." - -"Mrs. Millamant is half a century old, and says things that would make -people hate her if she was alive now." - -"Faith, we are getting vastly genteel; and I suppose by-and-by we shall -have plays as decently dull as Sam Richardson's novels, without a joke -or an oath from start to finish," protested Thornton. - -It was more than a month after Tonia's first appeal that her father -came home to dinner one afternoon in high spirits, and clapped a couple -of tickets on the tablecloth by his daughter's plate. - -"Look there, slut!" he cried. "I seized my first chance of obliging -you. There is a masked ball at Mrs. Mandalay's to-night, and I waited -upon my old friend Lord Kilrush on purpose to ask him for tickets; and -now you have only to run to the costumier's and borrow a domino and a -mask, and see that there are no holes in your stockings." - -"I always mend my stockings before the holes come," Antonia said -reproachfully. - -"You are an indefatigable wench! Come, there's a guinea for you; -perhaps you can squeeze a pair of court shoes out of it, as well as the -hire of the domino." - -"You are a dear, dear, dearest dad! I'll ask Patty to go to the -costumier's with me. She will get me a good pennyworth." - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -AT MRS. MANDALAY'S ROOMS. - - -Mrs. Mandalay's rooms were crowded, for Mrs. Mandalay's patrons -included all the varieties of London society--the noble, the rich, the -clever, the dull, the openly vicious, the moderately virtuous, the -audaciously disreputable, masked and unmasked; the outsiders who came -from curiosity; the initiated who came from habit; dissolute youth, -frivolous old age, men and boys who came because they thought this, and -only this, was life: to rub shoulders with a motley mob, to move in an -atmosphere of ribald jokes and foolish laughter, air charged with the -electricity of potential bloodshed, since at any moment the ribald jest -might lead to the insensate challenge; to drink deep of adulterated -wines, fired with the alcohol that inspires evil passions and kills -thought. These were the diversions that men and women sought at Mrs. -Mandalay's; and it was into this witch's cauldron that William Thornton -plunged his daughter, reckless of whom she met or what she saw and -heard, for it was an axiom in his blighting philosophy that the more a -young woman knew of the world she lived in, the more likely she was to -steer a safe course between its shoals and quicksands. - -Antonia looked with amazement upon the tawdry spectacle--dominos, -diamonds, splendour, and shabbiness, impudent faces plastered with -white and red, beauty still fresh and young, boys still at the -University, old men fitter for the hospital than for the drawing-room. -Was _this_ the dazzling scene she had longed for sometimes in the -toilsome evenings, when her tired hand sank on the foolscap page, and -in the pause of the squeaking quill she heard the clock ticking on -the stairs and the cinders crumbling in the grate? She had longed for -lighted rooms and joyous company, for the concerts, and dances, and -dinners, and suppers she read about in the _Daily Journal_; but the -scenes her imagination had conjured up were as different from this as -paradise from pandemonium. - -Dancing was difficult in such a crowd, but there was a country dance -going on to the music of an orchestra of fiddles and French horns, -stationed in a gallery over one end of the room. The music was a -_pot-pourri_ of favourite melodies in the "Beggar's Opera," and the -strongly marked tunes beat upon Antonia's brain as she and her father -stood against the wall near the entrance doors, watching the crowd. - -A master of the ceremonies came to ask her if she would dance. Her -father answered for her, somewhat curtly. No, the young lady had only -looked in to see what Mrs. Mandalay's rooms were like. - -"Mrs. Mandalay's rooms are too good to be made a show for country -cousins," the man answered impudently, after a flying glance at -Thornton's threadbare suit; "and Miss has too pretty a figure under her -domino to shirk a dance." - -"Be good enough to leave us to ourselves, sir. Our tickets have been -paid for; and we have a right to consume this polluted atmosphere -without having to suffer impertinence." - -"Oh, if you come to that, sir, I carry a sword, and will swallow no -insult from a beggarly parson; and there are plenty of handsome women -pining for partners." - -He edged off as he spoke, and was safe amongst the crowd before he -finished his sentence. - -"Let's go home, sir," said Antonia. "I never could have pictured such -an odious place." - -"'Tis one of the most fashionable assemblies in London, child." - -"Then I wonder at the taste of Londoners. Pray, sir, let's go home. I -should never have teased you to bring me here had I known 'twas like -this; but you have at least cured me of the desire to come again--or to -visit any place that resembles this." - -"You are pettish and over-fastidious. I came here for your amusement, -and you may stay here for mine. I can't waste coach hire because you -are capricious. I must have something for my money. Do you stay here -quietly, while I circulate and find a friend or two." - -"Oh, father, don't leave me among this rabble! I shall die of disgust -if any one speaks to me--like that vulgar wretch just now." - -"Tush, Tonia, there are no women-eaters here; and you have brains -enough to know how to answer any impudent jackanapes in London." - -He was gone before she could say anything more. She had hated to be -there even with her father at her side. It was agony to stand there -alone, fanning herself with the trumpery Spanish fan that had been -sent her with the domino. She was not shy as other women are on their -first appearance in an assembly. She had been trained to despise her -fellow-creatures, and had an inborn pride that would have supported her -anywhere. But the scene gave her a feeling of loathing that she had -never known before. The people seemed to her of an unknown race. Their -features, their air exhaled wickedness. "The sons of Belial, flown -with insolence and wine." She hated herself for being there, hated her -father for bringing her there. - -They had come very late, when the assembly was at its worst, or at its -best, according to one's point of view. The modish people, who vowed -they detested the rooms, and only looked in to see who was there, were -elbowing their way among fat citizens and their wives from Dowgate, and -rich merchants from Clapham Common; while the more striking figures in -the crowd belonged obviously to the purlieus of Covent Garden and the -paved courts near Long Acre. - -Tonia watched them till, in spite of her aversion, she began to grow -interested in the masks and the faces. The faces told their own story; -but the masks had a more piquant attraction, suggesting mystery. She -began to notice couples who were obviously lovers, and to imagine a -romance here and there. Her eyes passed over the disreputable painted -faces, and fixed on the young and beautiful, secure in pride of -birth, the assurance of superiority. She caught furtive glances, the -lingering clasp of hands, the smile that promised, the whisper that -pleaded. Romance and mystery enough here to fill more volumes than -Richardson had published. And then among the people who came in late, -talked loud, and did not dance, there were such satins and brocades, -velvet and lace, feathers and jewels, as neither the theatres nor her -dreams had ever shown her. She was woman enough to look at these with -pleasure, in spite of her masculine education. - -She had forgotten how long she had been standing there when her father -came back, smelling of brandy, and accompanied by a man whom she had -been watching some minutes before, one of the late arrivals, who looked -young at a distance, but old, or at best middle-aged, when he came near -her. She had seen him surrounded by a bevy of women, who hung about him -with an eager appreciation which would have been an excuse for vanity -in a Solomon. - -The new-comer's suit of mouse-coloured velvet was plainer than anybody -else's, but his air and figure would have given distinction to a -beggar's rags, and there needed not the star and ribbon half hidden -under the lapel of his coat to tell her that he was a personage. - -"My friend and patron, Lord Kilrush, desires to make your acquaintance, -Antonia," her father said with his grand air. - -She had heard of Lord Kilrush, an Irish peer, with an immense territory -on the Shannon and on the Atlantic which he never visited; a man of -supreme distinction in a world where the cut of a coat and the pedigree -of a horse count for more than any moral attributes. While he had all -the dignity of a large landowner, the bulk of his fortune was derived -from his mother, who was the only child of an East Indian factor, "rich -with the spoil of plundered provinces." - -Antonia had been watching the modish women's manoeuvres long enough to -be able to sink to the exact depth and rise with the assured grace of a -fashionable curtsey. The perfect lips under the light lace of her mask -relaxed in a grave smile, parting just enough to show the glitter of -pearly teeth between two lines of carmine. Her flashing eyes and lovely -mouth gave Kilrush assurance of beauty. It would have taken the nose of -a Socrates, or a complexion pitted with the smallpox, to mar the effect -of such eyes and such lips. - -"Pray allow me to escort you through the rooms, and to get you a cup -of chocolate, madam," he said, offering his arm. "Your father tells me -that 'tis your first visit to this notorious scene. Mrs. Mandalay's -chocolate is as famous as her company, and of a better quality--for it -is innocent of base mixtures." - -"Go with his lordship, Tonia," said her father, answering her -questioning look; "you must be sick to death of standing here." - -"Oh, I have amused myself somehow," she said. "It is like a comedy at -the theatres--I can read stories in the people's faces." - -She took Kilrush's arm with an easy air that astonished him. - -"Then you like the Mandalay room?" he said, as he made a path through -the crowd, people giving way to him almost as if to a royal personage. - -He was known here as he was known in all pleasure places for a leader -and a master spirit. It suited him to live in a country where he had -no political influence. He had never been known to interest himself -about any serious question in life. Early in his career, when his wife -ran away with his bosom friend, his only comment was that she always -came to the breakfast-table with a slovenly head, and it was best for -both that they should part. He ran his rapier through his friend's left -lung early one morning in the fields behind Montague House; but he told -his intimates that it was not because he hated the scoundrel who had -relieved him of an incubus, but because it would have been ungenteel to -let him live. - -He conducted Antonia through the suite of rooms that comprised "Mrs. -Mandalay's." There were two or three little side-rooms where people -sat in corners and talked confidentially, as they do in such places to -this day. The confidences may have been a shade more audacious then, an -incipient intrigue more daringly conducted, but it was the same and -the same--a married woman who despised her husband; a married man who -detested his wife; a young lady of fashion playing high stakes for a -coronet, and baulked or ruined at the game. Antonia glanced from one -group to the other as if she knew all about them. To be a student of -Voltaire is not to think too well of one's fellow-creatures. She had -read Fielding too, and knew that women were fools and men reprobates. -She had wept over Richardson's Clarissa, and knew that there had -once been a virtuous woman, or that a dry-as-dust printer's elderly -imagination had conceived such a creature. - -One room was set apart for light refreshments, coffee and chocolate, -negus and cakes; and here Kilrush found a little table in a corner, -and seated her at it. The crowd in this room was so dense that it -created a solitude. They were walled in by brocaded sacques and the -backs of velvet coats, and could talk to each other without fear of -being overheard. This was so much pleasanter than standing against a -wall staring at strange faces that Antonia began to think she liked -Mrs. Mandalay's. She took off her mask, unconscious that an adept -in coquetry would have maintained the mystery of her loveliness a -little longer. Kilrush was content to worship her for the perfection -of her mouth, the half-seen beauty of her eyes. She flung off the -little velvet _loup_, and gave him the effulgence of her face, with an -unconsciousness of power that dazzled him more than her beauty. - -"I was nearly suffocated," she said. - -He was silent in a transport of admiration. Her face had an exotic -charm. It was too brilliant for native growth. The South glowed in the -lustre of her eyes and in the sheen of her raven hair. He had seen -such faces in Italy. The towers and cupolas, the church bells, the -market women's parti-coloured stalls, the lounging boatmen and clear -white light of the Isola Bella came back to him as he looked at her. -He had spent an autumn in the Borromean Palaces, a visitor to the lord -of those delicious isles, and he had seen faces like hers, and had -worshipped them, in the heyday of youth, when he was on his grand tour. -He remembered having heard that Thornton had married a lovely Italian -girl, whom he had stolen from her home in Lombardy, while he was -travelling as bear-leader to an India merchant's son. - -Antonia sipped her chocolate with a composure that startled him. -Women--except the most experienced--were apt to be fluttered by his -lightest attentions; yet this girl, who had never seen him till -to-night, accepted his homage with a supreme unconcern, or indeed -seemed unconscious of it. Her innocent assurance amused him. No rustic -lass serving at an inn had ever received his compliments without a -blush, for he had an air of always meaning more than he said. - -"Your father told me he had reared you in seclusion, madam," he said, -"and I take it this is your first glimpse of our gay world." - -"My first and last," she replied. "I do not love your gay world. I -did wrong to tease my father to bring me here. I imagined a scene so -different." - -"Tell me what your fancy depicted." - -"Larger rooms, fewer people, more space and air--a _fete champetre_ -by Watteau within doors; dancers who danced for love of dancing, and -who were all young, not old wrinkled men and fat women; not painted -grimacing faces, and an atmosphere cloudy with hair-powder." - -"But is not this better than to sit in your lodgings and mope over -books?" - -"I never mope over books; they are my friends and companions." - -"What, in the bloom of youth, when you should be dancing every night, -gadding from one pleasure to another all day long? Books are the -friends of old age. I shall take to books myself when I grow old." - -Tonia's dark brows elevated themselves unconsciously, and her eyes -expressed wonder. Was he not old enough already for books and -retirement? The man of seven and forty saw the look and interpreted it. - -"She knows I am old enough to be her father," he thought, "and that is -the reason of her _sang froid_. Women of the world know that mine is -the dangerous age--the age when a man who can love loves desperately, -when concentration of purpose takes the place of youthful energy." - -They sat in silence for a few minutes while she finished her chocolate, -and while he summed up the situation. Then she rose hastily. - -"I have been keeping you from your friends," she said. - -"Oh, I have no friends here." - -"Why, everybody was becking and bowing to you." - -"I am on becking and bowing terms with everybody; but most of us hate -each other. Let me get you some more chocolate." - -"No, thank you. I must go back to my father." - -They had not far to go. Thornton was at a table on the other side of -the room, drinking punch with one of his patrons in the book trade, a -junior partner who was frivolous enough to look in at Mrs. Mandalay's. - -"Miss Thornton is so unkind as to fleer at our solemnities," said -Kilrush, "and swears she will never come here again." - -"I told her she was a fool to wish to come," answered Thornton. "Your -lordship has been uncommonly civil to take care of her. What the devil -should a Grub Street hack's daughter do here? She has never had a -dancing-lesson in her life." - -"She ought to begin to-morrow. Serise would glory in such a pupil. Give -her but the knack of a minuet, and she would show young peeresses how -to move like queens, or like a swan gliding on the current." - -"Oh, pray, my lord, don't flatter her. She has not the art to -_riposter_, and she may think you mean what you say." - - * * * * * - -Kilrush went with them to the street, where his chairmen were waiting -to carry him to St. James's Square, or to whatever gambling-house -he might prefer to the solitude of his ancestral mansion. He wanted -to send Antonia home in his chair, but Thornton declined the favour -laughingly. - -"Your chairmen would leave your service to-morrow if you sent them to -such a shabby neighbourhood," he said, taking his daughter on his arm. -"We shall find a hackney coach on the stand." - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -A MORNING CALL. - - -Tonia worked at the comedy, but did not find her idea of a woman of -_ton_ greatly enlarged by the women she had seen at Mrs. Mandalay's. -Indeed, she began to think that her father was right, and that Mrs. -Millamant--whose coarseness of speech disgusted her--was her best -model. Yet, disappointing as that tawdry assembly had been, she felt as -if she had gained something by her brief encounter with Lord Kilrush, -and her pen seemed firmer when she tried to give life and meaning to -the leading character in her play, the _role_ intended for Garrick. -She had begun by making him young and foolish. She remodelled the -character, and made him older and wiser, and tried to give him the -grand air; evolving from her inner consciousness the personality which -her brief vision of Kilrush had suggested. Her ardent imagination made -much out of little. - -Of the man himself she scarcely thought, and would hardly have -recognized his person had they met in the street. But the ideal man she -endowed with every fascinating quality, every attracting grace. - -Her father noted the improvement in her work. - -"Why, this fourth act is the best we have done yet," he said, "and I -think 'twas a wise stroke of mine to make our hero older----" - -"Oh, father, 'twas my notion, you'll remember." - -"You shall claim all the invention for your share, if you like, slut, -so long as we concoct a piece that will satisfy Garrick, who grows more -and more finical as he gets richer and more fooled by the town. The -part will suit him all the better now we've struck a deeper note. He -can't wish to play schoolboys all his life." - -It was three weeks after the masquerade when there came a rap at the -parlour door one morning, and the maid-servant announced Lord Kilrush. - -Thornton was lying on a sofa in shirt-sleeves and slippers, smoking a -long clay pipe, the picture of a self-indulgent sloven--that might have -come straight from Hogarth. Tonia was writing at a table by an open -window, the June sunshine gleaming in her ebon hair. Her father had -been dictating and suggesting, objecting and approving, as she read her -dialogue. - -The visit was startling, for though Thornton was on easy terms with -his lordship, who had known him at the University, and had patronized -and employed him in his decadence, Kilrush had never crossed his -threshold till to-day. Had he come immediately after the meeting at -Mrs. Mandalay's, Antonia's father might have suspected evil; but -Thornton had flung that event into the rag-bag of old memories, and -had no thought of connecting his patron's visit with his daughter's -attractiveness. He was about as incapable of thought and memory as a -thinking animal can be, having lived for the past fourteen years in the -immediate present, conscious only of good days and bad days, the luck -or the ill-luck of the hour, without hope in the days that were coming, -or remorse for the days that were gone. - -Kilrush knew the man to the marrow of his bones, and although he had -been profoundly impressed by Antonia's unlikeness to other women, he -had waited a month before seeking to improve her acquaintance, and thus -hoped to throw the paternal Argus off his guard. - -Tonia laid down her pen, rose straight and tall as a June lily, and -made his lordship her queenly curtsey, blushing a lovely crimson at the -thought of the liberties that rapid quill had taken with his character. - -"He is not half so handsome as my Dorifleur!" she thought; "but he has -the grand air that no words can express. Poor little Garrick! What a -genius he must be, and what heels he must wear, if he is to represent -such a man!" - -Kilrush returned the curtsey with a bow as lofty, and then bent over -the ink-stained fingers and kissed them, as if they had been saintly -digits in a crystal _reliquaire_. - -"Does Miss Thornton concoct plays, as well as her gifted parent?" he -inquired, with the smile that was so exquisitely gracious, yet not -without the faintest hint of mockery. - -"The jade has twice her father's genius," said Thornton, who had -risen from the sofa and laid his pipe upon the hob of the wide iron -grate, where a jug of wall-flowers filled the place of a winter fire. -"Or, perhaps I should say, twice her father's memory, for she has a -repertory of Spanish and Italian plays to choose from when her Pegasus -halts." - -"Nay, father, I am not a thief," protested Tonia. - -Kilrush glanced at the hack-scribbler, remembering that awkward -adventure with the farmer's cash-box which had brought so worthy a -gentleman to the treadmill, and which might have acquainted him with -Jack Ketch. He glanced from father to daughter, and decided that -Antonia was unacquainted with that scandalous episode in her parent's -clerical career. - -After that one startled blush and conscious smile, the cause whereof -he knew not, she was as unconcerned in his lordship's company to-day -as she had been at Mrs. Mandalay's. She gave him no _minauderies_, -no downcast eyelids or shy glances; but sat looking at him with a -pleased interest while he talked of the day's news with her father, and -answered him frankly and brightly when he discussed her own literary -work. - -"You are very young to write plays," he said. - -"I wrote plays when I was five years younger," she answered, laughing, -"and gave them to Betty to light the fires." - -"And your father warmed his legs before the dramatic pyre, and never -knew 'twas the flame of genius?" - -"She was a fool to burn her trash," said Thornton. "I might have made a -volume of it--'Tragedies and Comedies, by a young lady of fifteen.'" - -"I'll warrant Shakespeare burnt a stack of balderdash before he wrote -_The Two Gentlemen of Verona_, poor stuff as it is," said Kilrush. - -"Is your lordship so very sure 'tis poor stuff?" asked Tonia. - -"If it wasn't, don't you think Garrick would have produced it? He loves -Shakespeare--a vastly respectable poet whose plays he can act without -paying for them. Be sure you let me know when your comedy is to be -produced, madam, for I should die of vexation not to be present at the -first performance." - -"Alas! there is a great gulf between a written play and an acted one," -sighed Tonia. "Mr. Garrick may not like it. But 'tis more my father's -play than mine, my lord. He finds the ideas, and I provide the words." - -"She has a spontaneous eloquence that takes my breath away. But for -the machinery, the fabric of the piece, the arrangement of the scenes, -the method, the taste, the scope of the characters, and their action -upon one another, I confess myself the author," Thornton said, in -his grandiloquent way, having assumed his company manner, a style of -conversation which he kept for persons of quality. - -"I doubt Miss Thornton is fonder of study than of pleasure, or I should -have seen her at Mrs. Mandalay's again----" - -"I hate the place," interjected Tonia; "and if women of fashion are all -like the painted wretches I saw there----" - -"They all paint--white lead is the rule and a clean-washed face the -exception," said Kilrush; "but 'twould not be fair to judge the _beau -monde_ by the herd you saw t'other night. Mrs. Mandalay's is an _olla -podrida_ of good and bad company. Your father must initiate you in the -pleasures of Ranelagh." - -"I have had enough of such pleasures. I had a curiosity--like -Fatima's--to see a world that was hid from me. But for pleasure I -prefer the fireside, and a novel by Richardson. If he would but give us -a new Clarissa!" - -"You admire Clarissa?" - -"I adore, I revere her!" - -"A pious simpleton who stood in the way of her own happiness. Why, in -the name of all that's reasonable, did she refuse to marry Lovelace, -when he was willing?" - -Tonia flashed an indignant look at him. - -"If she could have stooped to marry him she would have proved herself -at heart a wanton!" she said, with an outspoken force that startled -Kilrush. - -Hitherto he had met only two kinds of women--the strictly virtuous, -who affected an Arcadian innocence and whose talk was insupportably -dull, and the women whose easy morals allowed the widest scope for -conversation; but here was a girl of undoubted modesty, who was not -afraid to argue upon a hazardous theme. - -"You admire Clarissa for her piety, perhaps?" he said. "That is what -our fine ladies pretend to appreciate, though they are most of them -heathens." - -"I admire her for her self-respect," answered Tonia. "That is her -highest quality. When was there ever a temper so meek, joined with such -fortitude, such heroic resolve?" - -"She was a proud, self-willed minx," said Kilrush, entranced with the -vivid expression of her face, with the fire in her speech. - -"'Twas a woman's pride in her womanhood, a woman fighting against her -arch enemy----" - -"The man who loved her?" - -"The man she loved. 'Twas that made the struggle desperate. She knew -she loved him." - -"If she had been kinder, now, and had let love conquer?" insinuated -Kilrush. - -"She would not have been Clarissa; she would not have been the -long-suffering angel, the martyr in virtue's cause." - -"Prythee, my lord, do not laugh at my daughter's high-flown -sentiments," said Thornton. "I have done my best to educate her reason; -but while there are romancers like Samuel Richardson to instil folly -'tis difficult to rear a sensible woman." - -"That warmth of sentiment is more delightful than all your cold reason, -Thornton; but I compliment you on the education which has made this -young lady to tower above her sex." - -"Oh, my lord, do not laugh at me. I have just learnt enough to know -that I am ignorant," said Tonia, with her grand air--grand because so -careless, as of one who is alike indifferent to the effect of her words -and the opinion of those with whom she converses. - -Kilrush prolonged his visit into a second hour, during which the -conversation flitted from books to people, from romance to politics, -and never hung fire. He took leave reluctantly, apologizing for having -stayed so long, and gave no hint of repeating his visit, nor was -asked to do so. But he meant to come again and again, having as he -thought established himself upon a footing of intimacy. A Grub-Street -hack could have no strait-laced ideas--a man who had been in jail for -something very like larceny, and who had educated his young daughter as -a free-thinker. - -"She finds my conversation an agreeable relief after a ten years' -_tete-a-tete_ with Thornton," he told himself, as he picked his way -through the filth of Green Street to Leicester Fields. "But 'tis easy -to see she thinks I have passed the age of loving, and is as much at -home with me as if I were her grandfather. Yet 'twas a beautiful red -that flushed her cheek when I entered the room. Well, if she is pleased -to converse with me 'tis something; and I must school myself to taste a -platonic attachment. A Lovelace of seven and forty! How she would jeer -at the notion!" - - * * * * * - -Lord Kilrush waited a fortnight before repeating his visit, and again -called at an hour when Thornton was likely to be at home; but his third -visit, which followed within a week of the second, happened late in -the afternoon, when he found Antonia alone, but in no wise discomposed -at the prospect of a _tete-a-tete_. She enjoyed his conversation with -as frank and easy a manner as if she had been a young man, and his -equal in station; and he was careful to avoid one word or look which -might have disturbed her serenity. It was unflattering, perhaps, to be -treated so easily, accepted so frankly as a friend of mature years; but -it afforded him the privilege of a companionship that was fast becoming -a necessity of his existence. The days that he spent away from Rupert -Buildings were dull and barren. His hours with Antonia had an unfailing -charm. He forgot even twinges of gout, and the burden of time--that -dread of old age and death which so often troubled his luxurious -solitude. - -She grew more enchanting as she became more familiar. She treated him -with as cordial a friendship as if he had been her uncle. She would -talk to him with her elbows on the table, and her long tapering fingers -pushing back those masses of glossy hair which the ribbon could -scarcely hold in place. Stray curls would fall over the broad white -brow, and she had a way of tossing those random ringlets from her eyes -that he could have sworn to among a thousand women. - -He told her all that was worth telling of the world in which he lived -and had lived. He had been a soldier till his thirtieth year; had -travelled much and far; had lived in Paris among the encyclopedists, -and had entertained Voltaire at his house in London. He had seen every -dramatic troupe worth seeing in France, Italy, and Spain; had dabbled -in necromancy, and associated with savants in every science, at home -and abroad. - -All his experiences interested Antonia. She had a way of entering into -the ideas of another which he had never met with in any except the -highest grade of women. - -"Your kindness makes me an egotist," he said. "You ought to be the -mistress of a political _salon_. Faith, I can picture our party -politicians pouring their griefs and hatreds into your ear, cheered by -your sympathy, inspired by your wit. But I doubt you must find this -prosing of mine plaguey tiresome." - -"No, no, no," she cried eagerly. "I want to know what the world is -like. It is pleasant to listen to one who has seen all the places and -people I long to see." - -"You will see them with your own young eyes, perhaps, some day," he -said, smiling at her. - -She shook her head despondently, and waved the suggestion away as -impossible. - -One day in an expansive mood she consented to read an act of the -comedy, now finished, and waiting only Thornton's final touches, and -that spicing of the comic episodes on which he prided himself, and -against which his daughter vainly protested. - -"My father urges that we have to please three distinct audiences, and -that scenes which delight people of good breeding are _caviare_ to the -pit, while the gallery wants even coarser fare, and must have some -foolery dragged in here and there to put them in good humour. I'll not -read you the gallery pages." - -He listened as if to inspiration. He easily recognized her own work -as opposed to her father's, the womanly sentiment of her heroine's -speeches, her hero's lofty views of life. He ventured a suggestion or -two at that first reading, and finding her pleased with his hints, he -insisted on hearing the whole play, and began seriously to help her, -and so breathed into her dialogue that air of the _beau monde_ which -enhances the charm of contemporary comedy. This collaboration, so -delightful to him, so interesting to her, brought them nearer to each -other than all their talk had done. He became the partner of her ideas, -the sharer of her hopes. He taught her all that her father had left -untaught--the mystery of modish manners, the laws of that society which -calls itself good, and how and when to break them. - -"For the parvenu 'tis a code of iron; for the fine gentleman there is -nothing more pliable," he told her. "I have seen Chesterfield do things -that would make a vulgarian shudder, yet with such benign grace that no -one was offended." - -Thornton was with them sometimes, and they sat on the play in -committee. He, who professed to be the chief author, found himself -overruled by the other two. They objected to most of his jokes as -vulgar or stale. They would admit no hackneyed turns of speech. The -comedy was to be a picture of life in high places. - -"Begad, my lord, you'll make it too fine for the town, and 'twill be -played to empty benches," remonstrated Thornton. - -"Nothing is ever too fine for the town," answered Kilrush. "Do you -think the folks in the gallery want their own humdrum lives reflected -on the stage, or to look on at banquets of whelks and twopenny porter? -The mob love splendour, Mr. Thornton, and when they have not Bajazet or -Richard, they like to see the finest fine gentlemen and ladies that a -playwright can conceive." - -Thornton gave way gracefully. He knew his lordship's influence at the -theatres, and he had told Garrick that Kilrush had written a third of -the play, but would not have his name mentioned. - -"'Tis no better for that," said the manager, but in his heart liked the -patrician flavour, and on reading _The Man of Mind_ owned 'twas the -best thing Thornton had written, and promised to produce it shortly. - -By this time Kilrush and Antonia seemed old friends, and she looked -back and thought how dull her life must have been before she knew him. -He was the only man friend she had ever had except her father. She -found his company ever so much more interesting than Patty Lester's, -so that it was only for friendship's sake she ever went to the parlour -over the piazza, or bade Patty to a dish of tea in Rupert Buildings. -Patty opened her great brown eyes to their widest when she heard of -Kilrush's visits. - -"You jeer at my ancient admirers," she said, "and now you have got one -with a vengeance!" - -"He is no admirer--only an old friend of my father's who likes to sit -and talk with me." - -"Is that all? He must be very fond of you to sit in a second floor -parlour. He is one of the finest gentlemen in town, and the richest. My -General told me all about him." - -"I thought that Irish peers were seldom rich," Tonia said carelessly, -not feeling the faintest interest in her friend's fortune or position. - -"This one is; and he is something more than an Irish landowner. His -mother was an East India merchant's only child, and one of the richest -heiresses in England. Those Indian merchants are rank thieves, the -General says--thieves and slave-traders, and they used to bring home -mountains of gold. But that was fifty years ago, in the good old times." - -"Poor souls!" said Tonia, thinking of the slaves. "What a cruel world -it is!" - -It grieved her to think that her friend's wealth had so base a source. -She questioned her father on their next meal together. - -"Is it true that Lord Kilrush's grandfather was a slave-trader?" she -asked. - -"'S'death, child, what put such trash in your head? Miss Lavenew was -the daughter of a Calcutta merchant who dealt with the native princes -in gold and gems, and who owned a tenth share of the richest diamond -mine in the East. 'Tis the West Indian merchants who sometimes take a -turn at the black trade, rather than let their ships lie in harbour -till they ground on their own beef-bones." - -It was a relief to know that her friend's fortune was unstained by -blood. - -"I do not think he would exist under the burden of such a heritage," -she said to herself, meditating upon the question in the long summer -afternoons, while she sat with open windows, trying not to hear street -cries, as she bent over an Eastern story by Voltaire, which she was -translating for one of the magazines. - -Kilrush came in before her task was finished, but she laid her pen -aside gladly, and rose to take his hat and stick from him with her -dutiful daughterly air, just as she did for her father. - -"Nay, I will not have you wait upon me, when 'tis I should serve you on -my knees, as queens are served," he said. - -It was seven o'clock, and he had come from a Jacobite dinner in Golden -Square--a dinner at which the champagne and Burgundy had gone round -freely before it came to drinking the king's health across a bowl of -water. There was an unusual brightness in his eyes, and a faint flush -upon cheeks that were more often pale. - -"I did not expect to see your lordship to-day," Tonia said, repelled by -his manner, so unlike the sober politeness to which he had accustomed -her. "I thought you were going to Tunbridge Wells." - -"My coach was at the door at ten o'clock this morning, the postillions -in their saddles, when I sent them all to the devil. I found 'twas -impossible to leave this stifling town." - -"A return of your gout?" she asked, looking at him wonderingly. - -"No, madam, 'twas not my gout, as you call it, though I never owned to -more than a transient twinge. 'Twas a disease more deadly, a malady -more killing." - -He made a step towards her, wanting to clasp her to his breast in the -recklessness of a long suppressed passion, but drew back at the sound -of a step on the stair. - -She looked at him still with the same open wonder. She could scarcely -believe that this was Kilrush, the friend she admired and revered. Her -father came in while she stood silent, perplexed, and distressed at the -transformation. - -Kilrush flung himself into an armchair with a muttered oath. Then -looking up, he caught the expression of Tonia's face, and it sobered -him. He had been talking wildly; had offended her, his divinity, the -woman to win whom was the fixed purpose of his mind--to win her at his -own price, which was a base one. He had been tactful hitherto, had -gained her friendship, and in one unlucky moment he had dropped the -mask, and it might be that she would trust him no more. - -"Too soon, too soon," he told himself. "I have made her like me. I must -make her love me before I play the lover." - -He let Thornton talk while he sat in a gloomy silence. It wounded him -to the quick to discover that she still thought of him as an elderly -man, whose most dreaded misfortune was a fit of the gout. 'Twas to -sober age she had given her confidence. - -Thornton had been with Garrick, and had come home radiant. The play was -to be put in rehearsal next week, with a magnificent cast. - -"But I fear your lordship is indisposed," he said, when Kilrush failed -to congratulate him on his good fortune. - -"My lordship suffers from a disease common to men who are growing old. -I am sick of this petty life of ours, and all it holds." - -"I am sorry to hear you talk like one of the Oxford Methodists," said -Thornton. "It is their trick to disparage a world they have not the -spirit or the fortune to enjoy." - -"They have their solatium in the kingdom of saints," said Kilrush. "I -dare not flatter myself with the hope of an Elysium where I shall again -be young and handsome, and capable of winning the woman I love." - -"Nor do you fear any place of torment where the pleasing indiscretions -of a stormy youth are to be purged with fire," retorted Thornton, gaily. - -"No, I am like you--and Miss Thornton--I stake my all upon the only -life I know and believe in." - -He glanced at Tonia to see how the materialist's barren creed sat on -her bright youth. She gave a thoughtful sigh, and her eyes looked -dreamily out to the summer clouds sailing over Wren's tall steeple. She -was thinking that if she could have accepted Mrs. Potter's creed, and -believed in a shining city above the clouds and the stars, it would -have been sweet to hope for reunion with the mother whose face she -could not remember, but whose sweetness and beauty her father loved to -praise, even now after nineteen years of widowhood. - -"Your lordship is out of spirits," said Thornton. "Tonia shall give us -a dish of tea." - -"No, I will not be so troublesome. I am out of health and out of -humour. Miss Thornton was right, I dare swear, when she suggested the -gout--my gout--an old man's chronic malady. I have been dining with a -crew of boisterous asses who won't believe the Stuarts are beaten, in -spite of the foolish heads that are blackening on Temple Bar. _J'ai le -vin mauvais_, and am best at home." - -He kissed Antonia's hand, that cold hand which had never thrilled at -his touch, nodded good-bye to Thornton, and hurried away. - -"Kilrush is not himself to-day," said Thornton. - -"I'm afraid he has been taking too much wine," said Antonia. "He had -the strangest manner, and said the strangest things." - -"What things?" - -"Oh, a kind of wild nonsense that meant nothing." - -She was not accustomed to see any one under the influence of liquor. -Her father was, by long habit, proof against all effects of the nightly -punch-bowl, and however late he came from "The Portico," he had always -his reasoning powers, and legs steady enough to carry him up two -flights of stairs without stumbling. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -A SERIOUS FAMILY. - - -Lord Kilrush posted to Tunbridge Wells the day after the Jacobite -dinner, and found a herd of fine people he knew parading the Pantiles, -or sauntering on the common, among Jews and Germans, pinmakers' wives -from Smock Alley, and rural squires with red-cheeked daughters. He -drank the waters, and nearly died of _ennui_. He would have liked the -place better if it had been a solitude. Wit no longer aroused him, not -even George Selwyn's; beauty had ceased to charm, except in one face, -and that was two and thirty miles away. That chronic weariness which he -knew for the worst symptom of advancing years increased with every hour -of fashionable rusticity. The air at the Wells was delicious, the inn -was comfortable, his physician swore that the treatment was improving -his health. He left the place at an hour's notice, to the disgust of -his body-servant, and posted back to town. He preferred the gloom of -his great silent house in St. James's Square, where he lived a hermit's -life in his library when London was empty. In years gone by he had -spent the summer and autumn in a round of country visits, diversified -with excursions to chateaux in the environs of Paris, and a winter at -Florence or Rome, everywhere admired and in request. Scarce a season -had passed without rumours of his impending marriage with some famous -beauty, or still more famous fortune. But for the last five or six -years he had wearied of society, and had restricted his company to a -few chosen friends, men of his own age, with whom he could rail at the -follies of the new generation--men who had known Bolingbroke in his day -of power, and had entertained Voltaire at their country seats in the -year '29. - -Were Tonia's violet eyes the lodestars that drew him back to town? He -was singing softly to himself as he walked up Shooter's Hill, being -ever merciful to the brute creation, and loving horses and dogs better -than he loved men. - -"Thine eyes are lodestars and thy breath sweet air," he sang, twirling -his clouded cane; and the thought that he would soon see those lovely -eyes made him gay. But his first visit was not to Rupert Buildings. He -knew that he had shocked and disgusted Antonia, and that he must give -her time to recover her old confidence. It had been but an impetuous -movement, a waft of passionate feeling, when he stretched out his arms -towards her, yearning to clasp her to his breast; but her fine instinct -had told her that this was the lover and not the friend. He must give -her time to think she had mistaken him. He must play the comedy of -indifference. - -He ordered his favourite hack on the day after his return from the -Wells, and rode by Westminster Bridge, only opened in the previous -autumn, to Clapham, past Kennington Common, where poor Jemmy Dawson -had suffered for his share in the rebellion of '45, by pleasant rustic -roads where the perfume of roses exhaled from prosperous citizens' -gardens, surrounding honest, square-built brick houses, not to be -confounded with the villa, which then meant a demi-mansion on a classic -model, secluded in umbrageous grounds, and not a flimsy bay-windowed -packing-case in a row of similar packing-cases. - -Clapham was then more rustic than Haslemere is now, and the common -was the Elysian Fields of wealthy city merchants and some persons of -higher quality. The shrubberied drive into which Kilrush rode was kept -with an exquisite propriety, and those few flowering shrubs that bloom -in September were unfolding their petals under an almost smokeless -sky. He dismounted before a handsome house more than half a century -old, built before the Revolution, a solid, red-brick house with long -narrow windows, and a handsome cornice, pediment, and cupola masking -the shining black tiles of the low roof. A shell-shaped canopy, richly -carved, and supported by cherubic brackets, sheltered the tall doorway. -The open door offered a vista of garden beyond the hall, and Kilrush -walked straight through to the lawn, while his groom led the horses -to the stable yard, a spacious quadrangle screened by intervening -shrubberies. - -A middle-aged woman of commanding figure was seated at a table under -the spreading branches of a plane with a young man, who rose hurriedly, -and went to meet the visitor. The lady was Mrs. Stobart, the widow -of a Bristol ship-owner, and the young man was her only son, late of -a famous dragoon regiment. Both were dressed with a gloomy severity -that set his lordship's teeth on edge, but both had a certain air of -distinction not to be effaced by their plain attire. - -"This is very kind of your lordship," said George Stobart, as they -shook hands. "My mother told me you were at Tunbridge Wells. She saw -your name in the _Gazette_." - -"Your mother was right, George; but the inanity of the place wore me -out in a week, and I left before I had given the waters a chance of -killing or curing me!" - -He kissed Mrs. Stobart's black mitten, and dropped into a chair at -her side, after vouchsafing a distant nod to a young woman who sat -at a pace or two from the table, sewing the seam of a coarse linen -shirt, with her head discreetly bent. She raised a pair of mild brown -eyes, and blushed rosy red as she acknowledged his lordship's haughty -greeting, and he noticed that Stobart went over to speak to her before -he resumed his seat. - -There were some dishes of fruit on the table, Mrs. Stobart's -work-basket and several books--the kind of books Kilrush loathed, -pamphlets in grey paper covers, sermons in grey boards, the literature -of that Great Revival which had spread a wave of piety over the United -Kingdom, from John o' Groat's to the Land's End, and across the Irish -Channel from the Liffey to the Shannon. - -Mrs. Stobart was his first cousin, the daughter of his father's elder -sister and of Sir Michael MacMahon, an Irish judge. Good looks ran in -the blood of the Delafields, and only two years ago Kilrush had been -proud of his cousin, who until that date was a distinguished figure -in the fashionable assemblies of London and Bath, and whose aquiline -features and fine person were set off by powder and diamonds, and the -floral brocades and flowing sacques which "that hateful woman," Madame -de Pompadour, whom everybody of _ton_ abused and imitated, had brought -into fashion. The existence of such women is, of course, a disgrace to -civilization; but while their wicked reign lasts, persons of quality -must copy their clothes. - -Two years ago George Stobart had been one of the most promising -soldiers in His Majesty's army, a man who loved his profession, who -had distinguished himself as a subaltern at Fontenoy, and was marked -by his seniors for promotion. He had been also one of the best-dressed -and best-mannered young men in London society, and at the Bath and the -Wells a star of the first magnitude. - -What was he now? Kilrush shuddered as he marked the change. - -"A sanctimonious prig," thought his lordship; "a creature of moods and -hallucinations, who might be expected at any hour to turn lay preacher, -and jog from Surrey to Cornwall on one of his superannuated chargers, -bawling the blasphemous familiarities of the new school to the mob -on rural commons, escaping by the skin of his teeth from the savages -of the manufacturing districts, casting in his itinerant lot with -Whitefield and the Wesleys." - -To Kilrush such a transformation meant little short of lunacy. He -was indignant at his kinsman's decadence; and when he gave a curt -and almost uncivil nod to the poor dependent, bending over her plain -needlework yonder betwixt sun and shade, it was because he suspected -that pretty piece of lowborn pink-and-white to have some part in the -change that had been wrought so suddenly. - -Two years ago, at an evening service in John Wesley's chapel at the -Old Foundery, George Stobart had been "convinced of sin." Swift as -the descent of the dove over the waters of the Jordan had been the -awakening of his conscience from the long sleep of boyhood and youth. -In that awful moment the depth of his iniquity had been opened to -him, and he had discovered the hollowness of a life without God in -the world. He had looked along the backward path of years, and had -seen himself a child, drowsily enduring the familiar liturgy, sleeping -through the hated sermon; a lad at Eton, making a jest of holy things, -scorning any assumption of religion in his schoolfellows, insolent -to his masters, arrogant and uncharitable, shirking everything that -did not minister to his own pleasures or his own aims, studious only -in the pursuit of selfish ambitions, dreaming of future greatness to -be won amidst the carnage of battles as ruthless, as unnecessary, as -Malplaquet. - -And following those early years of self-love and impiety there had -come a season of darker sins, of the sins which prosperous youth calls -pleasure, sins that had sat so lightly on the slumbering conscience, -but which filled the awakened soul with horror. - -His first impulse after that spiritual regeneration was to sell out -of the army. This was the one tangible and irrevocable sacrifice that -lay in his power. The more he loved a soldier's career, the more -ardently he had aspired to military renown, the more obvious was the -duty of renunciation. The treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle had but just been -concluded, and the troubles in America had not begun, so there seemed -no chance of his regiment being sent on active service, but his conduct -seemed not the less extraordinary to his commanding officer. - -"Do you do this to please your mother?" he asked. - -"No, sir; I do it to please Christ." - -The colonel rapped his forehead significantly as Stobart left the room. - -"Another victim of the Oxford Methodists," he said. "If they -are allowed to go on, England will be peopled with hare-brained -enthusiasts, and we shall have neither soldiers nor sailors." - -Mrs. Stobart was furious with her son for his abandonment of a career -in which she had expected him to win distinction. For some months after -his "call" she had refused to speak to him, and had left him to his -solitary meditations in his own rooms at Stobart Lodge. In this gloomy -period they had met only at meals, and it had vexed her to see that -her son took no wine, and refused all the daintier dishes upon the -table, all those ragouts and salmis that adorned the board in sumptuous -covered dishes of Georgian silver, and which were the pride of cook and -dinner-giver. - -"I give myself a useless trouble in looking at the bill of fare every -morning," Mrs. Stobart said angrily, as the side dishes were removed -untasted, breaking in upon a melancholy silence that had lasted from -the soup to the game. "God knows I need little for myself; but you used -to appreciate a good dinner." - -"I have learnt to appreciate higher things, madam." - -"I might as well order a leg of mutton and a suet pudding every day in -the week." - -"Indeed, my dear mother, I desire nothing better." - -"With a cook at forty guineas a year!" - -"Dismiss her, and let the kitchen wench dress our simple meals." - -"And make myself a laughing-stock to my friends." - -"To your idle acquaintances only--friends esteem us for deeper reasons. -Ah, madam, if you would but hearken to the voices I hear, court the -friends I love, you would scorn the worldling's life as I scorn it. To -the heir of a boundless estate in the Kingdom of Heaven 'tis idle to -waste thought and toil upon a trumpery speck of earth." - -"Oh, those Oxford Methodists! You have caught their jargon. I am a good -Churchwoman, George, and I hate cant." - -"You are a good woman, madam. But what is it to be a good Churchwoman? -To attend a morning service once a week in a church where there is -neither charity nor enthusiasm, upon whose dull decorum the hungry -and the naked dare not intrude--a service that takes no cognizance of -sinners, save in a formula that the lips repeat while the heart remains -dead; to eat a cold dinner on the Sabbath in order that your servants -may join in the same heartless mockery of worship; to listen to the -barren dogma of a preacher whose life you know for evil, and whose -intellect you despise." - -Mother and son had many such conversations--oases in a desert of -sullen silence--before Mrs. Stobart's conversion; but that conversion -came at last, partly by the preaching of John Wesley, whom her son -worshipped, and partly by the influence of Lady Huntingdon and other -ladies of birth and fortune, whose example appealed to the fashionable -Maria Stobart as no meaner example could have done. She began to -think less scornfully of the Great Revival when she found her equals -in rank among the most ardent followers of Whitefield and the Wesleys: -and within a year of her son's awakening she, too, became convinced of -sin, the firstfruits of which conversion were shown by the dismissal -of her forty-guinea cook, her second footman, the third stable -servant, and the sale of a fine pair of carriage-horses. She had even -contemplated dispensing with her own maid, but was prevented by a sense -of her patrician incapability of getting into her clothes or out of -them without help. She made, perhaps, a still greater sacrifice by -changing her dressmaker from a Parisienne in St. James's to a woman at -Kennington, who worked for the Quaker families on Denmark Hill. - -After about ten minutes' conversation with this lady, of whose mental -capacity he had but a poor opinion, Lord Kilrush invited her son to -a turn in the fruit garden--a garden planned fifty years before, and -maintained in all the perfection of espaliered walks and herbacious -borders, masking the spacious area devoted to celery, asparagus, -and the homelier vegetables. High brick walls, heavily buttressed, -surmounted this garden on three sides, the fourth side being divided -from lawn and parterre by a ten-foot yew hedge. At the further end, -making a central point in the distance, there was a handsome red-brick -orangery, flanked on either side by a hothouse, while at one angle of -the wall an octagonal summer-house of two stories overlooked the whole, -and afforded an extensive view of the open country across the river, -from Notting Hill to Harrow. Established wealth and comfort could -hardly find a better indication than in this delightful garden. - -"Upon my soul," cried Kilrush, "you have a little paradise in this _rus -in urbe!_ Come, George, I am glad to see you look so well in health, -and I hope soon to be gratified by seeing you make an end of your crazy -life, and return to a world you were created to serve and adorn. If the -army will not please you, there is the political arena open to every -young man of means and talent. I should like to see your name rank with -the Townsends and the Pelhams before I die." - -"I have no taste for politics, sir; and for my crazy life, sure it -lasted seven and twenty years, and came to a happy ending two years -ago." - -"Nine and twenty! Faith, George, that's too old for foolery. John -Wesley was a lad at college, and Whitefield was scarce out of his teens -when he gave himself up to these pious hallucinations; and they were -both penniless youths who must needs begin their journey without scrip -or sack. But you, a man of fortune, a soldier, one of the young heroes -of Fontenoy, that you could be caught by the rhapsodies that carry -away a London mob of shop-boys and servant-wenches, or a throng of -semi-savage coal-miners at Kingswood, in that contagion of enthusiasm -to which crowds are subject--that _you_ could turn Methodist! Pah, it -makes me sick to think of your folly!" - -"Perhaps some day your lordship will come over and help us. After my -mother's conversion there is no heart so stubborn that I should despair -of its being changed." - -"Your mother is a fool! Well, I don't want to quarrel with you, so -we'll argue no further. After all, in a young man these follies are but -passing clouds. Had you not taken so serious a step as to leave the -army I should scarcely have vexed myself on your account. By the way, -who is that seamstress person I saw sitting on the lawn, and whom I -have seen here before to-day?" - -His eyes were on George's face, and the conscious flush he expected to -see passed over the young man's cheek and brow as he spoke. - -"She is a girl whose conscience was awakened in the same hour that saw -my redemption; she is my twin-sister in Christ." - -"That I can understand," said Kilrush, with the air of humouring a -madman, "but why the devil do I find her established here?" - -"She is the daughter of a journeyman printer, her mother a drunkard -and her father an atheist. Her home was a hell upon earth. Her case -had been brought before Mr. Wesley, who was touched by her unaffected -piety. I heard her history from his lips, and made it my duty to rescue -her from her vile associations." - -"How came you by the knowledge of your spiritual twinship?" - -"She was seated near me in the meeting-house, and I was the witness of -her agitation, of the Pentecostal flame that set her spirit on fire; I -saw her fall from the bench, with her forehead bent almost to the floor -on which she knelt. Her whole frame was convulsed with sobs which she -strove with all her might to restrain. I tried to raise her from the -ground, but her ice-cold hand repulsed mine, and the kneeling figure -was as rigid as if it had been marble." - -"A cataleptic seizure, perhaps. Your Brotherhood of the Foundery has -much to answer for." - -"It has many to answer for," George retorted indignantly--"thousands of -souls rescued from Satan." - -"Had that meek-looking young woman been one of his votaries? If so, -I wonder your mother consented to harbour her. It is one thing to -entertain angels unawares, but knowingly to receive devils----" - -"Scoff as you will, sir, but do not slander a virtuous girl because she -happens to be of low birth." - -"If she was not a sinner, why this convulsion of remorse for sin? I -cannot conceive the need of self-humiliation in youth that has never -gone astray." - -"Does your lordship think it is enough to have lived what the world -calls a moral life, never to have been caught in the toils of vice? -The fall from virtue is a terrible thing; but there is a state of sin -more deadly than Mary Magdalen's. There is the sin of the infidel who -denies Christ; there is the sin of the ignorant and the unthinking, who -has lived aloof from God. It was to the conviction of such a state that -Lucy Foreman was awakened that night." - -"Did you enter into conversation with her after the--the remarkable -experience?" asked Kilrush, with a cynical devilry lighting his dark -grey eyes as he watched his young kinsman's face. - -It was a fine frank face, with well-cut features and eyes of the same -dark grey as his lordship's, a face that had well become the dragoon's -Roman headgear, and which had a certain poetical air to-day with the -unpowdered brown hair thrown carelessly back from the broad forehead. - -"No, it was not till long after that night that I introduced myself to -her. It was not till after my mother's conversion that I could hope -to win her friendship for this recruit of Christ. I had heard Lucy's -story in the mean-time, and I knew that she was worthy of all that our -friendship could do for her." - -"And you persuaded your mother to take her into her service?" - -"She is not a servant," George said quickly. - -"What else?" - -"She is useful to my mother--works with her needle, attends to the -aviary, and to the flowers in the drawing-room----" - -"All that sounds like a servant." - -"We do not treat her as a servant." - -"Does she sit at table with you?" - -"No. She has her meals in the housekeeper's room. It is my mother's -arrangement, not mine." - -"You would have her at the same table with the granddaughter of the -seventeenth Baron Kilrush?" - -"I have ceased to consider petty distinctions. To me the premier duke -is of no more importance than Lucy Foreman's infidel father--a soul to -be saved or lost." - -"George," said Kilrush, gravely, "let me tell you, as your kinsman and -friend, that you are in danger of making a confounded mess of your -life." - -"I don't follow you." - -"Oh yes, you do. You know very well what I mean. You have played the -fool badly enough already, by selling your commission. But there are -lower depths of folly. When a man begins to talk as you do, and to -hanker after some pretty bit of plebeian pink-and-white, one knows -which way he is drifting." - -He paused, expecting an answer, but George walked beside him in a moody -silence. - -"There is one mistake which neither fate nor the world ever forgives -in a man," pursued Kilrush, "and that is an ignoble marriage; it is an -error whose consequences stick to him for the whole course of his life, -and he can no more shake off the indirect disadvantages of the act -than he can shake off his lowborn wife and her lowborn kin. I will go -further, George, and say that if you make such a marriage I will never -forgive you, never see your face again." - -"Your lordship's threats are premature. I have not asked your -permission to marry, and I have not given you the slightest ground for -supposing that I contemplate marriage." - -"Oh yes, you have. That young woman yonder is ground enough for my -apprehension. You would not have intruded her upon your home if you -were not _epris_. Take a friendly counsel from a man of the world, -George, and remember that although my title dies with me, my fortune is -at my disposal, and that you are my natural heir." - -"Oh, sir, that would be the very last consideration to influence me." - -"Sure I know you are stubborn and hot-headed, or you would not have -abandoned a soldier's career without affording me the chance to -dissuade you. I came here to-day on purpose to give you this warning. -'Twas my duty, and I have done it." - -He gave a sigh of relief, as if he had flung off a troublesome burden. - -As they turned to go back to the lawn, Lucy Foreman came to meet -them--a slim figure of medium height, a pretty mouth and a _nez -retrousse_, reddish brown hair with a ripple in it, the pink and white -of youth in her complexion; but her feet and ankles, her hands and -her ears, the "points," to which the connoisseur's eye looked, had a -certain coarseness. - -"Not even a casual strain of blue blood here," thought Kilrush; "but -'tis true I have seen duchesses as coarsely moulded." - -She had come at her mistress's order to invite them to a dish of tea -on the lawn. Kilrush assented, though it was but five o'clock, and he -had not dined. They walked by the damsel's side to the table under -the plane, where the tea-board was set ready. Having given expression -to his opinion, his lordship was not disinclined to become better -acquainted with this Helen of the slums, so that he might better -estimate his cousin's peril. She resumed her distant chair and her -needlework, as Kilrush and George sat down to tea, and was not invited -to share that elegant refreshment. The young man's vexed glance in -her direction would have been enough to betray his _penchant_ for the -humble companion. - -Mrs. Stobart forgot herself so far as to question her cousin about -some of the fine people whose society she had renounced. - -"Though I no longer go to their houses I have not ceased to see them," -she said. "We meet at Lady Huntingdon's. Lady Chesterfield and Lady -Coventry are really converts; but I fear most of my former friends -resort to that admirable woman's assemblies out of curiosity rather -than from a searching for the truth." - -"Her _protege_, Whitefield, has had as rapid a success as Garrick or -Barry," said Kilrush. "He is a powerful orator of a theatrical type, -and not to have heard him preach is to be out of the fashion. I myself -stood in the blazing sun at Moorfields to hear him, when he first began -to be cried up; but having heard him I am satisfied. The show was a -fine show, but once is enough." - -"There are but too many of your stamp, Kilrush. Some good seed must -ever fall on stony places; yet the harvest has been rich enough to -reward those who toil in the vineyard--rich in promise of a day when -there shall be no more railing and no more doubt." - -"And when the lion shall lie down with the lamb, and Frederick and -Maria Theresa shall love each other like brother and sister, and France -shall be satisfied with less than half the earth," said Kilrush, -lightly. "You have a pretty little maid yonder," he added in a lower -voice, when George had withdrawn from the tea-table, and seemed -absorbed in a book. - -"She is not my maid, she is a brand snatched from the burning. I am -keeping her till I can place her in some household where she will be -safe herself, and a well-spring of refreshing grace for those with whom -she lives." - -"And in the mean time, don't you think there may be a certain danger -for your son in such close proximity with a pretty girl--of that tender -age?" - -"My son! Danger for my son in the society of a journeyman's daughter--a -girl who can but just read and write? My good Kilrush, I am astounded -that you could entertain such a thought." - -"I'm glad you consider my apprehensions groundless," said his lordship, -stifling a yawn as he rose to take leave. "Poor silly woman," he -thought. "Well, I have done my duty. But it would have been wiser to -omit that hint to the mother. If she should plague her son about his -_penchant_, ten to one 'twill make matters worse. An affair of that -kind thrives on opposition." - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -A WOMAN WHO COULD SAY NO. - - -Lord Kilrush allowed nearly a month to elapse before he reappeared in -Rupert Buildings. He had absented himself in the hope that Antonia -would miss his company; and her bright smile of welcome told him that -his policy had been wise. She had, indeed, forgotten the sudden gust -of passion that had scared her by a suggestion of strangeness in the -friend she had trusted. She had been very busy since that evening. Her -father's play was in rehearsal, and while Thornton spent his days at -Drury Lane and his nights at "The Portico," she had to do most of his -magazine work, chiefly translations of essays or tales by Voltaire or -Diderot, and even to elaborate such scraps of news as he brought her -for the _St. James's, Lloyd's,_ or the _Evening Post,_ all which papers -opened their columns to gossip about the town. - -"What the devil has become of Kilrush?" Thornton had ejaculated several -times. "He used to bring me the last intelligence from White's and the -Cocoa Tree." - -He had called more than once in St. James's Square during the interval, -but had not succeeded in seeing his friend and patron. And now Kilrush -reappeared, with as easy a friendliness as if there had been no break -in his visits. He brought a posy of late roses for Antonia, the only -offering he ever made her whom he would fain have covered with jewels -richer than stud the thrones of Indian Emperors. - -"'Tis very long since we have seen your lordship," Tonia said, as he -seated himself on the opposite side of the Pembroke table that was -spread with her papers and books. "If my father had not called at your -house and been told that you were in fairly good health we should have -feared you were ill, since we know we have done nothing to offend you." - -Her sweet simplicity of speech, the directness of her lovely gaze smote -him to the heart. Still--still she trusted him, still treated him as -if he had been a benevolent uncle, while his heart beat high with a -passion that it was a struggle to hide. Yet he was not without hope, -for in her confiding sweetness he saw signs of a growing regard. - -"And was I indeed so happy as to be missed by you?" - -"We missed you much--you have been so kind to my father, bringing him -the news of the town; and you have been still kinder to me in helping -me with your criticism of our comedy." - -"'Twas a privilege to advise so intelligent an author. I have been much -occupied since I saw you last, and concerned about a cousin of mine who -is in a bad way." - -"I hope he is not ill of the fever that has been so common of late." - -"No, 'tis not a bodily sickness. His fever is the Methodist rant. He -has taken the new religion." - -"Poor man!" said Tonia, with good-humoured scorn. - -She had heard none of the new preachers; but all she had been told, or -had read about them, appealed to her sense of the ridiculous. She had -been so imbued with the contempt for all religious observances, that -she could feel nothing but a wondering pity for people whose thoughts -and lives could be influenced by a two-hours' sermon in the open air. -To this young votaress of pure reason the enthusiasm of crowds seemed a -fanatical possession tending towards a cell in Bedlam. - -"Unhappily, the disease is complicated by another fever, for the -fellow is in love with a simpering piece of prettiness that he and his -mother have picked out of a Moorfields' gutter; and my apprehension is -that this disciple of Evangelical humility will forget that he is a -gentleman and marry a housemaid." - -"Would you be very angry with him?" - -"Yes, Miss Thornton; and he would feel the consequences of my anger to -his dying day--for, so far as my fortune goes, I should leave him a -beggar." - -"Has he no fortune of his own?" - -"I believe he has a pittance--a something in the funds left him by -an uncle on his father's side. But his mother's estate is at her own -disposal; she is a handsome woman still, and may cheat him by a second -marriage." - -"Do you think it so great a crime for a gentleman to marry his -inferior?" - -"Oh, I have old-fashioned notions, perhaps. I think a man of good -family should marry in his own rank, if he can't marry above it. He -should never have to apologize for his wife, or for her kindred. 'Tis -a foolish Irish pride that we Delafields have cherished; but up to -this present hour there is not a label upon our family tree that I am -ashamed to recall." - -"I think my father told me that your lordship's wife was a duke's -daughter." - -"My wife was a----" - -He had started to his feet at Tonia's speech, in angry agitation. He -had never been able to forgive the wife who had disgraced him, or -to think of her with common charity, though he had carried off his -mortification with a well-acted indifference, and though it was ten -years since that frail offender had come to the end of her wandering in -a cemetery outside the walls of Florence. - -"Miss Thornton, for God's sake let us talk of pleasant things, not of -wives or husbands. Marriage is the gate of hell." - -"Sure, my lord, there must be happy marriages." - -"Enough to serve as baits to hook fools. I grant you there are -marriages that seem happy--nay, I will say that are happy--but 'tis not -the less a fact that to chain a man and woman to each other for life -is the way to make them the deadliest enemies. The marriage bond was -invented to keep estates together, not to bind hearts." - -Tonia listened with a thoughtful air, but gave no sign of assent. - -"Surely you must agree with me," he continued--"you who have been -taught to take a philosophical view of life." - -"I have never applied my philosophy to the subject; but my comedy ends -with a happy marriage. I should be sorry to think that 'twas like a -fairy tale, and that there are no lovers as noble as Dorifleur, no -women as happy as Rosalia." - -"It _is_ a fairy tale, dear madam; 'tis the unlikeness to life that -charms us. We go to the play on purpose to be deluded by pictures -of impossible felicity--men of never-to-be-shaken valour, women of -incorruptible virtue, shadows that please us in a three-hours' dream, -and which have no parallels in flesh and blood." - -"For my own part I am disinterested, for 'tis unlikely I shall ever -marry." - -"Do not. If you would be virtuous, remain free. It is the bond that -makes the dishonour." - -Antonia looked at him with a puzzled air, slow to follow his drift. He -saw that he had gone too far, and was in danger of displeasing her. - -"What curious creatures women are!" he thought. "Here is an avowed -infidel who seems inexpressibly shocked because I decry the marriage -ceremony. What formalists they are at best! If they are not in fear of -the day of judgment they tremble at the notion of being ill-spoken of -by their neighbours. I'll warrant this sweet girl is as anxious to keep -her landlady's good opinion as George Whitefield is to go to heaven." - -He talked to her of the comedy. It was to be acted on the following -Monday. - -"I have secured a side-box, and I count upon being honoured with the -company of the joint authors," he said. - -Tonia's eyes sparkled at the thought of her triumph. To have her words -spoken by David Garrick--by the lovely Mrs. Pritchard--to sit unseen in -the shadow of the curtained side-box, while her daydreams took form and -substance in the light of the oil lamps! - -"My father and I will be proud to have such good places," she said. "We -usually sit at the back of the pit when Mr. Garrick is kind enough to -give us a pass. Father has given me a silk gown from Hilditch's in the -city, the first I have had." - -"If you would suffer me to add a pearl necklace," cried Kilrush, -thinking of a certain string of Oriental pearls which was almost an -heirloom, and which he remembered on his mother's neck forty years ago. -He had taken the red morocco case out of an iron coffer not long since, -and had looked at the ornament, longing to clasp it round Tonia's -throat. The hands that held the case trembled a little as he imagined -the moment when he should fasten the diamond clasp on that exquisite -neck. - -"You are too generous, sir. I take gifts from no one but my father, -except, indeed, the roses you are so kind as to bring me." - -"Happy roses, to win acceptance where pearls are scorned! The necklace -was my mother's, and has been wasting in darkness for near half a -century. She died before I went to Eton. Would you but let me lend it -to you--only to air the pearls." - -"No, no, no; no borrowed finery! I should hate to play the daw in -peacocks' feathers." - -"You are a contradictory creature, madam; but you would have to be more -cruel and more cutting than a north-east wind before I would quarrel -with you." - -His lordship's visits now became more frequent than at first; and Tonia -received him with unvarying kindness, whether he found her alone or in -her father's company. Her calm assurance was so strangely in advance of -her years and position that he could but think she owed it to having -mixed so little with her own sex, and thus having escaped all taint -of self-consciousness or coquetry. She listened to his opinions with -respect, but was not afraid to argue with him. She made no secret of -her pleasure in his society, and owned to finding the afternoons or -evenings vastly dull on which he did not appear. - -"I should miss you still more if I had not my translating work," she -said; "but that keeps me busy and amused." - -"And you find that old dry-as-dust Voltaire amusing!" - -"I never find him dry as dust. He is my father's favourite author." - -The comedy was well received, and Thornton was made much of by Mr. -Garrick and all the actors. No one was informed of Antonia's share in -the work, or suspected that the handsome young woman in a yellow silk -sacque had so much to do with the success of the evening. Patty Lester -triumphed in her brief but effective _role_ of a tomboy younger sister, -an improvement on the conventional confidante, and was rapturously -grateful to Mr. Thornton, and more than ever reproachful of Antonia for -deserting her. - -"You have taken an aversion to the Piazza," she said with an offended -air. - -"On my honour, no, Patty; but I have been so constantly occupied in -helping my father." - -"I shall scold him for making a slave of you." - -"No, no, you must not. Be sure that I love you, even if I do not go to -see you." - -"But I am not sure. I cannot be sure. You have grown distant of late, -and more of a fine lady than you was last year." - -Antonia blushed, and promised to take tea with her friend next day. She -was conscious of a certain distaste for Patty's company, but still more -for Patty's casual visitors; but the chief influence had been Kilrush's -urgent objections to the young actress's society. - -"I aver nothing against the creature's morality," he said; "but she -is a mercenary little devil, and encourages any coxcomb who will -substantiate his flatteries with a present. I have watched her at -the side-scenes with a swarm of such gadflies buzzing round her. On -my soul, dear Miss Thornton, 'twould torture me to think of you the -cynosure of Miss Lester's circle." - -Tonia laughed off the warning, swore she was very fond of Patty, and -would on no account desert her. - -"I hope you do not think I can value fools above their merits when -I have the privilege of knowing a man of sense like your lordship," -she said, and the easy tone of her compliment chilled him, as all her -friendly speeches did. Alas! would she ever cease to trust him as a -friend, and begin to fear him as a lover? - -"It is my age that makes my case hopeless," he thought, musing upon -this love which had long since become the absorbing subject of his -meditations. "If I had been twenty years younger how easily might I -have won her, for 'tis so obvious she loves my company. She sparkles -and revives at my coming, like a drooping flower at a sprinkle of -summer rain. But, oh, how wide the difference between loving my -company and loving me! Shall I ever bridge the abyss? Shall I ever -see those glorious eyes droop under my gaze, that transcendent form -agitated by a heart that passion sets beating?" - -Again and again he found her alone among her books and manuscripts, for -Thornton, being now flush of money, spent most of his time abroad. He -sported a new suit, finer than any his daughter had ever seen him wear, -and had an air of rakish gaiety that shocked her. The comedy seemed a -gold mine, for he had always a guinea at command. He no longer allowed -his daughter to fetch and carry between him and his employers. She must -trapes no more along the familiar Strand to Fleet Street. He employed -a messenger for this vulgar drudgery. He urged her to buy herself new -hats and gowns, and to put her toilet on a handsome footing. - -"Sure, so lovely a girl ought to set off her beauty," he said. - -"Dear sir, I would rather see you save your money against sickness -or----" - -She was going to say "old age," but checked herself, with a tender -delicacy. - -"Hang saving! I had never a miser's temper. Davy shall take our next -play. You had best stick to Spanish, and find me a plot in De Vega or -Moratin, and not plague yourself about scraping a guinea or two." - -'Twas heavenly fine weather and more than a year since Kilrush and -Antonia first met at Mrs. Mandalay's ball; and the close friendship -between the _blase_ worldling and the inexperienced girl had become a -paramount influence in the life of each. The hours Antonia spent in his -lordship's company were the happiest she had ever known, and the days -when he did not come had a grey dulness that was a new sensation. The -sound of his step on the stair put her in good spirits, and she was all -smiles when he entered the room. - -"I swear you have the happiest disposition," he said one day; "your -face radiates sunshine." - -"Oh, but I have my dull hours." - -"Indeed! And when be they?" - -"When you are not here." - -Her bright and fearless outlook as she said the words showed him how -far she was from divining a passion that had grown and strengthened in -every hour of their companionship. - -They talked of every subject under the sun. He had travelled much, as -travelling went in those days; had read much, and had learnt still -more from intercourse with the brightest minds of the age. He showed -her the better side of his nature, the man he might have been had he -never abandoned himself to the vices that the world calls pleasures. -They talked often about religion; and though he had cast in his lot -with the Deists before he left Oxford, it shocked him to find a young -and innocent woman lost to all sense of natural piety. Her father had -trained her to scorn all creeds, and to rank the Christian faith no -higher than the most revolting or the most imbecile superstitions of -India or the South Seas. She had read Voltaire before she read the -gospel; and that inexorable pen had cast a blight over the sacred -pages, and infused the poison of a malignant satire into the fountain -of living waters. Kilrush praised her independence of spirit, and -exulted in the thought that a woman who believed in nothing had nothing -to lose outside the region of material advantages, and, convinced of -this, felt sure that he could make her life happy. - -And thus, seeing himself secure of her liking, he flung the fatal die -and declared his love. - -They were alone together in the June afternoon, as they so often were. -He had met Thornton at the entrance to the court, trudging off to -Adelphi Terrace, to wait upon Mr. Garrick; so he thought himself secure -of an hour's _tete-a-tete_. She welcomed him with unconcealed pleasure, -pushed aside her papers, took the bunch of roses that he carried her -with her prettiest curtsey, and then busied herself in arranging the -nosegay in a willow-pattern Worcester bowl, while he laid down his hat -and cane, and took his accustomed seat by her writing-table. They were -cabbage roses, and made a great mass of glowing pink above the dark -blue of the bowl. She looked at them delightedly, handled them with -delicate touch, fingers light as Titania's, and then stopped in the -midst of her pleasant task, surprised at his silence. - -"How pale your lordship looks! I hope you are not ill?" - -He stretched out his hand and caught hers, wet and perfumed with the -roses. - -"Antonia, my love, my divinity, this comedy of friendship must end. -Dear girl, do you not know that I adore you?" - -She tried to draw her hand from his grasp, and looked at him with -unutterable astonishment, but not in anger. - -"You are surprised! Did you think that I could come here day after day, -for a year--see you and hear you, be your friend and companion--and not -love you? By Heaven, child, you must have thought me the dullest clay -that ever held a human soul, if you could think so." - -She looked at him still, mute and grave, deep blushes dyeing her -cheeks, and her eyes darkly serious. - -"Indeed, your lordship, I have never thought of you but as of a friend -whose kindness honoured me beyond my deserts. Your rank, and the -difference of our ages, prevented me from thinking of you as a suitor." - -He started, and dropped her hand; and his face, which had flushed as he -talked to her, grew pale again. - -"Great God!" he thought, "she takes my avowal of love for an offer of -marriage." - -He would not have her deceived in his intentions for an instant. He had -not always been fair and above-board in his dealings with women; but to -this one he could not lie. - -"Your suitor, in the vulgar sense of the word, I can never be, -Antonia," he said gravely. "Twenty years ago, when my wife eloped with -the friend I most trusted, and when I discovered that I had been a -twelve-months' laughing-stock for the town--by one section supposed the -complacent husband, by another the blind fool I really was--in that -hateful hour I swore that I would never again give a woman the power of -dishonouring my name. My heart might break from a jilt's ill-usage--but -_that_, the name which belongs not to me only, but to all of my race -who have borne it in the past or who will bear it in the future--that -should be out of the power of woman's misconduct. And so to you whom -I love with a passion more profound, more invincible than this heart -ever felt for another since it began to beat, I cannot offer a legal -tie; but I lay my adoring heart, my life, my fortune at your feet, and -I swear to cleave to you and honour you with a constant and devoted -affection which no husband upon this earth can surpass." - -He tried to take her hand again, but she drew herself away from him -with a superb gesture of mingled surprise and scorn. - -"There was nothing further from my mind than that you could desire to -marry me, except that you should wish to degrade me," she said in a -voice graver than his own. - -Her face was colourless, but she stood erect and firm, and had no look -of swooning. - -"Degrade you? Do you call it degradation to be the idol of my life, -to be the beloved companion of a man who can lavish all this world -knows of luxury and pleasure upon your lot, who will carry you to the -fairest spots of earth, show you all that is noblest in art and nature, -all that makes the bliss of intelligent beings, who will protect your -interests by the most generous settlements ever made by a lover?" - -"Oh, my lord, stop your inventory of temptation!" exclaimed Antonia. -"The price you offer is extravagant, but I am not for sale. I thought -you were my friend--indeed, for me you had become a dear and cherished -friend. I was deceived, cruelly deceived! I shall know better another -time when a man of your rank pretends to offer me the equality of -friendship!" - -There were tears in her eyes in spite of her courage, in which Roman -virtue she far surpassed the average woman. - -"Curse my rank!" he cried angrily. "It is myself I offer--myself and -all that I hold of worldly advantages. What can my name matter to -you--to you of all women, friendless and alone in the world, your -existence unknown to more than some half-dozen people? _I_ stand on -a height where the arrows of ridicule fly thick and fast. Were I to -marry a young woman--I who was deceived and deserted by a handsome -wife before I was thirty--you cannot conceive what a storm of ridicule -I should provoke, how Selwyn would coruscate with wit at my expense, -and Horry Walpole scatter his contemptuous comments on my folly over -half the continent of Europe. I suffered that kind of agony once--knew -myself the target of all the wits and slanderers in London. I will not -suffer it again!" - -He was pacing the room, which was too small for the fever of his -mind. To be refused without an instant's hesitation, as if he had -tried to make a queen his mistress! To be scorned by Bill Thornton's -daughter--Thornton, the old jail-bird whom he had helped to get out -of prison--the fellow who had been sponging on him more or less for a -score of years, most of all in this last year! - -He looked back at his conquests of the past. How triumphant, how easy -they were; and what trumpery victories they seemed, as he recalled them -in the bitterness of his disappointment to-day. - -Tonia stood by the open window, listening mechanically to the roll -of wheels which rose and fell in the distance with a rhythmical -monotony, like the sound of a summer sea. Kilrush stopped in his angry -perambulation, saw her in tears, and flew to her side on the instant. - -"My beloved girl, those tears inspire me with hope. If you were -indifferent you would not weep." - -"I weep for the death of our friendship," she answered sorrowfully. - -"You should smile at the birth of our love. Great Heaven! what is there -to stand between us and consummate bliss?" - -"Your own resolve, my lord. You are determined to take no second wife; -and I am determined to be no man's mistress. Be sure that in all our -friendship I never thought of marriage, nor of courtship--I never -angled for a noble husband. But when you profess yourself my lover, I -must needs give you a plain answer." - -"Tonia, surely your soul can rise above trivial prejudices! You who -have boldly avowed your scorn of Churchmen and their creeds, who have -neither hope of heaven nor fear of hell, can you think the tie between -a man and woman who love as we do--yes, dearest, I protest you love -me--can you believe that bond more sacred for being mumbled by a -priest, or stronger for being scrawled in a parish register? By Heaven, -I thought you had a spirit too lofty for vulgar superstitions!" - -"There is one superstition I shall ever hold by--the belief that there -are honest women in the world." - -"Pshaw, child! Be but true to the man who adores you, and you will be -the honestest of your sex. Fidelity to her lover is honour in woman; -and she is the more virtuous who is constant without being bound. Nance -Oldfield, the honestest woman I ever knew, never wore a wedding-ring." - -"I think, sir," she began in a low and earnest voice that thrilled him, -"there are two kinds of women--those who can suffer a life of shame, -and those who cannot." - -"Say rather, madam, that there are women with hearts and women without. -You are of the latter species. Under the exquisite lines of the bosom I -worship nature has placed a block of ice instead of a heart." - -A street cry went wailing by like a dirge, "Strawberries, ripe -strawberries. Who'll buy my strawberries?" - -Kilrush wiped the cold dampness from his forehead, and resumed his -pacing up and down, then stopped suddenly and surveyed the room, -flinging up his hands in a passionate horror. - -"Good God! that you should exist in such a hovel as this, while my -great empty house waits for you, while my coach-and-six is ready to -carry us on the road to an Italian paradise! There is a villa at -Fiesole, on a hill above Florence. Oh, to have you there in the spring -sunshine, among the spring flowers, all my own, my sweet companion, -_animae dimidium meae,_ the dearer half of my soul. Antonia, if you are -obstinate and reject me, you will drive me mad!" - -He dropped into a chair, with his head averted from her, and hid his -face in his hands. She saw his whole frame shaken by his sobs. She had -never seen a man cry before, and the spectacle unnerved her. If she -could have yielded--if that stubborn pride of womanhood, which was her -armour against the tempter, could have given way, it would have been at -the sight of his tears. For a moment her lot trembled in the balance. -She longed to kneel at his feet, to promise him anything he could ask -rather than to see his distress; but pride came to the rescue. - -Choking with tears, she rushed to the door. - -"Farewell, sir," she sobbed; "farewell for ever." - -She ran downstairs to the bottom of the house, and to Mrs. Potter's -parlour behind the kitchen, empty at this hour, where she threw -herself upon the narrow horsehair sofa, and sobbed heart-brokenly. -Yet even in the midst of her weeping she listened for the familiar -step upon the stairs above, and for the opening and shutting of the -street door. It was at least ten minutes before she heard Kilrush leave -the house, and then his footfall was so heavy that it sounded like a -stranger's. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -PRIDE CONQUERS LOVE. - - -Except the awful, the inexorable blank that Death leaves in the heart -of the mourner, there is no vacancy of mind more agonizing than that -which follows the defeat of a lover and the sudden cessation of an -adored companionship. To Kilrush the whole world seemed of one dull -grey after he had lost Antonia. The town, the company of which he had -long been weary, now became actually hateful, and his only desire was -to rush to some remote spot of earth where the very fact of distance -might help him to forget the woman he loved. A man of a softer nature -would have yielded to his charmer's objections, and sacrificed his -pride to his love; but with Kilrush, pride--long-cherished pride of -race and name--and a certain stubborn power of will prevailed over -inclination. He suffered, but was resolute. He told himself that -Antonia was cold and calculating, and unworthy of a generous passion -like his. She counted, perhaps, on conquering his resolve, and making -him marry her; and he took a vindictive pleasure in the thought of her -vexation as the days went by without bringing him to her feet. - -"Farewell for ever," she had cried, yet had hoped, perhaps, to see him -return to her to-morrow, like some small country squire, who thinks all -England will be outraged if he marry beneath his rural importance, yet -yields to an irresistible love for the miller's daughter or the village -barmaid. - -"I have lived through too many fevers to die of this one," Kilrush -thought, and braced his nerves to go on living, though all the colour -seemed washed out of his life. - -While his heart was being lacerated by anger and regret, he was -surprised by the appearance of his cousin, the _ci-devant_ captain -of Dragoons, of whose existence he had taken no account since his -afternoon visit to Clapham. He was in his library, a large room at the -back of the house, looking into a small garden shadowed by an old brick -wall, and overlooked by the back windows of Pall Mall, which looked -down into it as into a green well. The room was lined with bookshelves -from floor to ceiling, and the favourite calf binding of those days -made a monotone of sombre brown, suggestive of gloom, even on a summer -day, when the scent of stocks and mignonette was blown in through the -open windows. - -Kilrush received his kinsman with cold civility. - -Not even in the splendour of his court uniform had George Stobart -looked handsomer than to-day in his severely cut grey cloth coat -and black silk waistcoat. There was a light in his eyes, a buoyant -youthfulness in his aspect, which Kilrush observed with a pang of envy. -Ah, had he been as young, Fate and Antonia might have been kinder. - -George put down his hat, and took the chair his cousin indicated, -chilled somewhat by so distant a greeting. - -"I saw in _Lloyd's Evening Post_ that your lordship intended starting -for the Continent," he began, "and I thought it my duty to wait upon -you before you left town." - -"You are very good--and Lloyd is very impertinent--to take so much -trouble about my movements. Yes, George, I am leaving England." - -"Do you go far, sir?" - -"Paris will be the first stage of my journey." - -"And afterwards?" - -"And afterwards? Kamschatka, perhaps, or--hell! I am fixed on nothing -but to leave a town I loathe." - -George looked inexpressibly shocked. - -"I fear your lordship is out of health," he faltered. - -"Fear nothing, hope nothing about me, sir; I am inclined to detest my -fellow-men. If you take that for a symptom of sickness, why then I am -indeed out of health." - -"I am sorry I do not find you in happier spirits, sir, for I had a -double motive in waiting on you." - -"So have most men--in all they do. Well, sir?" - -Kilrush threw himself back in his chair, and waited his cousin's -communication with no more interest in his countenance or manner than -if he were awaiting a petition from one of his footmen. - -Nothing could be more marked than the contrast between the two men, -though their features followed the same lines, and the hereditary mark -of an ancient race was stamped indelibly on each. A life of passionate -excitement, self-will, pride, had wasted the form and features of the -elder, and made him look older than his actual years. Yet in those -attenuated features there was such exquisite refinement, in that -almost colourless complexion such a high-bred delicacy, that for most -women the elder face would have been the more attractive. There was a -pathetic appeal in the countenance of the man who had lived his life, -who had emptied the cup of earthly joys, and for whom nothing remained -but decay. - -The young man's highest graces were his air of frankness and high -courage, and his soldierly bearing, which three years among the -Methodists had in no wise lessened. He had, indeed, in those years been -still a soldier of the Church Militant, and had stood by John Wesley's -side on more than one occasion when the missiles of a howling mob flew -thick and fast around that hardy itinerant, and when riot threatened to -end in murder. - -"Well, sir, your second motive--your _arriere pensee?_" Kilrush -exclaimed impatiently, the young man having taken up his hat again, and -being engaged in smoothing the beaver with a hand that shook ever so -slightly. - -"You told me nearly a year ago, sir," he began, hardening himself -for the encounter, "that you would never forgive me if I married -my inferior--my inferior in the world's esteem, that is to say--an -inferiority which I do not admit." - -"Hang your admissions, sir! I perfectly remember what I said to you, -and I hope you took warning by it, and that my aunt found another place -for her housemaid." - -"Your warning came too late. I had learnt to esteem Lucy Foreman at her -just value. The housemaid, as your lordship is pleased to call her, is -now my wife." - -"Then, sir, since you know my ultimatum, what the devil brings you to -this house?" - -"I desired that you should hear what I have done from my lips, not from -the public press." - -"You are monstrous civil! Well, I am not going to waste angry words -upon you, but your name will come out of my will before I sleep; and -from to-day we are strangers. I can hold no intercourse with a man who -disgraces his name by a beggarly marriage. By Heaven, sir, if I loved -to distraction, if my happiness, my peace, my power to endure this -wretched life, depended upon my winning the idol of my soul, I would -not give my name to a woman of low birth or discreditable connections!" - -He struck his clenched fist upon the table in front of him with a wild -vehemence that took his cousin's breath away; then, recovering his -composure, he asked coldly-- - -"Does your pious mother approve this folly, sir, and take your -housemaid-wife to her heart?" - -"My mother has shown a most unchristian temper. She has forbidden me -her house, and swears to disinherit me. To have forfeited her affection -will be ever my deep regret; but I can support the loss of her fortune." - -"Indeed! Are you so vastly rich from other resources?" - -"I have two hundred a year in India stock--my Uncle Matthew's bequest, -and Lucy's good management promises to make this income enough for -our home--a cottage near Richmond, where we have a garden and all the -rustic things my Lucy loves." - -"Having been reared in an alley near Moorfields! I wonder how long -her love of the country will endure wet days and dark nights, and -remoteness from shops and market? Oh, you are still in your honeymoon, -sir, and your sky is all blue. You must wait a month or two before you -will discover how much you are to be pitied, and that I was your true -friend when I cautioned you against this madness. Good day to you, Mr. -Stobart, and be good enough to forget that we have ever called each -other cousins." - -George rose, and bowed his farewell. The porter was in the hall ready -to open the door for him. He looked round the great gloomy hall with a -contemptuous smile as he passed out. - -"John Wesley's house at the Foundery is more cheerful than this," he -thought. - -Kilrush sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped above -his head in a melancholy silence. - -"Which is the madman, he or I?" he asked himself. - - * * * * * - -The preparation for his continental journey occupied Lord Kilrush for -a fortnight, during which time he waited with a passionate longing for -some sign of relenting from Antonia; and in all those empty days his -mind was torn by the strife between inclination and a stubborn resolve. - -There were moments in which he asked himself why he did not make this -woman his wife; that unfrocked priest, that tippling bookseller's hack, -his father-in-law? Did anything in this world matter to a man so much -as the joy of this present life, his instant happiness? In the hideous -uncertainty of fate, were it not best to snatch the hour's gladness? - -"What if I married her, and she turned wanton after a year of bliss?" -he mused. "At least I should have had my day." - -But then there came the dark suspicion that she had played him as the -angler plays his fish, that she flung the glittering fly across his -enraptured gaze, intent on landing a coronet; that her womanly candour, -her almost childlike simplicity, were all so much play-acting. What -could he expect of truth and honour from Thornton's daughter? - -"If she had given herself to me generously, unquestioningly, I might -believe she loved me," he thought. "But if I married her I must for -ever suspect myself her dupe, the victim of a schemer's ambition, the -sport of an artful coquette, to be betrayed at the first assault of a -younger lover." - -No token of relenting came from Antonia; but towards the end of the -second week Mr. Thornton called to inquire about his lordship's health, -and, being informed that his lordship was about to leave England for a -considerable time, pressed for an interview, and was admitted to his -dressing-room. - -"I am in despair at the prospect of your lordship's departure," he -said, on being bidden to seat himself. "I know not how my daughter and -I will endure our lives in the absence of so valued a friend." - -"I do not apprehend that _you_ will suffer much from wanting my -company, Thornton, since you have been generally out-of-doors during my -visits. And as for your daughter, her interest in an elderly proser's -conversation must have been exhausted long ago." - -"On my soul, no! She has delighted in your society--as how could she do -otherwise? She has an intellect vastly superior to her age and sex, and -she had suffered a famine of intellectual conversation. I know that she -has already begun to feel the loss of your company, for she has been -strangely dispirited for the last ten days, and that indefatigable pen -of hers now moves without her usual gusto." - -"If she is ill, or drooping, I beg you to send for my physician, Sir -Richard Maningham, who will attend her on my account." - -"No, no--'tis no case for Aesculapius. She is out of spirits, but not -ill. How far does your lordship design to extend your travels?" - -"Oh, I have decided nothing. I shall stay at Fontainebleau till the -cool season, and then go by easy stages to Italy. I may winter in Rome, -and spend next spring in Florence." - -"A year's absence! We shall sorely miss your lordship, and I am already -too deeply in your debt to dare venture----" - -"To ask me for a further loan," interrupted Kilrush. "We will have done -with loans, and notes of hand"--Thornton turned pale--"I wish to help -you. Above all, I want to prevent your making a slave of your daughter." - -"A slave! My dear girl delights in literary work. She would be -miserable if I refused her assistance." - -"Well, be sure she does not drudge for you. I hate to think of her -solitary hours mewed in your miserable second-floor parlour, when she -ought to be enjoying the summer air in some rural garden, idle and -without a care. I want to strike a bargain with you, Thornton." - -"I am your lordship's obedient----" - -"Instead of these petty loans which degrade you and disgust me, I am -willing to give you a small income--say, a hundred pounds a quarter----" - -"My dear lord, this is undreamed-of munificence." - -"On condition that you remove with your daughter to some pretty cottage -in a rural neighbourhood--Fulham, Barnes, Hampstead, any rustic spot -within reach of your booksellers and editors--and also that you provide -your daughter with a suitable attendant, a woman of unblemished -character, to wait upon her and accompany her in her walks--in a word, -sir, that being the father of the loveliest woman I ever met, you do -not ignore your responsibilities, and neglect her." - -"Oh, sir, is this meant for a reproach, because I have suffered Antonia -to receive you alone? Sure, 'twas the knowledge of her virtue and of -your noble character that justified my confidence." - -"True, sir, but there may be occasions when you should exercise a -paternal supervision. I shall instruct my lawyer as to the payment -of this allowance, and I expect that you will study your daughter's -convenience and happiness in all your future arrangements. Should -I hear you are neglecting that duty, your income will stop, on the -instant. I must beg, also, that you keep the source of your means a -secret from Miss Thornton, who has a haughtier spirit than yours, and -might dislike being obliged by a friend. And now, as I have a hundred -things to do before I leave town, I must bid you good morning." - -"I go, my lord, but not till I have kissed this generous hand." - -"Pshaw!" - -Kilrush snatched his hand away impatiently, rang for his valet, and -dismissed his grateful friend with a curt nod. - -He left St. James's Square next day after his morning chocolate, in his -coach and six, bound for Dover, determined not to return till he had -learnt the lesson of forgetfulness and indifference. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -THE LOVE THAT FOLLOWS THE DEAD. - - -On his return to Rupert Buildings, William Thornton walked on air. An -income, an assured income of a hundred pounds a quarter, was indeed an -improvement upon those casual loans which he had begged of his patron -from time to time, with somewhat more of boldness since Kilrush had -shown so marked a liking for his daughter's society. He was elated by -his patron's generosity; yet across his pleasant meditations in the -short distance between St. James's Square and St. Martin's Lane, there -was time for his thoughts to take a wider range, and for something of a -cloud to fall across his sunshine. - -He was puzzled, he was even troubled, by his lordship's generosity. -What were the relations between that liberal patron and Antonia? Till -a fortnight ago his daughter's happy frankness had assured him that -all was well: that she was the kind of girl who may be trusted to take -care of herself without paternal interference. But there had been a -marked change in her manner after Kilrush's last visit. She had been -languid and silent. She looked unhappy, and had been absent-minded when -she talked of their literary projects--an essay for Cave--a story for -the _Monthly Review_, or the possibility of Garrick's favour for an -after-piece from the Italian of Goldoni. - -Antonia waited upon him when he came in, helped him to change his -laced coat for an old one that he wore in the house, brought him his -slippers, and proceeded to prepare his tea; but there was no welcoming -smile. - -"My dearest girl, there is something amiss," Thornton said, after he -had watched her for some time, while they sat opposite to each other -with the tea-tray between them. "My Tonia is no longer the happy girl -I have known so long. What ails my love? I have been with your friend -Kilrush. He leaves England to-morrow. Is it the loss of his company -distresses you?" - -"No, no! It is best that he should come here no more." - -"Why, dearest?" - -"Because we could never more be friends. I was very happy in his -friendship. I knew not how happy till we parted." - -"Why should such a friendship end? Why did you part?" - -She burst into tears. - -"I cannot--cannot--cannot tell you." - -"Nay, love, you should have no secrets from your father--an indulgent -father, if sometimes a neglectful one. When have I ever scared you by a -harsh word?" - -"No, no; but it is very hard to tell you that the man I esteemed -was unworthy of my friendship--that he came here with the vilest -design--that he waited till he had won my regard--and then--and -then--swore that he loved me passionately, devotedly--and offered to -make me--his mistress." - -Thornton heard her with a countenance that indicated more of thought -than of horror. - -"It would have been no disgrace to him to make you his wife," he said, -"but the Delafields have ever pretended to a pride in excess of their -rank. He did ill to offer you his affection upon those terms; yet I'll -swear his vows of love were sincere. I have but just left him, and I -never saw more distress of mind than I saw in his face to-day. When I -told him that you had been drooping, he implored me to call in his own -physician, at his charge." - -"Oh, pray, sir, do not tell me how he looked or what he said!" cried -Tonia, with a passionate impatience, drying her tears as she spoke, -which broke out afresh before she had done. "I doubt he thinks money -can heal every wound. He offered to lavish his fortune upon me, and -marvelled that I could prefer this shabby parlour to a handsome house -and dishonour." - -"He did very ill," said Thornton, in a soothing voice, as if he were -consoling a child in some childish trouble; "yet, my dearest Tonia, did -you but know the world as well as I do, you would know that he made you -what the world calls a handsome offer. To settle a fortune upon you--of -course he would mean a _settlement:_ anything else were unworthy of a -thought--would be to give you the strongest pledge of his fidelity. -Men who do not mean to be constant will not so engage their fortune. -And if--if the foolish Delafield pride--that Irish pride, which counts -a long line of ancestors as a sacred inheritance--stands in the way -of marriage--I'll be hanged if I think you ought to have rejected him -without the compliment of considering his offer and of consulting me." - -"Father!" - -She sprang up to her feet, and stood before him in all the dignity of -her tall figure; and her face, with the tears streaming over it, was -white with anger and contempt. - -"My love, life is made up of compromises. Sure, I have tried to keep -your mind clear of foolish prejudices; and, as a student of history, -you must have seen the influences that govern the world. Beauty is -one, and the most powerful, of those influences. Aspasia--Agnes -Sorel--Madame de Pompadour. Need I multiply instances? But Beauty mewed -up in a two-pair lodging is worthless to the possessor; while, with a -fine establishment, a devoted protector, my dearest girl might command -the highest company in the town." - -"Father!" she cried again, with a voice that had a sharp ring of agony, -"would you have had me say yes?" - -"I would have had you consider your answer very seriously before you -said no." - -"You could have suffered your daughter to stoop to such humiliation; -you would have had her listen to the proposal of a man who is free to -marry any one he pleases--but will not marry _her;_ who tells her in -one breath that he loves her--and in the next that he will not make her -his wife--oh, father, I did not think----" - -"That I was a man of the world? My poor child, some of the greatest -matches in England have begun with unfettered love; and be sure that, -were your affection to consent to such a sacrifice, Kilrush would end -by giving you his name." - -"Pray, pray, sir, say no more--you are breaking my heart--I want to -respect you still, if I can." - -"Pshaw, child, after all we have read together! 'Tis a shock to hear -such heroics! What is the true philosophy of life but to snatch all the -comfort and happiness the hour offers? What is true morality but to do -all the good we can to ourselves, and no harm to our neighbours? Will -your fellow-creatures be any the better for your unkindness to Kilrush? -With his fortune to deal with, you could do an infinitude of good." - -"Oh, cease, I implore you!" she exclaimed distractedly. "If his tears -could not conquer me, do you think your philosophy can shake my -resolve?" - -She left him, and took refuge in her garret, and sat staring blankly -into space, heart-sick and disgusted with life. Her father! 'Twas the -first time she had ever been ashamed of him. Her father to be the -advocate of dishonour--to urge her to accept degradation! Her father, -whom she had loved till this hour with a child's implicit belief in the -wisdom and beneficence of a parent--was he no better than the wretches -she had heard Patty talk about, the complacent husbands who flourished -upon a wife's infidelity, the brothers who fawned upon a sister's -protector? Was all the world made of the same base stuff; and did -woman's virtue and man's honour live but in the dreams of genius? - -She had accepted her father's dictum that religion and superstition -were convertible terms. Her young mind had been steeped in the -Voltairean philosophy before she was strong enough to form her own -opinions or choose her own creed. She had read over and over again of -the evil that religion had done in the world, and never of the good. -Instead of the whole armour of righteousness, she had been shown the -racks and thumb-screws of the Spanish Inquisition; and had been taught -to associate the altar with the _auto da fe_. All she knew of piety -was priestcraft; and though her heart melted with compassion for the -martyrs of a mistaken belief, her mind scorned their credulity. But -from her first hour of awakening reason she had never wavered in her -ideas of right and wrong, honour and dishonour. As a child of twelve, -newly entrusted with the expenditure of small sums, all her little -dealings with Mrs. Potter had shown a scrupulous honesty, a delicacy -and consideration, which the good woman had seldom met with in adult -lodgers. The books that had made her an infidel had held before her -high ideals of honour. And those other books--the books she most -loved--her Shakespeare, her Spenser--had taught her all that is noblest -in man and woman. - -She thought of Shakespeare's Isabella, who, not to save the life of -a beloved brother, would stoop to sin. She recalled her instinctive -contempt for Claudio, who, to buy that worthless life, would have sold -his sister to shame. - -"My father is like Claudio," she thought; and then with a sudden -compunction, "No, no, he is not selfish--he is only mistaken. It was of -me he thought--and that if Kilrush loved me, and I loved him, I might -be happy." - -Her tears flowed afresh. Never till Kilrush threw off the mask had -she known what it was to look along the dull vista of life and see no -star, to feel the days a burden, the future a blank. She missed him. -Oh, how she missed him! Day after day in the parlour below she had -sat looking at his empty chair, listening unawares for a footstep she -was never likely to hear again. She recalled his conversation, his -opinions, his criticism of her favourite books, their arguments, their -almost quarrels about abstract things. His face haunted her: those -exquisitely refined features upon which the only effect of age was -an increased delicacy of line and colouring; the depth of thought in -the dark grey eyes; the grave smile with its so swift transition from -satire to a tender melancholy. Was there ever such a man? His elegance, -his dignity, his manner of entering a room or leaving it, the grace of -every gesture, so careless yet so unerring--every trait of character, -every charm of person, which she was unconscious of having noticed in -their almost daily association, seemed now to have been burnt into her -brain and to be written there for ever. - -In the fortnight that had passed since they had parted, she had tried -in vain to occupy herself with the work which had hitherto interested -her so much as to make industry only another name for amusement. Her -adaptation of Goldoni's _Villeggiatura_ lay on her table, the pages -soiled by exposure, sentence after sentence obliterated. The facile -pen had lost its readiness. She found herself translating the lively -Italian with a dull precision; she, who of old had so deftly turned -every phrase into idiomatic English--who had lent so much of herself to -her author. - -Often in these sorrowful days she had pushed aside her manuscript to -scribble her recollections of Kilrush's conversation upon a stray sheet -of foolscap. Often again, in those saddest moments of all, she had -recalled his words of impassioned love--his tears; and her own tears -had fallen thick and fast upon the disfigured page. - -Well, it was ended, that friendship which had been so sweet; and she -had discovered the bitter truth that friendship between man and woman, -when the woman is young and beautiful, is impossible. - - * * * * * - -The days, weeks, months went by; and the name of Kilrush was no more -spoken by Thornton or his daughter. It was as if no such being had -ever had any part in their lives, any influence over their fate. Yet -Thornton was studiously obedient to his patron's wishes all the time. - -Good Mrs. Potter, who was getting elderly, had for some years past -groaned under the burden of the house in Rupert Buildings, with the -double, or sometimes treble set of lodgers, who were needful to make -the business remunerative. Servant girls were troublesome, even when -paid as much as six pounds per annum, with a pound extra for tea and -sugar; lodgers were not always punctual with the weekly rent, and -sometimes left in her debt. Thornton paid her a low rent for his second -floor and garret; but he stayed from year's end to year's end; and she -valued him above the finer people who came and went in her bettermost -rooms. So when he told her that he was going to remove to a rural -neighbourhood, she opened her heart to him, and declared, firstly, -that she was sick of London, and London husseys--otherwise domestic -servants; secondly, that she could not live without Antonia; thirdly, -that she had long had it in her mind to remove her goods and chattels -to a countrified suburb, such as Highgate or Edmonton, and that could -she be secure of one permanent lodger she would do so without loss of -time. - -"Choose a genteel house to the south-west of London, somewhere between -Wandsworth and Barnes, and my daughter and I will share it with you," -said Thornton; and Mrs. Potter, who had no particular leaning to north -or east, agreed. - -After this came a pleasant period of house-hunting, in which Antonia -was by-and-by induced to take a languid interest, going in a hackney -coach with Mrs. Potter and her daughter Sophy, who had served an -apprenticeship to a dressmaker, and was very doubtful how to dispose of -her talent now she was out of her time. After several suburban drives, -through suburbs that were all garden and meadow, they discovered an old -half-timbered cottage at Putney, whose casement windows looked across -the Thames to the church and episcopal palace and gardens of Fulham. To -Antonia, who had hardly known what it was to leave London since those -distant childish years in Windsor Forest, the white walled cottage and -garden seemed a heaven upon earth. Surely it must be a blissful thing -to live beside that broad reach of Thames, to see willows dipping -and reeds waving in the mild autumn wind, and the red sailed barges -drifting slowly down stream, and to hear the rooks in the great elms -yonder in the bishop's gardens, their clamorous chatter softened by -the intervening river. She went back to London enchanted with Rosemary -Bank, as the roomy old cottage called itself, and told her father that -she thought she could be happy there. - -"Then Potter shall take the cottage to-morrow," cried Thornton, in a -rapture of eagerness; "for I'll be hanged if you have looked anything -but miserable for the last six weeks. Just as our luck had turned too, -my--my circumstances improved--and--and Garrick promising to put our -little Italian play on the stage, and to give me a benefit if it runs -twenty nights." - -Tonia sighed, remembering the melancholy thoughts interwoven with every -line of that lively two-act burletta which she had squeezed out of -Goldoni's five-act comedy. Everybody was pleased with the neat little -after-piece, most of all Patty Lester, who was to play the soubrette, -in a short chintz petticoat, and high red heels to her shoes. - -The theatre seemed a source of boundless wealth, for on Mrs. -Potter--who dropped in sometimes at tea-time for a gossip; or, coming -on a business errand, was invited to sit down and talk--complaining -that she did not know what to do with her dressmaking daughter, -Thornton offered to engage Mrs. Sophy as Antonia's "woman." - -"She will have to accept a modest honorarium," he said, with his grand -air, "but she will be getting her hand in to go out as waiting-woman to -a lady of quality; and my Tonia will treat her more as a friend than a -servant." - -Mrs. Potter snapped at the offer, though she did not know the meaning -of the word "honorarium." She guessed that it meant either wages or a -present, and to find that idle slut of hers an occupation, and yet have -her under the maternal eye, was an unspeakable advantage. - -Antonia protested that she wanted no waiting-maid, though she loved -Sophy. - -"Indeed, sir, you are not rich enough to make a fine lady of me," she -said. - -"Nature has made you a lady, my love; and you are too sensible ever -to become fine. When we are living in the country--and I have to come -to London, occasionally, to look after my business--you will need a -companion whose time will be always at your service." - -And so, with no more discussion, Sophia Potter was engaged, at a salary -of ten pounds per annum, paid quarterly. - -At Rosemary Bank the changing seasons passed in a calm monotony; -and it seemed to Antonia, during the second year of her life in the -cottage by the Thames, as if she had never lived anywhere else. The -London lodging, the Strand and Fleet Street, Miss Lester's rooms in the -Piazza, receded in the distance of half-forgotten things; for the years -of youth are long, and the passing of a year makes a great gap in time. - -The link between Tonia and London seemed as completely broken as if she -were living in Yorkshire or in Cornwall. There was a London coach that -started from the King's Head at the bottom of Putney High Street every -morning, for the Golden Cross, hard by Rupert Buildings; and this coach -carried Mr. Thornton and his fortunes three or four times a week, and -brought him home after dark. He had so much business that required his -presence in the metropolis, and first and foremost the necessity of -getting the latest news, which was always on tap at the Portico, where -half a score of gutter wits and politicians settled the affairs of the -nation, reviled Newcastle and the Pelhams, praised Pitt, canvassed the -prospects of war in America or on the continent, and enlarged on the -vices of the _beau monde_, every afternoon and evening. - -Antonia accepted her father's absence as inevitable. Her own life was -spent in a peaceful monotony. She had her books and her literary work -for interest and occupation. She acquired some elementary knowledge -of horticulture from an old man who came once a week to work in the -garden; and, her love of flowers aiding her, she improved upon his -instructions and became an expert in the delightful art. She and Sophy -made the two-acre garden their pride. It was an old garden, and there -was much of beauty ready to their hands; rustic arches overhung with -roses and honeysuckle; espaliers of russet apples and jargonelle pears -screening patches of useful vegetables; plots of old-established turf; -long borders crowded with hardy perennials--a garden that had cost care -and labour in days that were gone. - -And then there was the river-bank between Putney and Kew, where Tonia -found beauty and delight at all seasons; even in the long winter, when -the snapping of thin ice rang through the still air as the barges -moved slowly by, and the snow was piled in high ridges along the edge -of the stream. Summer or winter, spring or autumn, Tonia loved that -solitary shore, where the horses creeping along the towing-path were -almost the only creatures that ever intruded on her privacy. She and -Sophy were indefatigable pedestrians. They had indeed nothing else to -do with themselves, Sophy told her mother, and must needs walk "to pass -the time." Passing the time was the great problem in Sophia Potter's -existence. To that end she waded through "Pamela" and "Clarissa," -sitting in the garden, on sleepy summer afternoons. To that end she -toiled at a piece of tambour work; and to that end she trudged, yawning -dismally now and then, by Tonia's side from Putney to Barnes, from -Barnes to Kew, while her young mistress's thoughts roamed in dreamland, -following airy shadows, or sometimes perhaps following a distant -traveller in cities and by lakes and mountains she knew not. - -Often and often, in her peripatetic reveries, Antonia's fancies -followed the image of Kilrush, whose continental wanderings were -chronicled from time to time in _Lloyd's_ or the _St. James's_. He -was at Rome in the winter after their farewell; he was in Corsica in -the following spring; he spent the summer at Aix in Savoy; moved to -Montpelier in the late autumn; wintered at Florence. Tonia's thoughts -followed him with a strange sadness, wherever he went. Youth cannot -feed on regrets for ever, and the heartache of those first vacant days -had been healed; but the thought that she might never see his face -again hung like a cloud of sadness over the quiet of her life. - -And now it was summer again, and the banks were all in flower, and the -blue harebells trembled above the mossy hillocks on Barnes Common, and -the long evenings were glorious with red and gold sunsets, and it was -nearly two years since she had rushed from her lover's presence with -a despairing farewell. Two years! Only two years! It seemed half a -lifetime. Nothing was less likely than that they would ever meet again. -Nothing, nothing, nothing! Yet there were daydreams, foolish dreams, in -which she pictured his return--dreams that took their vividest colours -on a lovely sunlit morning when the world seemed full of joy. He would -appear before her suddenly at some turn of the river-bank. He would -take her hand and seat himself by her side on such or such a fallen -tree or rough rustic bench where she was wont to sit in her solitude. -"I have come back," he would say, "come back to be your true friend, -never more to wound you with words of love, but to be your friend -always." The tears sprang to her eyes sometimes as imagination depicted -that meeting. Surely he would come back! Could they, who had been such -friends, be parted for ever? - -But the quiet days went by, and her dream was not realized. No sign -or token came to her from him who had been her friend, till one July -evening, when she was startled by her father's unexpected return in a -coach and four, which drove to the little garden gate with a rush and a -clatter, as if those steaming horses had been winged dragons and were -going to carry off the cottage and its inmates in a cloud of smoke -and fire. Tonia ran to the gate in a sudden panic. What could have -happened? Was her father being carried home to her hurt in some street -accident--or dead? It was so unlike his accustomed arrival, on the -stroke of eleven, walking quietly home from the last coach, which left -the Golden Cross at a quarter-past nine, was due at the King's Head at -half-past ten, and rarely kept its time. - -Her father alighted from the carriage, sound of limb, but with an -agitated countenance; and then she noticed for the first time that the -postillions wore the Kilrush livery, and that his lordship's coat of -arms was on the door. - -"My love--my Tonia," cried Thornton, breathlessly, "you are to come -with me, this instant--alas! there is not a moment to spare. Bring her -hat and cloak," he called out to Sophy, who had followed at her lady's -heels, and stood open-mouthed, devouring the wonder-vision of coach and -postillions. "Run, girl, run!" - -Tonia stared at her father in amazement. - -"What has happened?" she asked. "Where am I to go?" - -"Kilrush has sent me for you, Tonia. That good man--Kilrush--my -friend--my benefactor--he who has made our lives so happy. I shall lose -the best friend I ever had. Your cloak"--snatching a light cloth mantle -from the breathless Sophy and wrapping it round Tonia. "Your hat. Come, -get into the coach. I can tell you the rest as we drive to town." - -He helped her into the carriage and took his seat beside her. She was -looking at him in a grave wonder. In his flurry and agitation he had -let her into a secret which had been carefully guarded hitherto. - -"Is it to Lord Kilrush we owe our quiet lives here? Has his lordship -given you money?" she asked gravely. - -"Oh, he has helped--he has helped me, when our means ran low--as any -rich friend would help a poor one. There is nothing strange in that, -child," her father explained, with a deprecating air. - -"Kilrush!" she repeated, deeply wounded. "It was his kindness changed -our lives! I thought we were earning all our comforts--you and I. Why -are you taking me to him, sir? I don't understand." - -"I am taking you to his death-bed, Tonia. His doctors give him only a -few hours of life, and he wants to see you before he dies, to bid you -farewell." - -The tears were rolling down Thornton's cheeks, but Antonia's eyes were -tearless. She sat with her face turned to the village street, staring -at the little rustic shops, the quaint gables and projecting beams, the -dormer casements gilded by the sunset, Fairfax House, with its stout -red walls, and massive stone mullions, and a garden full of roses and -pinks, that perfumed the warm air as they drove by. She looked at all -those familiar things in a stupor of wonder and regret. - -"You often talk wildly," she said presently, in a toneless voice. "Is -he really so ill? Is there no hope?" - -The horses had swung round a corner, and they were driving by a lane -that led to Wandsworth, where it joined the London road. At the rate at -which they were going they would be at Westminster Bridge in less than -half an hour. - -"Alas, child, I have it from his doctor. 'Tis a hopeless case--has -been hopeless for the last six months. He has been in a consumption -since the beginning of the winter, has been sent from place to place, -fighting with his malady. He came to London two days ago, from Geneva, -as fast as he could travel--a journey that has hastened his end, the -physician told me. Came to put his affairs in order, and to see you," -Thornton concluded, after a pause. - -"To see me! Ah, what am I that he should care?" cried Tonia. - -To know that he was dying was to know that she had never ceased to love -him. But she did not analyze her feelings. All that she knew of herself -was a dull despair--the sense of a loss that engulfed everything she -had ever valued in this world. - -"What am I that he should care?" she repeated forlornly. - -"You are all in all to him. He implored me to bring you--with tears, -Antonia--he, my benefactor, the one friend who never turned a deaf ear -to my necessities," said Thornton, too unhappy to control his speech. - -"Shall we be there soon?" Tonia asked by-and-by, in a voice broken by -sobs. - -"In a quarter of an hour at the latest. God grant it may not be too -late." - -No other word was spoken till the coach stopped at the solemn old -doorway in St. James's Square, a door through which Mrs. Arabella -Churchill had passed in her day of pride, when the house was hers, and -that handsome young soldier, her brother Jack, was a frequent visitor -there. - -Night had not fallen yet, and there were lingering splashes of red -sunset upon the westward-facing windows of the Square; but on this side -all was shadow, and the feeble oil-lamps made dots of yellow light on -the cold greyness, and enhanced the melancholy of a summer twilight. - -The door was opened as Thornton and Antonia alighted. Her father led -her past the hall porter, across the spacious marble-paved vestibule -that looked like a vault in the dimness of a solitary lamp which a -footman was lighting as they entered. Huge imperials, portmanteaux and -packing-cases filled one side of the hall; the bulk of his lordship's -personal luggage, which no one had found time to carry upstairs, -and the cases containing the pictures, porcelain, curios, which he -had collected in his wanderings from city to city, and in which his -interest had ceased so soon as the thing was bought. He had come home -too ill for any one to give heed to these treasures. There would be -time to unpack them after the funeral--that inevitable ceremony which -the household had begun to discuss already. Would the dying man desire -to be laid with his ancestors in the family vault under Limerick -Cathedral, within sound of the Shannon? - -Antonia followed her father up the dusky staircase, their footfall -noiseless on the soft depth of an Indian carpet, followed him into a -dark little ante-room, where two men in sombre attire sat at a table -talking together by the light of two wax candles in tall Corinthian -candlesticks. One of these was his lordship's family lawyer, the other -his apothecary. - -"Are we too late?" asked Thornton, breathlessly, with rapid glances -from the attorney to the doctor--glances which included a folded paper -lying on the table beside a silver standish. - -"No, no; his lordship may last out the night," answered the doctor. -"Pray be seated, madam. If my patient is asleep, we will wait his -awakening. He does not sleep long. If he is awake you shall see him. He -desired that you should be taken to him without delay." - -He opened the door of the inner room almost noiselessly and looked in. -A voice asked, "Is she here?" - -It was the voice Tonia knew of old, but weaker. Her heart beat -passionately. She did not wait for the doctor, but brushed past him -on the threshold, and was scarce conscious of crossing the width of -a larger room than she had ever seen. She had no eyes for the gloomy -magnificence of the room, the high windows draped with dark red velvet, -the panelled walls, the lofty bed, with its carved columns and ostrich -plumes; she knew nothing, saw nothing, till she was on her knees by the -bed, and the dying man was holding her hands in his. - -"Go into the next room, both of you," he said, whereupon his valet and -an elderly woman in a linen gown and apron, a piece of respectable -incompetence, the best sick-nurse that his wealth and station could -command, silently retired. - -"Will you stop with me to the end, Tonia?" - -"Yes, yes! But you are not going to die. I will not believe them. You -must not die!" - -"Would you be sorry? Would it make any difference?" - -"It would break my heart. I did not know that I loved you till you had -gone away. I did not know how dearly till to-night." - -"And if I was to mend and be my own man again, and was to ask you the -same question again, would you give me the same answer?" - -"Yes," she answered slowly; "but you would not be so cruel." - -"No, Tonia, no, I am wiser now; for I have come to understand that -there is one woman in the world who would not forfeit her honour for -love or happiness. Ah, my dearest, here, here, on the brink of death, -I know there is nothing on this earth that a man should set above the -woman he loves--no paltry thought of rank or station, no cowardly dread -that she may prove unfaithful, no fear of the world's derision. If I -could have my life again I should know how to use it. But 'tis past, -and the only love I can ask for now is the love that follows the dead." - -He paused, exhausted by the effort of speech. He spoke very slowly, -and his voice was low and hoarse, but she could hear every word. She -had risen from her knees, to be nearer him, and was sitting on the -side of the bed, holding him in her arms. In her heart of hearts she -had realized that death was near, though her soul rebelled against the -inevitable. She was conscious of the coming darkness, conscious that -she was holding him on the edge of an open grave. - -"Do not talk so much, you are tiring yourself," she said gently, wiping -his forehead with a cambric handkerchief that had lain among the -heaped-up pillows. The odour of orange flower that it exhaled was in -her mind years afterwards, associated with that bed of death. - -He lay resting, with his eyelids half closed, his head leaning against -her shoulder, her arm supporting him. - -"I never thought to taste such ineffable bliss," he murmured. "You have -made death euthanasia." - -He lapsed into a half-sleeping state, which lasted for some minutes, -while she sat as still as marble. Then he opened his eyes suddenly, and -looked at her in an agitated way. - -"Tonia, will you marry me?" he asked. - -"Yes, yes, if you bid me, by-and-by, when you are well," she answered, -humouring a dying man's fancy. - -"Now, now! I have only a few hours to live. I sent for you to make you -my wife. I want your love to follow me in death. I want you to bear my -name--the name I refused you, the name that cost me half a lifetime of -happiness. Tonia, swear that you will be true--that you will belong to -me when I am dead, as you might have belonged to me in life." - -She thought his mind was wandering. He had lifted himself from her -arms, and was sitting up in bed, magnetized into new life by the -intensity of his purpose. - -"Ring that bell, dearest. Yes"--as she took up the handbell on his -table--"all has been arranged. Death will be civil to the last Baron -Kilrush, and will give me time for what I have to do." - -His valet appeared at the door. - -"Is his lordship's chaplain there?" Kilrush asked. - -"Yes, my lord. The bishop has come with his chaplain." - -"The bishop! My old friend is monstrous obliging. Show them in." - -The valet ushered in a stately personage in full canonicals, -accompanied by a young man in surplice and hood. The bishop came to the -bedside, saluted Antonia courteously, and bent his portly form over -Kilrush with an affectionate air. - -"My dear friend, on so solemn an occasion I could not delegate my duty -to another." - -"You are very good. We are ready for you. My lawyer is in the next -room--he has the license; and this"--pointing to a thin gold hoop -worn with an antique intaglio ring on his little finger--"this was my -mother's wedding ring--it will serve." - -The bishop took the Prayer-book which his chaplain had opened at the -Marriage Service, but paused with the book in his hand, looking at -Antonia with a grave curiosity. Kilrush followed the look, and answered -it as if it had been a question. - -"You understand, bishop, that this marriage is not an atonement," he -said. "Miss Antonia Thornton is a lady of spotless reputation, who will -do honour to the name I leave her." - -"That is well, Kilrush. But I hope this marriage is not designed to -injure any one belonging to you." - -"No, I injure no one, for no one has any claim to be my heir." - -The valet brought the candles from the further end of the room to a -table near the bishop, and rearranged the pillows at his master's back. -Antonia had risen from her seat on the edge of the bed, and stood -watching Kilrush with the candlelight full upon her face. - -The bishop looked at her with a shrewd scrutiny. He wanted to know what -manner of woman she was, and what could be his old friend's motive for -this death-bed folly. They had been at Eton and Oxford together; and -though their paths had lain asunder since those early years, the bishop -knew what kind of life Kilrush had led, and was disinclined to credit -him with chivalrous or romantic impulses. He looked to the woman for -the answer to the enigma. An artful adventuress, no doubt, who had -worked upon the weaker will of a dying man. He scrutinized her with the -keen glance of a man accustomed to read the secrets of the heart in the -countenance, and his penetration was baffled by the tragic beauty of -her face, as she gazed at Kilrush, with eyes which seemed incapable of -seeing anything but him. He thought that no adventuress could conjure -up that look of despairing love, that unconsciousness of external -things, that supreme indifference to a ceremony which was to give her -wealth and station for the rest of her life, indifference even to that -episcopal dignity of purple and lawn which had rarely failed in its -influence upon woman. - -"Make your ceremony as brief as you can, bishop," said Kilrush. "I have -something to say to my wife when 'tis over. Louis, call Mr. Thornton -and Mr. Pegloss." - -The valet opened the door, and admitted Thornton and the lawyer. The -apothecary followed them, took up his position by his patient's pillow, -and gave him a restorative draught. - -The bishop began to read in his great deep voice--a voice which must -have ensured a bishopric, but diminished from the thunder of his -cathedral tones to a grave baritone, musical as the soughing of distant -waves. The windows were open, and through the sultry air there came -the cry of the watchman calling the hour, far off and at measured -intervals-- - -"Past ten o'clock, and a cloudy night." - -Tonia stood by the bed, holding her lover's hand. - -"Who giveth this woman, etc." - -Thornton was ready, trembling with excitement, dazed by the wonder of -it all, and scarcely able to speak; and Tonia's voice was choked with -tears when she made the bride's replies, slowly, stumblingly, prompted -by the chaplain. The ceremony had no significance for her, except as -a dying man's whim. Her only thought was of him. She could see his -face more distinctly now, in the nearer light of the candles, and the -awful change smote her heart with a pain she had never felt before. It -was death, the dreadful, the inevitable, the end of all things. What -meaning could marriage have in such an hour as this? - -The chaplain read a final prayer. The ring had been put on. The -marriage was complete. - -The bishop knelt by the table, and began to read the prayers for -the sick, Tonia standing by the bed, with Kilrush's hand in hers, -heedless of the solemn voice. The bishop looked up at her in a shocked -astonishment. - -"It would be more becoming, madam, to kneel," he said in a loud whisper. - -She sank on her knees beside the bed, and listened to the prayer that -seemed to mock her with its supplications for health and healing, while -Death, a palpable presence, hovered over the bed. To Antonia that -ineffectual prayer seemed the last sentence--the sentence of doom. - -"You are vastly civil, bishop," said Kilrush, opening his eyelids after -one of his transient slumbers. "And now let Mr. Pegloss bring me the -paper I have to sign." - -The attorney came to the bedside on the instant, carrying a -blotting-book which he arranged deftly, with a closely written sheet of -foolscap spread upon it, in front of Kilrush, who had been raised again -into a sitting position by the doctor and valet. - -"This is my will, bishop," said Kilrush, as he wrote his name. "You and -your chaplain can witness it. 'Twill give an odour of sanctity to my -last act." - -"Your lordship may command my services," said the bishop, taking the -pen from his friend's hand. - -It was something of a shock to have this service asked of him. A few -hours ago there had been nothing he expected less than a legacy from -his old schoolfellow; but after having been asked to send his chaplain -to solemnize a death-bed marriage, after being as it were appealed -to on the score of early friendship, and after having so cordially -responded, it seemed to his episcopal mind that among the accumulated -treasures of art which poor Kilrush was about to surrender, some small -memento, were it but a diamond snuff-box, or an enamelled watch--should -have come to him. - -He wrote his stately signature with a flourish; the chaplain following. - -Kilrush sank back among his pillows, supported by the arms he loved. - -"Bishop, you are a connoisseur," he said, in his faint voice, looking -up shrewdly at his schoolfellow's ample countenance, rosy with the rich -hues of the Cote d'or. "That Raffaelle over the chimney-piece--'tis -a replica of the Sposalizia at Milan. Some critics pronounce it the -finer picture. Let it be a souvenir of your obliging goodness to-night. -Louis, you will see the Raffaelle conveyed to his lordship's house -immediately. Mr. Pegloss will assist you to take the picture down. And -now good-night to you all." - -"My dear Kilrush, you overpower me," murmured the bishop; and then he -bent over the invalid, and whispered a solemn inquiry. - -"No, no; I am not in a fit state of mind," Kilrush answered fretfully. -"And my wife is not a believer." - -"Not a believer!" - -His lordship's eyebrows were elevated in unspeakable horror. He -glanced with something of aversion at the lovely face hanging over the -dying man with looks of all absorbing love. Not a believer! He would -scarcely have been more horrified had she been a disciple of Wesley or -Whitefield. - -"My dear friend," he murmured, "'tis my bounden duty to urge----" - -"Come to me to-morrow morning, bishop." - -"Let it be so, then. At eight o'clock to-morrow morning." - -"_A rivederci_," said Kilrush, with a mocking smile, waving an -attenuated hand, as the churchman and his satellite withdrew. - -Thornton and the lawyer followed, but only to the ante-room. The -apothecary and valet remained. The physician had paid his last visit -before Antonia arrived. There had been a consultation of three great -men in the afternoon, and it had been decided that nothing more could -be done for the patient than to make him as comfortable as his malady -would permit, and for that the apothecary's art was sufficient. - -"You can wait in the next room, Davis, within call," said Kilrush, as -the grave elderly man, in a queer little chestnut wig, bent over him, -looking anxiously in his face, and feeling his pulse. - -The throb of life beat stronger than Davis had anticipated. A wonderful -constitution that could so hold out against the ravages of disease! -The breathing was laboured, but there was vigour enough left to last -out the long night hours--to last for days and nights yet, the medico -thought, as he left the room. - -The valet was moving the candles from the table by the bed, when his -master stopped him. - -"Leave them there: I want to see my wife's face," he said. - -The man obeyed, and followed the apothecary. - -Husband and wife were alone. - -"On your knees, Tonia--so, with your face towards the light," Kilrush -said eagerly. "So, so, love. I want to see your eyes. You are my wife, -Tonia, my wife for ever--in life and after life. This perishing clay -will be hidden from your sight to-morrow--_this_ Kilrush will cease -to be--but--" striking his breast passionately, "there is something -here that will live--the mind of the man who loved you--and who dies -despairing--the martyr of his insensate pride." - -He grasped her hands in both his own, looking into her eyes with a wild -intensity that touched the boundary line of madness; but she did not -shrink from him. That wasted countenance, leaden with the dull shadow -of death, was for her the dearest thing on earth, the only thing she -was conscious of in this last hour. - -"Tonia, do you understand?" he gasped, struggling to recover breath. -"I have married you to make you mine beyond the grave. It would be the -agony of hell to die and leave you to another. You are mine by this -bond. I have given you all a dying lover can give--my name, my fortune. -Swear that you will be true to me, that you will never give yourself to -another man. That you will be my wife--mine only--till the grave unites -us, and that you will lie by my side when life is done, the vault by -the Shannon your only wedding bed. Promise me never to bless another -with your love." - -"Never, never, never, upon my honour," she said, with a depth of -earnestness that satisfied him. - -"On your honour--yes, for your honour means something. If the spirits -of the dead are free, I shall be near you. If you break your promise, -I shall haunt you--an angry ghost, pitiless, cruel. As you hope for -peace, do not cheat me." - -In the unnatural strength of impassioned feeling he had exhausted that -reserve of energy which the apothecary had noted, and in the rush of -his passionate speech he was seized with a more violent fit of coughing -than any that had attacked him since Antonia's coming. She was agonized -at the sight of his suffering, and hung over him with despairing love, -while the attenuated frame was convulsed with the struggle for breath. -The fight ended suddenly. He flung his arms round her neck, and his -head fell upon her bosom, in an appalling silence. A blood-vessel had -burst in that last paroxysm, and in the red stream that poured from his -lips, covering Tonia's gown with crimson splashes, his life ebbed away. - -A piercing shriek startled the watchers in the ante-room. Doctor, -nurse, valet, rushed to the bed-chamber, to find Antonia swooning on -her knees beside the bed, the dead man's arms still clasped about her -neck. - -"Very sudden!" said the apothecary, as Thornton appeared at the door. -"I thought his lordship would have held out longer." - - * * * * * - -When Antonia recovered her senses she found herself lying on a sofa in -a room she had never seen before, with the respectable-incompetent in -a linen apron holding a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, and -an odour of burnt feathers poisoning the atmosphere. Her father was -sitting by her side, holding her hand, and patting it soothingly. Some -one had taken off her gown, and her shoulders were wrapped in an old -shawl, lent by the incompetent. The lofty room was a well of shadow, -made visible by a single candle. - -She lay in apathetic silence for some minutes, not knowing where she -was, or what had happened, wondering whether it was evening or morning, -summer or winter. It was only when her father talked to her that she -began to remember. - -"My sweet child, I implore you to compose yourself," he said. "My dear -friend acted nobly. Alas, was there ever so fine, so generous a nature? -My Tonia is one of the richest women in London, and with a name that -may rank with the highest. My Tonia! How splendidly she will become her -exalted station." - -Antonia heard him unheeding. - -"Let me go back to him," she said, rising to her feet. - -"Not yet, madam," murmured the nurse. "To-morrow morning. Not to-night, -dear lady. Let me help your ladyship to undress. The next room has been -prepared fur your ladyship." - -"Why can't I go to him?" asked Antonia, turning to her father. "I -promised to stay with him till the end." - -"Alas, love, thou wast with him till the last. His arms clasped thee -in death. I doubt thou wilt never forget those moments, my poor wench. -God! how he loved you! And he has made you a great lady." - -She turned from him in disgust. - -"You harp upon that," she said. "I loved him--I loved him. I loved -him--and he is dead!" - -The nurse had crept away to assist in the last sad duties. Father and -daughter were alone, Antonia sitting speechless, staring into vacancy, -Thornton babbling feebly every now and then, irrepressible in his -exultation at so strange, so miraculous a turn of fortune's wheel. - -"Kilrush's death would have beggared us, but for this," he thought. - -A clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. Only eleven o'clock! 'Twas -but two hours since Antonia had entered the house, and her life before -she crossed that threshold seemed to her far away in the dim distance -of years that were gone. - -He had loved her, and had repented his cruelty. There was comfort in -that thought even in the despair of an eternal parting. Was it to be -eternal? He had spoken of an after-life, a consciousness that was to -follow and watch her. She, the Voltairean, who had been taught to smile -at man's belief in immortality, the fairy-tale of faith, the myth of -all ages and all nations--she, the unbeliever, hung upon those words of -his for comfort. - -"If his spirit can be with me, sure he will know how fondly I love -him," she said; and the first tears she shed since his death flowed at -the thought. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -THE SANDS RUN DOWN. - - -The household in St. James's Square bowed themselves before the new -Lady Kilrush, and made obeisance to her, as the wheat-sheaves bowed -down to Joseph in his dream. The butler remembered his master's first -wife, a pretty futile creature, always gadding, following the latest -craze in modish dissipations, greedy of pleasure and excitement. It had -been no surprise to him when she crept through the hall door in the -summer gloaming, carrying her jewels in a handbag, to join the lover -who was waiting in a coach and four round the corner. It was only her -husband who had been blind--blind because he was indifferent. - -To the household this strange marriage was a matter for profound -satisfaction. - -"Her ladyship desires to retain your services, and will make no changes -except on your recommendation," Mr. Thornton told the late lord's -house-steward and business manager, with a superb patronage; but -without any authority from Antonia, who sat in a stony silence when he -talked about plans for the future, and of all the pomps and pleasures -that were waiting for his beloved girl after a year of mourning. - -"Oh, why do you talk of servants, and horses, and things?" she -exclaimed once, with an agonized look. "Can't you see--don't you -understand--that I loved him?" - -"I do understand. Yes, yes, my love. I can sympathize with your -grief--your natural grief--for so noble a benefactor. But when your -year of widowhood is past, my Tonia will awaken to the knowledge of her -power. A beauty, a fortune, a peeress, and a young widow! By Heaven, -you might aspire to be the bride of royalty! _And_ a temper!" muttered -Thornton, as his daughter rose suddenly from her chair and walked out -of the room, before he had finished his harangue. - -It was only when there was a question of the funeral that the new Lady -Kilrush asserted herself. - -"His lordship will be buried in the family vault at Limerick," she -said decisively. "Be kind enough to make all needful arrangements, Mr. -Goodwin. I shall travel with the funeral _cortege_." - -"My dearest Tonia--so remote a spot, so wild and unsettled a -country," pleaded Thornton. "Would it not be wiser to choose a nearer -resting-place, among the sepulchres of the noble and distinguished; as, -for instance, at St. Paul's, Covent Garden?" - -Antonia did not answer, or appear to have heard, the paternal -suggestion. Her father would scarcely let her out of his sight during -these long days in the darkened house. She could only escape from him -by withdrawing to her own room, where Sophy was in attendance upon her; -the strange and stately bed-chamber with an amber satin bed, whose -curtains had shaded the guilty dreams of the runaway wife. - -The bishop made her a stately visit on the second day of her solitude, -and tried to convert her to Anglican Christianity in an hour's affable -conversation, addressing himself to her benighted mind in the simplest -forms of speech, as if she had been an ignorant child. She heard him -politely; but he could not lure her into an argument, and he knew that -the good seed was falling on stony ground. - -When he was leaving her she gave a heart-broken sigh, and said-- - -"I want to believe in a life after death, for then I should hope to see -him again. But I cannot--I cannot! I have been trying ever since--that -night"--speaking of it as if it were a long way off--"but I cannot--I -cannot!" - -The bishop sat down again, and quoted St. Paul to her for a quarter of -an hour; but those sublime words could not convince her. The cynic's -blighting sneer had withered all that womanhood has of instinctive -piety--of upward-looking reverence for the Christian ideal. There is no -fire so scathing, no poison so searching, as the light ridicule of a -master-mind. The woman who had been educated by Voltaire could not find -hope or comfort in the great apostle's argument for immortality. Was -not Paul himself only _trying_ to believe? - -"Dear lady, if I send you Bishop Butler's 'Analogy'--the most -convincing argument for that future life we all long for--will you -promise me to read it?" - -"I will read anything you please to send me, my lord; only I cannot -promise to believe what I read." - - - -The funeral train left St. James's Square in the cool grey of a summer -dawn. It consisted of but three carriages: the hearse, with all its -pompous decorations, and drawn by six post-horses, a coach and six -for Antonia and her father, and a second coach for the steward, the -valet, Louis, and Mrs. Sophia Potter, who tried to keep her countenance -composed in a becoming sadness, but could not help considering the -journey a treat, and occasionally forgetting that dismal carriage which -led the procession. - -They travelled by the Great Bath Road, halting at Hounslow for -breakfast in the dust and dew of an exquisite morning; and it may be -that Mr. Thornton, sitting at a well-furnished table by an open window -overlooking all the bustle and gaiety of coaches and post-chaises -arriving or departing, found it almost as hard a matter as Sophy did -to maintain the proper dejection in voice and aspect, and not to enjoy -himself too obviously. - -It was not so much the unwonted luxury of his surroundings as the -unwonted respect of his fellow-men that inspired him. To have innkeeper -and waiters hanging about him, as if he had been a prince--he, whom -mine host of the Red Lion had ever treated on terms of equality; or if -the scale had turned either way 'twas mine host who gave himself the -privilege of insolence to a customer who was often in his debt. - -Antonia, shut in a room abovestairs with her maid, could not as -yet taste the pleasures of her altered station. It was her father -who derived enjoyment from her title, rolling it in his mouth with -indescribable gusto-- - -"Tell her ladyship, my daughter, that her coach is at the door. -Lady Kilrush desires to lose no time on the road. Louis, see that -her ladyship's smelling-salts are in the coach-pocket, and that her -ladyship's woman does not keep her waiting." - -Louis, and Mr. Goodwin, the steward, had their little jests about Mr. -Thornton; but Antonia had commanded their respect from the moment when -she gave her instructions about the funeral. The capacity for command -was hers, a quality that is in the character of man or woman, and which -neither experience nor teaching can impart. - -The journey to Bristol occupied four days, and Mr. Thornton enjoyed -himself more and more at the great inns on the Great Bath Road, eating -his dinner and his supper in the luxurious seclusion of a private -sitting-room, _tete-a-tete_ with an obsequious landlord or a loquacious -head waiter, whose conversation kept him amused; and perhaps drinking -somewhat deeper on account of Antonia's absence. Throughout the journey -she had kept herself in strict seclusion, attended only by Sophy. All -that the inn-servants saw of Lady Kilrush was a tall woman in deepest -mourning who followed the head chambermaid to her room, and did not -reappear till her coach was ready to start on the next stage. - -From Bristol the dismal convoy crossed to Queenstown in a Government -yacht, with a fair wind, and no ill-adventure. At Queenstown the -monotonous road-journey was resumed in hired coaches; and late on the -third evening the _cortege_ drew up before Kilrush House, in the city -of Limerick, a large red-brick house with its back to the river, hard -by the bishop's palace, built before the battle of the Boyne. - -Entering this melancholy mansion, which had been left in the care of a -superannuated butler and his feeble old wife for nearly thirty years, -Mr. Thornton's spirits sank to zero. He had been indisposed during -the sea-voyage, nor had the accommodation at Irish inns satisfied a -taste enervated by the luxuries of the Great Bath Road; but the Irish -landlords had offered him cheerful society, and the Irish grog had sent -him merrily to his bed. But, oh! the gloom of Kilrush House in the -summer twilight; the horror of that closed chamber where the form of -the coffin showed vaguely under the voluminous velvet of the pall; and -where tall wax candles shed a pale light upon vacant walls and scanty -furniture, all that there had been of beauty and value in the town -house of the Lords of Kilrush having been removed to St. James's Square -when the late lord married. - -The funeral was solemnized on the following night, a torch-light -procession, in which the lofty hearse, with its nodding plumes and -pompous decoration of black velvet and silver, showed gigantic in the -fitful flare of the torches, carried by a long train of horsemen who -had assembled from far and near to do honour to the last Lord Kilrush. - -He had been an absentee for the greater part of his life; but the name -was held in high esteem, and perhaps his countrymen had more respect -for him dead than they would have felt had he appeared among them -living. The news of the funeral train journeying over sea and land, -and of the beautiful bride accompanying her dead bridegroom, had gone -through the South of Ireland, and men of rank and family had travelled -long distances to assist in those last honours. It was half a century -since such a funeral _cortege_ had been seen in Limerick. And while the -gentry came in hundreds to the ceremony, from the Irish town and the -English town the rabble poured in throngs that must have been reckoned -by thousands, Mr. Thornton thought, as he gazed from the coach window -at a sea of faces: young women with streaming hair, spectral faces -of old crones, their grey locks bound with red cotton handkerchiefs, -rags, and semi-nakedness--all seeming phantasmagoric in the flickering -light of the moving torches, all dreadful of aspect to the _habitue_ of -London streets. - -But even more terrible than those wan faces and wild hair were the -voices of that strange multitude, the wailing and sobbing of the women, -the keening of the men, shrieks and lamentations, soul-freezing as the -cry of the screech-owl or the howling of famished wolves. Thornton -shrank shuddering into a corner of the mourning coach, which he shared -with the chief mourner--that mute, motionless figure with shrouded -face, in which he scarce recognized his daughter's familiar form. - -The horror of the scene deepened when they entered the church, -that wild crew pressing after them, thrust back from the door with -difficulty by the funeral attendants. The distance to be traversed -had been short, but the coaches had moved at a foot pace, with a halt -every now and then, as the crowd became impassable. To Thornton the -ceremony seemed to have lasted for half the night, and it surprised him -to hear the church clock strike twelve as they left the vault where -George Frederick Delafield, nineteenth Baron Kilrush, was laid with his -ancestors. - -It was over. Oh, the relief of it! This tedious business which had -occupied nearly a fortnight was ended at last, and his daughter -belonged to him again. He put his arm round her in the coach presently, -and she sank weeping upon his breast. She had been tearless throughout -the ceremony in the cathedral, and had maintained a statuesque -composure of countenance, pale as marble against the flowing folds of a -crape veil that draped her from brow to foot. - -"Let us get back to London, love," he said. "The horrors of this place -would kill us if we stopped here much longer." - -"I want to see the house where he was born," she said. - -"Well, 'tis a natural desire, perhaps, for 'tis your own house now, -Kilrush Abbey. The Abbey is but a ruin, I doubt; but there is a fine -stone mansion and a park--all my Antonia's property--but a deucedly -expensive place to keep up, I'll warrant." - -She did not tell him that her only interest in the Irish estate was -on the dead man's account. Nothing she could say would check him in -his jubilation at her change of fortune. It was best to let him enjoy -himself in his own fashion. Their ages and places seemed reversed. -It was she that had the gravity of mature years, the authority of a -parent; while in him there was the inconsequence of a child, and the -child's delight in trivial things. - -She had seen the starved faces in the crowd, the grey hairs and scanty -rags; and she went next day with Sophy on a voyage of discovery in the -squalid alleys of the English and the Irish towns, scattering silver -among the poverty-stricken creatures who crowded round her as she -moved from door to door. What blessings, what an eloquence of grateful -hearts, were poured upon her as she distributed handfuls of shillings, -fat crown pieces, showers of sixpences that the children fought for -in the gutters--an injudicious form of charity, perhaps, but it gave -bread to the hungry, and some relief to her over-charged heart. She had -never enjoyed the luxury of giving before. It was the first pleasure -she had known since her marriage, the first distraction for a mind that -had dwelt with agonizing intensity upon one image. - - - -Mr. Goodwin, the late lord's steward, was one of those highly-trained -servants who can render the thinking process a sinecure in the case -of an indolent master. He had found thought and money for the funeral -ceremony, and he showed himself equally capable in arranging Antonia's -visit to the scene of her husband's birth and childhood, the cradle of -her husband's race. - -At Kilrush, as in Limerick, she found a deserted mansion, maintained -with some show of decency by half a dozen servants. Over all there -brooded that melancholy shadow which falls upon a house where the glad -and moving life of a family is wanting. One spot only showed in the -beauty and brightness of summer, a rose-garden in front of a small -drawing-room, a garden of less than an acre, surrounded by tall ilex -hedges, neatly clipped. - -"'Tis the garden-parlour made for his lordship's mother when she came -as a bride to Kilrush," Goodwin told Antonia, "and his lordship was -very strict in his orders that everything should be maintained as her -ladyship left it." - -In those days of mourning and regret, Antonia preferred the picturesque -seclusion of Kilrush to any home that could have been offered to her. -The fine park, with its old timber and views over sea and river, -pleased her. She loved the ruined abbey, dark with ages, and mantled -with ivy of more than a century's growth. The spacious dwelling-house, -with its long suites of rooms and shadowy corridors--a house built when -Ormond was ruling in Ireland, and when the Delafields lived half the -year at their country seat, and divided the other half-year between -Limerick and Dublin--the old-fashioned furniture, the family portraits -by painters whose fame had never travelled across the Irish Channel, -and most of all the gardens, screened by a belt of sea-blown firs, -pleased their new owner, and she proposed to remain there till winter. - -"My dearest child, would you bury yourself alive in this desolate -corner of the earth?" cried Thornton, whose nerves had hardly recovered -from the horrors of the funeral, and who could not sleep without a -rushlight for fear of the Delafield ghosts, who had indeed more than -once in this shattered condition wished himself back in his two-pair -chamber in Rupert Buildings. "Was there ever so unreasonable a fancy? -You to seclude yourself from humanity! You who ought to be preparing -yourself to shine in the _beau monde_, and who have still to acquire -the accomplishments needful to your exalted station! The solid -education, which it was my pride and delight to impart, might suffice -for Miss Thornton; but Lady Kilrush cannot dispense with the elegant -arts of a woman of fashion--the guitar, the harpsichord, to take part -in a catch or a glee, or to walk a minuet, to play at faro, to ride, to -drive a pair of ponies." - -"Oh, pray stop, sir. I shall never be that kind of woman. You have -taught me to find happiness in books, and have made me independent of -trivial pleasures." - -"Books are the paradise of the neglected and the poor, the solace of -the prisoner for debt, the comfort of the hopeless invalid; but the -accomplishments you call trivial are the serious business of people of -rank and fortune, and to be without them is the stamp of the parvenu. -My love, with your fortune, you ought to winter in Paris or Rome, to -make the Grand Tour, like a young nobleman. Why should our sex have all -the privileges of education?" - -The word Rome acted like a spell. Antonia's childish dreams--while life -in the future lay before her in a romantic light--had been of Italy. -She had longed to see the home of her Italian mother. - -"I should like to visit Italy by-and-by, sir," she said, "if you think -you could bear so long a journey." - -"My love, I am an old traveller. Nothing on the road comes amiss to -me--Alps, Apennines, Italian inns, Italian post-chaises--so long as -there is cash enough to pay the innkeeper." - -"My dear father, I shall ever desire to do what pleases you," Antonia -answered gently; "and though I love the quiet life here, I am ready to -go wherever you wish to take me." - -"For your own advantage, my beloved child, I consider foreign travel of -the utmost consequence--_imprimis_, a winter in Paris." - -"'Tis Italy I long for, sir." - -"Paris for style and fashion is of more importance. We would move to -Italy in the spring. Indeed, my love, you make no sacrifice in leaving -Kilrush, for Goodwin assures me we should all be murdered here before -Christmas." - -"Mr. Goodwin hates the Irish. My heart goes out to my husband's people." - -"You can engage your chairmen from this neighbourhood by-and-by, and -even your running-footmen. There are fine-looking fellows among them -that might take kindly to civilization; and they have admirable legs." - -Having gained his point, Mr. Thornton did not rest till he carried his -daughter back to London, where there was much to be done with the late -lord's lawyers, who were surprised to discover a fine business capacity -in this beautiful young woman whose marriage had so romantic a flavour. - -"Whether she has dropped from the skies or risen from the gutter, she -is the cleverest wench of her years I ever met with, as well as the -handsomest," said the senior partner in the old-established firm of -Hanfield and Bonham, conveyancers and attorneys. "The way in which -she puts a question and grasps the particulars of her estate would do -credit to a king's counsel." - -Everything was settled before November, and good Mrs. Potter endowed -with a pension which would enable her to live comfortably in the -cottage at Putney without the labour of letting lodgings. Sophy was -still to be Antonia's "woman;" but Mr. Thornton advised his daughter -while in Paris to engage an accomplished Parisienne for the duties of -the toilet. - -"Sophy is well enough to fetch and carry for you," he said, "and as you -have known her so long 'tis like enough you relish her company; but -to dress your head and look after your gowns you need the skill and -experience of a trained lady's-maid." - -Thornton was enchanted at the idea of a winter in Paris. He had -seen much of that gay city when he was a travelling tutor, and had -loved all its works and ways. His sanguine mind had not considered -the difference between twenty-five and the wrong side of fifty, and -he hoped to taste all the pleasures of his youth with an unabated -gusto. Alas! he found after a week in the Rue St. Honore that the only -pleasures which retained all their flavour--which had, indeed, gained -by the passage of years--were the pleasures of the table. He could -still enjoy a hand at faro or lansquenet; but he could no longer sit -at cards half the night and grow more excited and intent as darkness -drew nearer dawn. He could still admire a slim waist and a neat ankle, -a _mignonne frimousse_ under a black silk hood; but his heart beat -no faster at the sight of joyous living beauty than at a picture by -Greuze. In a word, he discovered that there is one thing wealth cannot -buy for man or woman: the freshness of youth. - -His daughter allowed him to draw upon her fortune with unquestioning -liberality. It was a delight to her to think that he need toil no more, -forgetting how much of their literary labours of late years had been -performed by her, and how self-indulgent a life the easy-going Bill -Thornton had led between Putney and St. Martin's Lane. - -Antonia's desire in coming to Paris had been to lead a life of -seclusion, seeing no one but the professors whom she might engage -to complete her education; but a society in which beauty and wealth -were ever potent was not likely to ignore the existence of the lovely -Lady Kilrush, whose romantic marriage had been recorded in the -_Parisian Gazette_, and whose establishment at a fashionable hotel in -the Rue St. Honore was duly announced in all the newspapers. Visits -and invitations crowded upon her; and although she excused herself -from all large assemblies and festive gatherings on account of her -mourning, she was too much interested in the great minds of the age -to deny herself to the Marquise du Deffant, in whose salon she met -d'Alembert, Montesquieu, and Diderot, then at the summit of his renown, -and an ardent admirer of English literature. With him she discussed -Richardson, whose consummate romances she adored, and whose friendship -she hoped to cultivate on her return to London. With him she talked of -Voltaire, whose arcadian life at Crecy had come to a tragical close by -the sudden death of Madame du Chatelet, and who, having quarrelled with -his royal admirer, Frederick, was now a wanderer in Germany--forbidden -to return to Paris, where his classic tragedies were being nightly -illustrated by the genius of Lekain and Mdlle. Clairon. - -To move in that refined and spiritual circle was a revelation of a new -world to Thornton's daughter, a world in which everybody had some touch -of that charm of mind and fancy which she had loved in Kilrush. The -conversation of Parisian wits and philosophers reminded her of those -vanished hours in the second-floor parlour above St. Martin's Church. -Alas, how far away those lost hours seemed as she looked back at them, -how infinitely sweeter than anything that Parisian society could give -her! - -The people whose conversation pleased her most were the men and women -who had known her husband and would talk to her of him. It was this -attraction which had drawn her to the clever lady whose life had been -lately shadowed by the affliction of blindness, a calamity which she -bore with admirable courage and resignation. Antonia loved to sit at -Madame du Deffant's feet in the wintry dusk, they two alone in the -modest salon which the widowed marquise occupied in the convent of St. -Joseph, having given up her hotel soon after her husband's death. It -pleased her to talk of the friends of her youth, and Kilrush, who was -of her own age, had been an especial favourite. - -"He was the most accomplished Englishman--except my young friend -Walpole--that I ever knew," she said; "and although he had not all -Walpole's wit, he had more than Walpole's charm. I look back along -the vista of twenty troublesome years, and see him as if it were -yesterday--a young man coming into my salon with a letter from -the English ambassador. Dieu! how handsome he was then! That pale -complexion, those classic features, and those dark grey eyes with -black lashes--Irish eyes, I have heard them called! Thou shouldst be -proud, child, to have been loved by such a man. And is it really true, -now--thou needst have no reserve with an old woman--is it true that you -and he had never been more than--friends, before that tragic hour in -which the bishop joined your hands?" - -"I am sorry, madame, that you can think it necessary to ask such a -question." - -"But, my dear, there was nothing in the world further from my thoughts -than to wound you. Then I will put my question otherwise and again, -between friends, in all candour. Are you not sorry, now that he is -gone, now nothing that you can do could bring back one touch of his -hand, one sound of his voice--does it not make you repent a little that -Fate and you were not kinder to him?" - -"No, madame, I cannot be sorry for having been guided by my own -conscience." - -There were tears in her voice, but the tone was steady. - -"What! you have a conscience--you who believe no more in God than that -audacious atheist, Diderot?" - -"My conscience is a part of myself. It does not live in heaven." - -"What a Roman you are! I swear you were born two thousand years too -late, and should have been contemporary with Lucretia. Well, thou -hadst a remarkable man for thy half-hour husband, and thou didst work -a miracle in bringing such a _roue_ to tie the knot; for I have heard -him rail at marriage with withering cynicism, and swear that not for -the greatest and loveliest princess in France would he wear matrimonial -fetters." - -"Nay, chere marquise, I pray you say no ill of him." - -"Mon enfant, I am praising him. 'Twas but natural he should hate the -marriage tie, having been so unlucky in his first wife. To have been -handsome, accomplished, high-born, a prince among men, and to have been -abandoned for a wretch in every way his inferior----" - -"Did you know the lady, madame?" - -"Yes, child, I saw her often in the first year of her marriage--a -she-profligate, brimming over with a sensual beauty, like an over-ripe -peach; a Rubens woman, white and red, and vapid and futile; conspicuous -in every assembly by her gaudy dress, loud voice, and inane laughter." - -"How could he have chosen such a wife?" - -"'Twas she chose him. There are several versions of the story, but -there is none that would not offend my Lucretia's modesty." - -"He had the air of a man who had been unhappy," said Antonia, with a -sigh. - -"There is a kind of restless gaiety in your _roue_ which is a sure sign -of inward misery," replied the friend of philosophers. "Happiness tends -ever to repose." - -Mr. Thornton did not take kindly to the wits and philosophers of -Madame du Deffant's circle. Perhaps he had an inward conviction that -they saw through him, and measured his vices and weaknesses by a -severe standard. The taint of the unforgotten jail hung about him, -a humiliating sense of inferiority; while he was unfitted for the -elegancies and refinements of modish society by those happy-go-lucky -years in which he had lived in a kind of shabby luxury: the luxury -of late hours, shirt-sleeves, clay pipes, and gin; the luxury of bad -manners and self-indulgence. - -After attending his daughter upon some of her early visits to the -Convent of St. Joseph, he fell back upon a society more congenial, -in the taverns and coffee-houses, where he consorted with noisy -politicians and needy journalists and authors, furbished up his French, -which was good, and picked up the philosophical jargon of the day, and -was again a Socrates among companions whose drink he was ever ready to -pay for. - -Antonia devoted the greater part of her days and nights to -self-improvement, practised the harpsichord under an eminent professor, -and showed a marked capacity for music, though never hoping to do -more than to amuse her lonely hours with the simpler sonatinas and -variations of the composers she admired. She read Italian with one -professor and Spanish with another; attended lectures on natural -science, now the rage in Paris, where people raved about Buffon's -"Theorie de la Terre." Her only relaxation was an occasional visit -to the marquise, and to two other salons where a grave and cultured -society held itself aloof from the frivolous pleasures of court and -fashion; or an evening at the Comedie Francaise, where she saw Lekain -in most of his famous _roles_. - -With the advent of spring she pleaded for the realization of her most -cherished dream, and began to prepare for the journey to Italy, in -spite of some reluctance on her father's part, whose free indulgence -in the pleasures of French cookery and French wines had impaired a -constitution that had thriven on Mrs. Potter's homely dishes, and had -seemed impervious to gin. He looked older by ten years since he had -lived as a rich man. He was nervous and irritable, he whose easy temper -had passed for goodness of heart, and had won his daughter's affection. -He was tormented by a restless impatience to realize all that wealth -can yield of pleasure and luxury. He was miserable from the too ardent -desire to be happy, and shortened his life by his eagerness to live. -The theatres, the puppet-shows, the gambling-houses, the taverns where -they danced--at every place where amusement was promised, he had been -a visitor, and almost everywhere he had found satiety and disgust. How -enchanting had been that Isle of Calypso, this Circean Cavern, when he -first came to Paris, a tutor of five and twenty, the careless mentor of -a lad of eighteen; how gross, how dull, how empty and foolish, to the -man who was nearing his sixtieth birthday! - -He had fallen back upon the monotony of the nightly rendezvous at the -Cafe Procope, seeing the same faces, hearing the same talk--an assembly -differing only in detail from his friends of "The Portico"--and it -vexed him to discover that this was all his daughter's wealth could buy -for him in the most wonderful city in the world. - -"I am an old man," he told himself. "Money is very little use when one -is past fifty. I fall asleep at the playhouse, for I hear but half the -actors say. If I pay a neatly turned compliment to a handsome woman, -she laughs at me. I am only fit to sit in a tavern, and rail at kings -and ministers, with a pack of worn-out wretches like myself." - -Mr. Thornton and his daughter started for Italy in the second week -of April, with a sumptuosity that was but the customary style of -persons of rank, but which delighted the Grub-Street hack, conscious -of every detail in their altered circumstances. They travelled with -a suite of six, consisting of Sophy and a French maid, provided by -Madame du Deffant, and rejoicing in the name of Rodolphine. Mr. -Thornton's personal attendant was the late lord's faithful Louis, who -was excellent as valet and nurse, but who, being used to the quiet -magnificence of Kilrush, had an ill-concealed contempt for a master who -locked up his money, and was uneasy about the safety of his trinkets. -With them went a young medical man whom Antonia had engaged to take -charge of her father's health--a needless precaution, Mr. Thornton -protested, but which was justified by the fact that he was often -ailing, and was nervous and apprehensive about himself. A courier and -a footman completed the party, which filled two large carriages, and -required relays of eight horses. - -Antonia delighted in the journey through strange places and picturesque -scenery, with all the adventures of the road, and the variety of inns, -where every style of entertainment, from splendour to squalor, was -to be met with. Here for the first time she lost the aching sense of -regret that had been with her ever since the death of Kilrush. The -only drawback was her father's discontent, which increased with every -stage of the journey, albeit the stages were shortened day after day -to suit his humour, and he was allowed to stay as long as he liked at -any inn where he pronounced the arrangements fairly comfortable. It was -a wonder to his anxious daughter to see how he, who had been cheerful -and good-humoured in his shabby parlour at Rupert Buildings, and had -rarely grumbled at Mrs. Potter's homely cuisine, was now as difficult -to please as the most patrician sybarite on the road. She bore with all -his caprices, and indulged all his whims. She had seen a look in his -face of late that chilled her, like the sound of a funeral bell. The -time would come--soon perhaps--when she would look back and reproach -herself for not having been kind enough. - -They travelled by way of Mont Cenis and Turin, and so to Florence, -where they arrived late in May, having spent nearly six weeks on the -road. It grieved Antonia to see that her father was exhausted by his -travels, in spite of the care that had been taken of him. He sank into -his armchair with the air of a man who had come to the end of a journey -that was to be final. - -Florence was at its loveliest season, the streets full of flowers, and -carriages, and well-dressed people rejoicing in the gaiety of balls and -operas before retiring to the perfumed shades of their villa gardens -among the wooded hills above the city. To Antonia the place was full of -enchantment, but her anxiety about her father cast a shadow over the -scene. - -Her most eager desire in coming to Italy had been to see her mother's -country, and to see something of her mother's kindred; but Thornton -had hitherto evaded all her questions, putting her off with a fretful -impatience. - -"There is time enough to talk of them when we are in their -neighbourhood, Tonia," he said. "Your mother had very few relations, -and those who survive will have forgotten her. Why do you trouble -yourself about them? They have never taken any trouble about you." - -"I want to see some one who loved my mother, some one of her country -and her kin. Can't you understand how I feel about her, sir, the mother -whose face I cannot remember, but who loved me when I was unconscious -of her love? Oh, to think that she held me in her arms and kissed me, -and that I cared nothing, knew nothing! and now I would give ten years -of my life for one of those kisses." - -"Alas, my romantic child! Ah, Tonia, she was a lovely woman, the -noblest, the sweetest of her sex. And you are like her. Take care of -your beauty. Women in this country age early." - -"You have never told me my mother's maiden name, or where she lived -before you married her." - -"Well, you shall visit her birthplace; 'tis a villa among the hills -above the Lake of Como, a romantic spot. We will go there after -Florence. I want to see Florence. 'Twas a place I enjoyed almost as -much as Paris, when I was a young man. There were balls and assemblies -every night, a regiment of handsome women, suppers and champagne. We -were never abed till the morning, and never up till the afternoon." - -Antonia returned to the subject after they had spent a fortnight in -Florence, and when the weather was growing too hot for a continued -residence there. Mr. Daniels, the young doctor, and an Italian -physician, had agreed in consultation that the sooner Mr. Thornton -removed to a cooler climate the better for his chance of improvement. -Daniels suggested Vallombrosa, where the monks would accommodate them -in the monastery. The physician advised the Baths of Lucca. The patient -objected to both places. He wanted to go to Leghorn, and get back to -London by sea. - -"I am sick to death of Italy; and I believe a sea voyage would make me -a strong man again. No man ought to be done for at my age." - -Antonia was ready to do anything that medical science might suggest, -but found it very difficult to please a patient who was seldom of the -same mind two days running. - -While doctors and patient debated, death threw the casting vote. -Florentine sunshine is sometimes the treacherous ally of searching -winds--those Italian winds which we know less by their poetical names -than by their resemblance to a British north-easter. Mr. Thornton -caught cold in a drive to Fiesole, and passed in a few hours to that -region of half consciousness, the shadow-land betwixt life and death, -where he could be no longer questioned as to the things he knew on -earth. - -He died after three days' fever, with his hand clasped in his -daughter's, and he died without telling her the name of the villa where -his Italian wife had lived, or the name she had borne before he married -her. - - * * * * * - -Lady Kilrush mourned her father better than many a better man has been -mourned. She laid him in an English graveyard outside the city walls; -and then, being in love with this divine Italy whose daughter she -considered herself, she retired to a convent near Fiesole, where the -nuns were in the habit of taking English lodgers, and did not object -to a wealthy heretic. Here in the shade of ancient cloisters, and in -gardens older than Milton, she spent the summer, leaving only in the -late autumn for Rome, where Louis had engaged a handsome apartment for -her in the Corso, and where she lived in as much seclusion as she was -allowed to enjoy till the following May, delighting in the city which -had filled so large a place in her girlish daydreams. - -"Never, never, never did I think to see those walls," she said, when -her coach emerged from a narrow alley and she found herself in front of -the Colosseum. - -"'Tis a fine large building, but 'tis a pity the roof is off," said -Sophy. - -"What, child, did you think 'twas like Ranelagh, a covered place for -dancing?" - -"I don't know what else it could be good for, unless it was a market," -retorted Sophy. "I never saw such a dirty town since I was born, and -the stink of it is enough to poison a body." - -Miss Potter lived through a Roman winter with her nose perpetually -tilted in chronic disgust; but she was delighted with the carnival, and -with the admiration her own neat little person evoked, as she tripped -about the dirty streets, with her gown pinned high, and a petticoat -short enough to show slim ankles in green silk stockings. She admitted -that the churches were handsomer than any she had seen in London, -but vowed they were all alike, and that she would not know St. Maria -Marjorum from St. John Latterend. - -In those days, when only the best and worst people travelled, and -the humdrum classes had to stay at home, English society in Rome was -aristocratic and exclusive; but Antonia's romantic story having got -wind, she was called upon by several English women of rank who wished -to cultivate the beautiful parvenu. Here, as in Paris, however, she -excused herself from visiting on account of her mourning. - -"My dear child, do you mean to wear weeds for ever?" cried the lovely -Lady Diana Lestrange, on her honeymoon with a second husband, after -being divorced from the first. "Sure his lordship is dead near two -years." - -"Does your ladyship think two years very long to mourn for a friend to -whom I owe all I have ever known of love and friendship?" - -"I think it a great deal too long for a fine woman to disguise herself -in crape and bombazine, and mope alone of an evening in the pleasantest -city in Europe. You must be dying of _ennui_ for want of congenial -society." - -"I am too much occupied to be dull, madam. I am trying to carry on my -education, so as to be more worthy the station to which my husband -raised me." - -"I swear you are a paragon! Well, we shall meet in town next winter, -perhaps, if you do not join the blue-stocking circle, the Montagus and -Carters, or turn religious, and spend all your evenings listening to -a cushion-thumping Methodist at Lady Huntingdon's pious _soirees_. We -have all sorts of diversions in town, Lady Kilrush, besides Ranelagh -and Vauxhall." - -"Your ladyship may be sure I shall prefer Ranelagh to the Oxford -Methodists. I was not educated to love cant." - -"Oh, the creatures are sincere, some of them, I believe; sincere -fanatics. And the Wesleys have good blood. Their mother was an -Annesley, Lord Valentia's great granddaughter. The Wesleys are -gentlemen; and I doubt that is why people don't rave about them as they -do about Whitefield, who was drawer in a Gloucester tavern." - - * * * * * - -Lady Kilrush went back to England in May, stopping at the Lake of Como -on her way. She spent nearly a month on the shores of that lovely -lake, visiting all the little towns along the coast, and exploring the -white-walled villages upon the hills. She would have given so much -to know in which of those villas whose gardens sloped to the blue -water, or nestled in the wooded solitudes above the lake, had been her -mother's birthplace. - -Thornton had amused his daughter in her childhood by a romantic -version of his marriage, in which his wife appeared as a lovely young -patrician, whom he had stolen from her stately home. His fancy had -expatiated upon a moonlit elopement, the escaping lovers pursued by an -infuriated father. The romance had pleased the child, and he hardly -meant to lie when he invented it. He let the lambent flame of his -imagination play around common facts. 'Twas true that his wife was -lovely, and that he had stolen her from an angry father, whose helping -hand she had been from childhood. The patrician blood, the villa were -but details, the airy adornment of the tutor's love-story. - -Ignorant even of her mother's family name, it seemed hopeless for -Antonia to discover the place of her birth; but it pleased her to -linger in that lovely scene at the loveliest season of the year, to -grow familiar with the country to which she belonged by reason of that -maternal tie. She peered into the churches, thinking on the threshold -of each that it was in such a temple her mother had worshipped in -unquestioning piety, believing all the priests bade her believe. - -"Perhaps it is happiest to believe in fables, and never to have learnt -to reason or doubt," she thought, seeing the kneeling figures in the -shadowy chapels, the heads reverently bent, the lips whispering devout -supplications, as the beads of the rosary slipped through the sunburnt -fingers--a prayer for every bead. - -The house in St. James's Square had been prepared for its new mistress -with a retinue in accordance with the statelier habits of the days of -Walpole and Chesterfield, when a lady of rank and fortune required six -running footmen to her chair, with a black page to walk in advance of -it, and a mass of overfed flesh to sit in a hooded leather sentry-box -in her hall and snub plebeian visitors. - -Antonia had instructed her steward to keep all the old servants who -were worthy of her confidence, and to engage as many new ones as might -be necessary; and so the household had all the air of a long-settled -establishment where the servants had nothing to learn, and where the -measure of their own importance was their mistress's dignity, of -which they would abate no jot or tittle. It is only the hireling of -yesterday, the domestic nomad, who disparages his master or mistress. - -Jewellers, milliners, mantua-makers, shoemakers, hairdressers flocked -about Lady Kilrush the day after her arrival from Paris. All the -harpies of Pall Mall and St. James's Street had been on the watch for -her coming. Pictures, bronzes, porcelains, nodding mandarins, and -Canton screens were brought for her inspection. The hall would have -been like a fair but for the high-handed porter, whose fleshy person -trembled with indignation at these assaults, and who sent fashionable -shopmen to the rightabout as if they had been negro slaves. Thanks -to his _savoir faire_, her ladyship was able to spend her morning in -peace, and to see only the tradespeople who were necessary to her -establishment. She gave her orders with a royal liberality, but she -would have nothing forced upon her by officiousness. - -"I would rather not hear about your London fashions, Mrs. Meddlebury," -she told her respectable British dressmaker. "I have come straight -from Paris, and know what the Dauphine is wearing. You will make my -_negliges_ and my sacques as I bid you; and be sure you send to Ireland -for a tabinet and a poplin, as I desire sometimes to wear gowns of -Irish manufacture." - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -A DUTY VISIT. - - -Antonia's appearance at Leicester House was the occasion of a flight of -newspaper paragraphs. - -The _St. James's Evening Post_ reminded its readers of the romantic -marriage of a well-known Hibernian nobleman, "which we were the first -to announce to the town, and of which full particulars were given in -our columns; a freak of fancy on the part of the last Baron Kilrush, -amply justified by the dazzling beauty of the young lady who made her -curtsey to the Princess Dowager last week, sponsored by Lady Margaret -Laroche, a connection of the late Lord Kilrush, and, as everybody -knows, a star of the first magnitude in the _beau monde_." Here -followed a description of the lady's personal appearance: her gown of -white tabinet with a running pattern of shamrocks worked in silver, and -the famous Kilrush pearls, which had not been seen for a quarter of a -century. - -_Lloyd's_ was more piquant, and had recourse to initials. "It is not -generally known that the lovely young widow who was the cynosure of -neighbouring eyes at St. James's on his Majesty's birthday, began life -in very humble circumstances. Her father, Mr. T----n, was bred for the -Church, but spent his youth as an itinerant tutor to lads of fashion, -and did not prove an ornament to his sacred calling. He brought his -clerical career to a hasty close by an ill-judged indulgence of the -tender passion. His elopement with a buxom wench from a Lincolnshire -homestead would have caused him less trouble had not his natural -gallantry induced him to relieve his sweetheart of the burden of -her father's cash-box, for which mistaken kindness he suffered two -years' seclusion among highwaymen and pickpockets. The beautiful Lady -K----h was educated in the classics and in modern literature by this -clever but unprincipled parent; and she is said to owe an independence -of all religious dogma to the parental training. There is no such -uncompromising infidel as an unfrocked priest." - -The _Daily Journal_ had its scraps of information. "A little bird -has told us that the new beauty, whose appearance on the birthday so -fluttered their dovecotes at St. James's Palace, spent her early youth -in third-floor lodgings in a paved court adjoining St. Martin's Lane, -where the young lady and her father drudged for the booksellers. 'Tis -confidently asserted that this lovely _bas-bleu_ had a considerable -share in several comedies and burlettas produced by Mr. Garrick under -the ostensible authorship of her father. 'Tis rarely that genius, -beauty, and wealth are to be found united in a widow of three and -twenty summers. How rich a quarry for our fops and fortune-hunters!" - -The _St. James's_ held forth again on the same theme. "Among the -numerous motives which conjecture has put forward for the mysterious -marriage in high life some two years ago--the most interesting -particulars of which we alone were able to supply--the real reason has -been entirely overlooked. Our more intimate knowledge of the _beau -monde_ enables us to hit the right nail on the head. By his deathbed -union with the penniless daughter of a Grub-Street hack, Lord K---- -was able to gratify his hatred of the young gentleman who ought to -have been his heir. We are credibly informed that this unfortunate -youth, first cousin of the brilliant but eccentric Irish peer, is now -subsisting on a pittance in a labourer's cottage on a common near -Richmond Park." - -This last contribution to the literature of gossip seriously affected -Antonia. She had read all the rest with a sublime indifference. -She had been behind the scenes, and knew how such paragraphs were -concocted--had, indeed, written a good deal of fashionable intelligence -herself, collected by Mr. Thornton sometimes from the chairmen waiting -at street corners, in those summer evening walks with his daughter, or -in the grey autumn nights, when the town had a picturesque air in the -long perspective of oil lamps that looked like strings of topazes hung -upon the darkness. The Grub-Street hack had not thought it beneath him -to converse in an affable humour with a chairman or a running footman, -and so to discover how the most beautiful duchess in England was -spending the evening, how much she lost at faro last night, and who it -was handed her to her chair. - -Antonia threw aside the papers with a contemptuous smile. They stabbed -her to the heart when they maligned her dead father; but she was wise -enough to refrain from any attempted refutation of a slander in which, -alas! there might be a grain of truth. Her father was at rest. The -malicious paragraph could not hurt him, and for her own part she had a -virile stoicism which helped her to bear such attacks. She looked back -at her journalistic work, and was thankful to remember that she had -never written anything ill-natured, even when her father had urged her -to give more point to a paragraph, and to insinuate that a lover had -paid the duchess's losses at cards, or that there had been a curious -shuffling of new-born babies in the ducal mansion. Her sprightliest -lines had shone with a lambent flame that hurt nobody. - -Her husband's rightful heir starving in a hovel! That was a concrete -fact with which she could cope. But for the motive of that deathbed -bond, she knew better than the hack scribbler; she knew that a -passionate love, baulked and disappointed in life, had triumphed in the -hour of death. He had bound her to himself to the end of her existence, -in the sublime tyranny of that love which had not realized its strength -till too late. - -And that he should be supposed to have been actuated by a petty -spite--an old man's hatred of a youthful heir! - -"What reptiles these scribblers are!" she thought, "that will sell lies -by the guinea's worth, and think themselves honest if they give full -measure." - -She sent for Goodwin. - -"You must know all about his lordship's family," she said. "Can you -tell me of any cousin whom he may be said to have disinherited?" - -"There is no one who could be rightly called his lordship's heir, my -lady; but there is a young gentleman, a cousin, only son to a sister -of his lordship's father, who may at one time have expected to come -into some of the property, the entail having expired, and there being -no direct heir in existence." - -"Had this gentleman offended his lordship?" - -"Yes, my lady. He behaved very badly indeed, and his lordship forbade -him the house." - -"Was he dissipated--a spendthrift?" - -"No, my lady. I don't think his lordship would have taken that so ill -in a fine young man with a wealthy mother. It would have been only -natural for him to be a man of pleasure. But Mr. Stobart's conduct was -very bad indeed. He left the army----" - -"A coward?" - -"No, my lady, I don't think we can call him that. He was singled out -for his dash and spirit in the retreat at Fontenoy, where he saved the -life of his superior officer at the risk of his own. But soon after -his regiment came home he took up religion, left off powdering his -hair, sold his commission, and gave the money to the building fund for -Wesley's Chapel in the City Road." - -"He must be a foolish fellow, I think," said Antonia, who was not -fascinated by this description. "And was his lordship seriously -offended by this conduct?" - -"He didn't like the young gentleman turning Methodist, my lady; but -that was not the worst." - -"Indeed?" - -"Mr. Stobart made a low marriage." - -"What? Did he marry a woman of bad character?" - -"I don't think there was anything against the young woman's -_character_, my lady; but she was very low, a servant of Mrs. -Stobart's, I believe, and a Methodist. John Wesley's influence was -at the bottom of it all. There's no reckoning the harm those Oxford -Methodists have done in high families. Well, there's Lady Huntingdon! -There's no need to say more than that." - -"But how comes this gentleman to be in poor circumstances, as the _St. -James's Post_ states, if his mother is rich?" - -"Oh, my lady, the honourable Mrs. Stobart was quite as angry as his -lordship, and she married Sir David Lanigan, an Irish baronet, who -courted her when she was a girl at Kilrush Abbey. Your ladyship would -notice her portrait in the long drawing-room at Kilrush." - -"Yes, yes, I remember--a handsome face, with a look of his lordship. -Then you have reason to believe that Mr. Stobart is living in poverty, -as a consequence of his love-match?" - -Her cheek crimsoned as she spoke, recalling that bitterest hour of -her life in which Kilrush had told her that he could not marry her. -That inexorable pride--the pride of the name-worshippers--had darkened -this young man's existence, as it had darkened hers. But he, at least, -had shaken off the fetters of caste, and had taken his own road to -happiness. - -"Thank you, Goodwin; that is all I want to know," she said. - -An hour later she was being driven to Richmond in an open carriage, -with the faithful Sophy seated opposite her, in the dazzling June -sunshine. They stopped at Putney to spend half an hour with Mrs. -Potter, and then drove on to the village of Sheen, and pulled up at a -roadside inn, where Antonia inquired for Mr. Stobart's cottage, and was -agreeably surprised at finding her question promptly answered. - -"'Tis about a mile from here, your ladyship," said the landlord, -who had run out of his bar-parlour to wait upon a lady in as fine a -carriage as any that passed his door on a Saturday afternoon, when -court and fashion drove to Richmond to air themselves in the Park and -play cards at modish lodgings on the Green. "'Tis a white cottage -facing the common--the first turning on the left hand will take you to -it; but 'tis a bad road for carriages." - -They drove along the high road for about a quarter of a mile, between -market gardens, where the asparagus beds showed green and feathery, and -where the strawberry banks were white with blossom, under the blue sky -of early June. The hedges were full of hawthorn bloom and honeysuckle, -dog-roses and red campion. - -"Sure, the country's a sweet place to come to for an afternoon," said -Sophy, as she sniffed the purer air; "but I'm glad we live in London." - -The lane was narrow and full of ruts, so Antonia alighted at the -turning and sent Sophy and the carriage back to the inn to wait for -her. Sophy had a volume of a novel in her reticule, and would be able -to amuse herself. - -The walk gave Antonia time for quiet thought before she met the man -who might receive her as an enemy. She was going to him with no -high-flown ideas of restitution--of surrendering a fortune that she -knew to be the bequest of love. She had accepted that heritage without -compunction. She had given herself to the dead, and she thought it -no wrong to receive the fortune that the dead had given to her. But -if her husband's kinsman was in poor circumstances, it was her duty -to share her riches with him. She had an instinctive dislike of all -professors of religion; but she could but admire this young man for the -humble marriage which had offended his cousin, and perhaps lost him a -substantial part of his cousin's fortune. - -The lane was a long one, between untrimmed hedges that breathed the -delicate perfume of wild flowers, on one side a field of clover, a -strawberry garden on the other. It was a relief to have left the dust -of the high road, and the burden of Sophy's running commentary upon the -houses and carriages and people on their way. Sheen Common lay before -her at last, an undulating expanse carpeted with short sweet turf, -where the lady's-slipper wrought a golden pattern on the greyish green, -and where the yellow bloom of the gorse rose and fell over the hillocky -ground in a dazzling perspective. Larks were singing in the midsummer -blue, and behind the park wall, built when the first Charles was king, -the rooks were calling amidst the darkness of forest trees. Close on -her left hand as she came out of the lane, Antonia saw a cottage which -she took for the labourer's hovel indicated in the _St. James's Evening -Post_. It had been once a pair of cottages, with deeply sloping thatch -and crow-step gables above end walls of red brick; but it was now one -house in a flower-garden of about an acre, surrounded with a hedge of -roses and lavender, inside a low white paling. The plastered porch, -with its broad bench and little square window, was big enough for two -or three people to sit in; the parlour casements were wide and low, and -none of the rooms could have been above seven or eight feet high; but -this humble dwelling, contemplated on the outside, had those charms of -the picturesque and the rustic which are apt to make people forget -that houses are meant to be lived in rather than to be looked at from -over the way. - -The garden was prettier than her own old garden at Putney, Tonia -thought. Never had she seen so many flowers in so small a space. -While she stood admiring this little paradise, out of range of the -windows, she was startled by the sound of a voice close by; and then, -for the first time, she became aware of a domestic group under an old -crab-apple tree, which was big enough to spread a shade over a young -man and woman sitting side by side on a garden bench, and a very -juvenile nursemaid kneeling on the grass and supervising the movements -of a crawling baby. - -The young man was Mr. Stobart, no doubt; and the girl who sat sewing -diligently, with bent head, and who looked hardly eighteen years of -age, must be his wife; and the baby made the natural third in the -domestic trio, the embodied grace and sanction of a virtuous marriage. - -He was reading aloud from "Paradise Lost," the story of Adam and Eve -before the coming of the Tempter. He had a fine baritone voice, and -gave full effect to the music of Milton's verse, reading as a man who -loves the thing he reads. In the restrictions which piety imposed upon -the choice of books, he had been over the same ground much oftener than -a more libertine student would have been; and this may have accounted -for the young wife's appearance of being more interested in the hem of -her baby's petticoat than in Milton's Eve. - -"A simpleton," thought Tonia. "'Tis not every man would forfeit wealth -and station for such a wife. But she looks sweet-tempered, and as free -from earthly stain as a sea-nymph." - -She went on to the low wooden gate, as white as if it had been painted -yesterday, and rang a primitive kind of bell that hung on the gate-post. - -The young woman laid down her sewing, and came to open the gate with -the air of doing the most natural thing in the world; but on perceiving -Antonia's splendour of silver-grey lute-string and plumed hat she -stopped in confusion, dropping a low curtsey before she admitted the -visitor. - -Antonia thought her lovely. Those velvety brown eyes set off the -delicacy of her complexion, while the bright auburn of her unpowdered -hair, which fell about her forehead and hung upon her neck in natural -curls, gave a vivid beauty to a face that without brilliant colouring -would have meant very little. She had the exquisite freshness of -creatures that do not think--almost without passions, quite without -mind. - -"I think you must be Mrs. Stobart," Tonia said gently. "I have come to -see your husband, if he will be good enough to receive me. I am Lady -Kilrush." - -The timid sweetness of Mrs. Stobart's expression changed in a moment, -and an angry red flamed over cheeks and brow. - -"Then I'm sure I don't know what can be your ladyship's business here, -unless you have come to crow over us," she said, "for I know you wasn't -invited." - -Stobart came to the gate in time to hear his wife's speech. - -"Pray, my dear Lucy, let us have no ill-nature," he said, with grave -displeasure, as he opened the gate. "You see, madam, my wife has not -been bred in the school that teaches us how to hide our feelings. I -hope your ladyship will excuse her for being too simple to be polite." - -"I am sorry if she or you can think of me as an enemy," said Antonia, -very coldly. She had been startled out of her friendly feeling by Mrs. -Stobart's unexpected attack. "I only knew a few hours ago, from an -insolent paragraph in a newspaper, that there was any one living who -could think himself the worse for my marriage." - -"Indeed, madam, I have never blamed you or Providence for that romantic -incident. Will your ladyship sit under our favourite tree, where my -wife and I have been sitting, or would you prefer to be within doors?" - -"Oh, the garden by all means. I adore a garden; and yours is the -prettiest for its size I have ever seen, except the rose-garden at -Kilrush Abbey, which I dare swear you know." - -"My aunt's garden? Yes. I was just old enough to remember her leading -me by the hand among her rose trees. She died before my fourth -birthday, and I have never seen Kilrush House since her death." - -"'Tis vastly at your service, sir, with all it can offer of -accommodation, if ever you and your lady care to occupy it for a -season." - -They were moving slowly towards the apple tree as they talked, Lucy -Stobart hanging her head as she crept beside her husband, ashamed of -her shrewish outburst, for which she expected a lecture by-and-by, and -shedding a penitential tear or two behind a corner of her muslin apron. - -"We shall not trespass on your ladyship's generosity. We have framed -our lives upon a measure that would make Kilrush House out of the -question." - -"We are not rich enough to live in a great house," snapped Lucy, -sinning again in the midst of her repentance. - -"Say rather that we have done with the things that go with wealth and -station, and have discovered the happiness that can be found in what -fine people call poverty." - -Nursemaid and baby had disappeared from the little lawn. Antonia took -the seat Mr. Stobart indicated on the rustic bench; but her host and -his wife remained standing, Lucy puzzled as to what she ought to do, -George too much troubled in mind to know what he was doing. - -"Mrs. Stobart, and you, sir, pray be seated. Let us be as friendly as -we can," pleaded Antonia. "Be sure I came here in a friendly spirit. -Pray be frank with me. I know nothing but what I read in the _St. -James's Evening Post_. Is it true that you were once your cousin's -acknowledged heir?" - -"No, madam, it is not true. I was but his lordship's nearest relation." - -"And he would have inherited his lordship's fortune if he had not -married me," said Lucy, with irrepressible vehemence. "Sure you know -'twas so, George! And I can never forgive myself for having cost you -a great fortune. And then Lord Kilrush must needs make a much lower -marriage--on his death-bed, to spite you, for _my_ father had never -been----" - -Her husband clapped his hand over her lips before she could finish the -sentence. Antonia started up from the bench, pale with indignation. - -"Lucy, I am ashamed of you," said George. "Go indoors and play with -your baby. You do not know how to converse with a lady. I beg you to -forgive her, madam, and to think of her as a pettish child, who will -learn better behaviour in time." - -"I can forgive much, but not to hear it said that Kilrush had any other -motive than his love for me when he made me his wife. I loved him, -sir--loved him too dearly to suffer that falsehood for an instant. No, -Mrs. Stobart, don't go," as Lucy began to creep away, ashamed of her -misconduct. "You must hear why I came, and what I have to say to your -husband. I came as a friend, and I hoped to find a friendly welcome. I -came to do justice, if justice can be done, but not to apologize for a -marriage which was prompted by love, and love alone." - -"Be patient with us, madam, and you may yet find us worthy of your -friendship," said Stobart, gently. "But first of all be assured that we -ask nothing from your generosity. We assert no claim to justice, not -considering ourselves wronged." - -"You think differently from your wife, Mr. Stobart." - -"Oh, madam, cannot you see that my wife is a wayward child, who has -never learnt to reason? To-night, on her knees at the foot of the -Cross, she will shed penitential tears for her sins of pride and -impatience." - -"Pray, sir, do not talk of sin. 'Twas natural, perhaps, that your wife -should think ill of me." - -"Oh, madam, 'twas for his sake only that I was angry," protested Lucy, -with streaming eyes. "Satan gets the better of me when I remember that -he was disinherited for marrying me; and I thought you had come here to -triumph over him. But, indeed, I covet nobody's fortune, and am content -with this dear cottage, where I have been happier than I ever was in my -life before." - -"Let us be friends, then, Mrs. Stobart," Antonia said, with a -graciousness that completely subjugated the contrite Lucy, whose -murmured reply was inaudible, and who sat gazing at the visitor in a -rapture of admiration. - -Never had Lucy's eyes beheld so handsome a woman, or such a hat, with -its black ostrich feathers, clasped at the side by a diamond buckle -that flashed rainbow light in the sunshine. The glancing sheen of the -pale grey gown, the long gloves drawn to the elbow under deep ruffles -of Flemish lace, the diamond cross sparkling between the folds of -Cyprus gauze that veiled the corsage, the _tout-ensemble_ of a fine -lady's toilette, filled Mrs. Stobart with wonder. Wholly unconscious of -the impression she had made on the wife, Antonia addressed herself to -the husband with an earnest countenance. - -"I am thankful to find you do not accuse Lord Kilrush of injustice," -she said. "But as his kinsman, you may naturally have expected to -inherit some part of his wealth; and I therefore beg you to accept a -fourth share of my income, which is reckoned at twenty thousand pounds. -I hope that with five thousand a year your wife will be able to enjoy -all the pleasures that fortune can give." - -"Oh, Georgie!" exclaimed Lucy, breathless with a rapturous surprise. - -Her husband laid his hand on hers with a caressing touch. - -"Hush, my dearest," he said; and then in a graver tone, "Your offer is -as unexpected as it is generous, madam; but I will not take advantage -of an impulse which you might afterwards regret, and of which the world -you live in would question the wisdom. Be sure I do not envy you my -kinsman's fortune. If I ever stood in the place of his heir I lost that -place two years before he died. He told me plainly that he meant to -strike my name out of his will. I hoped for nothing, desired nothing -from him." - -"But sure, sir, nobody loves poverty. I have tasted it, and know what -it means; and since I have enjoyed all the luxuries of wealth I own -that it would distress me to go back to the two-pair parlour of which -the evening papers love to remind me." - -"True, madam; for in your world pleasure and money are inseparable -ideas. When I left that world--at the call of religion--I renounced -something far dearer to me than fortune. I gave up a soldier's career, -and the hope to serve my country, and write my name upon her register -of honourable deeds. Having made that sacrifice, I have nothing to -lose, except the lives of those I love--nothing to desire for them or -for myself, except that our present happiness may continue." - -"But if I assure you that your acceptance of my offer would ease my -conscience----" - -"Nay, madam, your conscience may rest easy in the assurance that we are -content----" - -"I do not think your wife is content, Mr. Stobart. She received me just -now as an enemy. Let me convince her that I am her friend." - -"You can do that in a hundred ways, madam, without making her rich, -which would be to be her enemy in disguise." - -"Sure, your ladyship, I was full of sinfulness and pride when I spoke -to you so uncivilly," Lucy said, in a contrite voice. "Mr. Stobart is a -better judge of all serious matters than I am. I should never be clever -if I lived to be a hundred, in spite of the pains he takes to teach me. -And if he thinks we had best be poor, why, so do I; and this house is a -palace compared with the hovel I lived in before he took me away from -my father and mother." - -"You hear, Lady Kilrush, my wife and I are of one mind. But to prove -that 'tis for no stubborn pride that I reject your generous offer, I -promise to appeal to your kindness at any hour of need, and, further, -to call upon you once in a way for those charitable works in which -the men I most honour are engaged. There is Mr. Whitefield's American -Orphanage, for example----" - -"Oh, command my purse, I pray you, sir. I rejoice in helping the -poor--I who have known poverty. I will send you something for your -orphans to-night. Let me assist all your good works." - -"'Tis very generous of your ladyship to help us; for I doubt your own -religious views scarcely tally with those of my friends." - -"I have no religious views, Mr. Stobart. I have no religion except the -love of my fellow-creatures." - -"Great Heaven, madam, have the undermining influences of a corrupt -society so early sapped your belief in Christ?" - -"No, sir, society has not influenced me. I have never been a believer -in Christianity as a creed, though I can admire Jesus of Nazareth as a -philanthropist, and grieve for him as a martyr to the cruelty of man. -I was taught to reason, where other children are taught to believe; to -question and to think for myself, where other children are taught to be -dumb and to stifle thought." - -Stobart gazed at her with horror. Mrs. Stobart listened open-mouthed, -astonished at the audacity which could give speech to such opinions. - -"Oh, madam, 'tis sad to hear outspoken unbelief from the lips of youth. -I doubt you have suffered the influence of that pernicious writer whose -pen has peopled France with infidels." - -"If, sir, you mean Voltaire, you do ill to condemn the apostle of -toleration, to whom you and all other dissenters should be grateful." - -"I scorn the championship of an infidel. I am no more a dissenter than -the Wesleys or George Whitefield. I have not ceased to belong to the -Church of England because I follow heaven-born teachers sent to startle -that Church from a century of torpor. _They_ have not ceased to be of -the Church because bishops disapprove their ardour and parish priests -exclude them from their pulpits." - -"Oh, sir, I doubt not that you and those gentlemen are honest in your -convictions. 'Tis my misfortune, perhaps, that I cannot think as you -do." - -"If you would condescend to hear those inspired preachers you would not -long walk in the darkness that now encompasses you; for sure, madam, -God meant you to be among the children of light, one of His elect, -awaiting but His appointed hour for your redemption. Oh, after that new -birth, how you will hate the life that lies behind! With what tears you -will atone for your unbelief!" - -His earnestness startled her. His strong voice trembled, his dark -grey eyes were clouded with tears. Could any man so concern himself -about the spiritual welfare of a stranger? She had grown up with a -deep-rooted prejudice against professing Christians. She expected -nothing from religious people but harshness and injustice, self-esteem -and arrogance, masked under an assumption of humility. This man talked -the jargon she hated, but she could not doubt his sincerity. - -"Alas! madam, my heart aches for you, when I consider the peril of your -soul. With youth and beauty, wealth, the world's esteem--all Satan's -choicest lures--what safeguard, what defence have you?" - -"Moi!" she answered, rising suddenly, and looking proud defiance at -him, remembering that heroic monosyllable in Corneille's "Medea." -"Oh, sir, it is on ourselves--on the light within, not the God in the -sky--we must depend in the conflict between right and wrong. Do you -think a creed can help a man in temptation, or that the Thirty-Nine -Articles ever saved a sinner from falling?" - -He was silent, lost in admiration at so much spirit and beauty, such -boldness and pride. His own ideal of womanly grace was gentleness, -obedience, an amiable nullity; but he must needs own the triumphant -charms of this bold disputant, who was not afraid to confess an impiety -that shocked him. He had known many Deists among his own sex; but the -wickedest women he had met in his unregenerate days had been like the -devils that believe and tremble. - -"I have stayed over long," said Antonia, resuming the easy tone of -trivial conversation, "and I have my woman waiting for me at the inn. -Good day to you, Mrs. Stobart, and pray remember we are to be friends. -I hope your husband will bring you to dine with me in St. James's -Square." - -"I know not if it would be wise to accept your ladyship's polite -invitation," Stobart answered, "though we are grateful for the kindness -that inspires it. I have an inward assurance that I am safest in -keeping aloof from the world I once loved too well. My life here holds -all that is good for my soul--all that my heart can desire." - -"But is your religion but a passive piety, sir? Do you follow the -doctrine of the Moravians, who abjure all active righteousness, and -wait in stillness for the coming of faith? Do you do nothing for -Christianity?" - -"Indeed, madam, he works like a slave in doing good," protested -Lucy, eagerly. "Mr. Wesley has given him a mission among the poorest -wretches at Lambeth. He has set up a dispensary there, and schools for -the children, and a night class for grown men. He toils among them -for many hours three or four days a week. I tremble lest he should -take some dreadful fever, and come home to me only to die. He goes -to the prisons, and reads to the condemned creatures, and comes home -broken-hearted at the cruelty of the law, at the sinfulness of mankind. -What does he do for religion? He gives his life for it--almost as his -Redeemer did!" - -"You teach me to honour him, madam, and to honour you for so generously -defending him against my impertinence. Pray forgive me, and you too, -Mr. Stobart. I have allowed myself great freedom of speech; and if you -do not return my visit I shall be sure you are offended." - -"We shall not suffer you to think that, madam," Stobart answered -gravely. - -He insisted on escorting her to her carriage, and in the walk of -nearly a mile they had time for conversation. He suffered himself for -that brief span to acknowledge the existence of mundane things, and -talked of Handel's oratorios, Richardson's novels, and even of Garrick -and Shakespeare. He handed Lady Kilrush to her carriage, and saw her -drive away from the inn door, a radiant vision in the afternoon light, -before he went back to the cottage, and the adoring young wife, and the -yearling baby, and a dish of tea, and the story of Eve and the Serpent. - -The next day's post brought him an enclosure of two bank bills for five -hundred pounds each, and one line in a strong and somewhat masculine -penmanship. - - - - "For your poor of Lambeth, and for Mr. Whitefield's orphans. - - "ANTONIA KILRUSH." - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -ANTONIA'S INITIATION. - - -'Twas the close of the season when Antonia arrived in London, and -she left St. James's Square two days after her interview with the -Stobarts, on a visit to Lady Margaret Laroche at Bath, where that -lady's drawing-rooms in Pulteney Street were open every evening to -those worldlings who preferred whist and commerce to Whitefield, and -the airy gossip of the _beau monde_ to the heart-searchings of the -aristocratic penitents who attended Lady Huntingdon's assemblies. Lady -Margaret, familiarly known in the fashionable world as Lady Peggy, -was one of those rare and delightful women who, without any desire to -revolutionize, dare to think for themselves, and to arrange their lives -in accord with their own tastes and inclinations, unshackled by the -mode of the moment. Her circle was the most varied and the pleasantest -in London and Bath, and she carried with her an atmosphere of easy -gaiety which made her an element of cheerfulness in every house she -visited. In a word, she had _esprit_, which, united with liberal ideas -and far-reaching sympathies, made her the most delightful of companions -as well as the staunchest of friends. - -This lady--a distant cousin of Lord Kilrush's--had deemed it her duty -to wait upon Antonia; and, finding as much intelligence as beauty, took -the young widow under her wing and promised to make her the fashion. - -"With so fine a house and so good an income you will like to see -people," she said. "You had best spend a month with me at the Bath, -where you will meet at least half the great world, and you will grow -familiar with them there in less time than 'twould take you to be -on curtseying terms in London, where the Court takes up so much of -everybody's attention, and politics go before friendship. At the Bath -we are all Jack and Peggy, my dear and my love. We eat badly cooked -dinners in sweltering parlours, dance or gossip in a mixed mob at the -Rooms every night, and simmer together in a witches' cauldron every -morning; at least, other people do; but for my own part I abjure all -such community in ailments." - -At Bath Antonia found herself the rage in less than a fortnight, and -had a crowd round her whenever she appeared among the morning dippers -or at the evening dance. She was voted the most magnificent creature -who had appeared since Lady Coventry began to go off in looks; and the -men almost hustled each other for the privilege of handing her to her -chair. - -She accepted their attentions with a lofty indifference that enhanced -her charms. Men talked of her "goddess air;" and in that age of -_sobriquets_ she was soon known as Juno and as Diana. She kept them all -at an equal distance, yet was polite to all. Her sense of humour was -tickled by the memory of those evening walks with her father in the -West End streets, when she had caught stray glimpses of fashionable -assemblies through open windows. "Was I as perfect a creature then as -the woman they pretend to worship?" she questioned; "and, if I was, -how strange that of all the men who passed me in the street, there was -but one now and then, and he some hateful Silenus, that ever tried to -pursue me. But I had not my white and silver gown then, nor the Kilrush -jewels, nor my coach and six." - -She had a supreme contempt for adulation which she ascribed to -her fortune rather than to her charms; and Lady Margaret saw with -satisfaction that her _protegee's_ head was not one of those that the -first-comer can turn. - -"'Tis inevitable you should take a second husband," she said, "but I -hope you will wait for a duke." - -"There is no duke in England would tempt me, dear Lady Peggy. I shall -carry my husband's name to the grave, where I hope to lie beside him." - -"'Tis a graceful, romantic fancy you cherish, child; but be sure there -will come a day when some warm living love will divert your thoughts -from that icy rendezvous." - -"Ah, madam, think how inimitable a lover I lost." - -"I know he was an insinuating wretch whom women found irresistible; but -you are too young to hang over an urn for the rest of your days, like -a marble figure in Westminster Abbey. There is a long life before you -that you must not spend in solitude." - -"While I have so kind a friend as your ladyship I can never think -myself alone." - -"Alas! Antonia, I am an old woman. My friendship is like the fag end of -a lease." - -Lady Margaret was the widow of an admiral, with a handsome jointure, -and a small neat house in Spring Gardens, where she was visited by -all the best people in town, and by all the best-known painters, -authors, and actors of the day, who were often to be found at four -o'clock seated round her ladyship's dinner-table, and drinking her -ladyship's admirable port and burgundy. Temperate herself as a sylph, -Lady Peggy was a judge of wines, and always gave the best. She had a -clever Scotchwoman for her cook, and a Frenchman for her major-domo, -who kept her two Italian footmen in order, and did not think it beneath -his dignity to compose a salmi, toss an omelet, or dress a salad on a -special occasion, when a genius of the highest mark or a princess of -the blood royal was to dine with his mistress. - -With such a guide Antonia opened her house to the great world early in -November, and her entertainments became at once the top of the fashion. -Lady Margaret had instructed her in the whole science of party-giving, -and especially whom to invite and whom to leave out. - -"'Tis by the people who are _not_ asked your parties will rank -highest," she said. - -"Sure, dear madam, I should not like to slight any one." - -"Pshaw, woman, if you never slight any one you will confess yourself -a parvenu. The first art a _grande dame_ has to learn is how to be -uncivil civilly. You must be gracious to every one you meet; but you -cannot be too exclusive when it comes to inviting people." - -"But if I am to look for spotless reputations my rooms will be empty;" -and Antonia smiled at the thought of how small and dowdy a crew she -could muster were stainless virtue the pass-word. - -"You will invite nobody who has been found out--no woman who has thrown -her cap over the mill, no man who has been _detected_ cheating at -cards. There are lots of 'em _do_ it, but that don't count." - -"But, dear Lady Margaret, among the actresses and authors you receive -sure there must be some doubtful characters." - -"Not doubtful, _cherie;_ we know all about 'em. But _their_ peccadillos -don't count. We inquire no more about 'em than about the morals of -a dancing bear. The creatures are there to amuse us, and we are -not curious as how they behave in their garrets and back parlours. -But 'twas not so much reputation I thought of when I urged you to -be exclusive. 'Tis the ugly and the dull you must eliminate; the -empty chatterers; the corpulent bores, who block doorways and crowd -supper-rooms. There's your visiting list, _douce_," concluded Lady -Peggy, handing her a closely written sheet of Bath post. "'Tis the salt -of the earth, and if you ever introduce an unworthy name in it out of -easy good nature, you deserve to lose all hope of fashion." - -To be the fashion, to be one of the chosen few whom all foreigners -and outsiders want to see; to be mobbed in the Park, stared at in the -playhouse and at the opera; to be imitated in dress, gesture, speech; -to introduce the latest mispronunciation and call Bristol "Bristo,"--is -it not the highest prize in the lottery of woman's life? To be famous -as painter, poet, actor? Alas! a fleeting renown. The new generation is -at the door. The veteran must give way. But the empire of fashion is -more enduring, and having won _that_ crown, a woman must be a simpleton -if she do not wear it all her life, and bring the best people in town -to gape and whisper round her death-bed. - - * * * * * - -Antonia's first ball was a triumph. The lofty suites of rooms, the -double staircase and surrounding gallery were thronged with rank and -beauty; the clothes were finer than at the last birthday, the silver -and gold brocades of dazzling splendour; the jewels, borrowed, hired, -or owned, flashed prismatic colours across the softer candlelight. -The newspapers expatiated on the entertainment, computed the candles -by the thousand, the footmen by the score. Lady Kilrush was at once -established as a woman of the highest _ton;_ her drawing-rooms were -crowded with morning visitors, her tea-table at six o'clock served as -a rendezvous for all that was choicest in the world of fashion. Every -day brought a series of engagements--breakfasts at Strawberry Hill, -where Horace Walpole exercised his most delightful talents for the -amusement of so charming a guest; great dinners where the Ministers and -the Opposition drank their three bottles together in amity, the Duke -of Newcastle and Mr. Pelham, Pitt and Fox, Granville and Pulteney,--a -galaxy of ribbons and stars; parties at Syon House and at Osterley; -excursions to Hampton Court and Windsor, braving the wintry roads in a -coach and six, and with half a dozen out-riders as a guard against the -hazards of the journey. Lady Kilrush had become one of the most popular -women in London, and the only evil thing that was said of her was that -she did not return visits as quickly as people expected. - -Was she happy in the midst of it all, she who believed only in this -brief life and the pleasure or the pain that it holds? Yes. She was too -young, too beautiful and complete a creature not to be intoxicated by -the brilliancy of her new existence, and the sense of unbounded power -that wealth gave her. The novelty of the life was in itself enough for -happiness. The London in which she moved to-day was as new to her as -Rome had been, and more splendid, if less romantic. Operas, concerts, -plays, auctions, picture-galleries, masquerades, ridottos, provided a -series of pleasures that surpassed her dreams. Handel and the Italian -singers offered inexhaustible delight. She might tire of all the -rest--of Court balls and modish drums, of bidding for china monsters, -buying toys of Mrs. Chenevix and trinkets of jeweller Deard in Pall -Mall--but of music she could never tire, and the more she heard of -Handel's oratorios the better she loved them. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -"SO RUN THAT YE MAY OBTAIN." - - -Mrs. Stobart, yawning by the neatly swept hearth in her cottage -parlour, while her husband sat silent over a book, read an account of -Antonia's party in a semi-religious newspaper, prefaced with a pious -denunciation of the worldling's extravagant luxury. She insisted on -reading the description to her husband, and as she was a slow reader, -bored him to extinction. - -"How fine it must have been!" she sighed at the end. "Oh, how I should -love to have been there! What a pity you put her off with an excuse -when she asked us to visit her!" - -"My dear Lucy, what an idle thought! Your clothes for such a party -would cost a hundred pounds; and how would you like to think that you -carried on your person the money that would feed a score of orphan -children for the winter?" - -"Then is everybody wicked who gives such assemblies or goes to them? -Sure if they all spent their superfluous wealth upon charity, instead -of fine clothes and musicians and wax candles, there need be nobody -starving or homeless in England." - -"'Tis a problem the world has not solved yet, Lucy; but for my own part -I think the man who squanders his fortune upon pomp and luxury can have -no more appreciation of gospel truth than the heathen has who never -heard of a Redeemer." - -"Then you think Lady Kilrush is no better than a heathen?" - -"Alas! poor wretch, did she not confess herself so in your hearing--an -infidel, blind to the light of revelation, deaf to the message of -pardon? We can but pity her, Lucy, and pray that God's hour may come -for her as it came for you and me. She has a fine nature, and I cannot -think she will be left in outer darkness." - -"Unless she is one of those that were predestined to eternal perdition -before they were born," said Lucy. - -"You know I have never countenanced that gospel of despair, and I -deplore that so fine a preacher as Mr. Whitefield should have taken up -such gloomy views." - -"She might have sent us a card for her ball," murmured Lucy. "'Twould -have been civil, even though she guessed you would not take me." - -The discontented sigh which followed the complaining speech showed -George Stobart that his wife was still among the unregenerate. -His religion was of a stern temper, and he could not suffer this -unchristian peevishness to pass unreproved. - -"Do you think, madam, that a journeyman printer's daughter would be in -her place among dukes and duchesses at a fashionable assembly? 'Twas -not for such a life I chose you." - -Lucy, who always trembled at her husband's frown, though she never -refrained from provoking his anger, replied with her accustomed -argument of tears. George saw the slim shoulders shaken by suppressed -sobs, flung his book aside in a rage, and began to pace the cottage -parlour, whose narrow bounds he was not yet accustomed to. In mild -weather the half-glass door stood ever open, and he could pass to the -grass plot outside when his impatient mood was on; but with a November -rain beating against the casement there was no escape, and he felt like -a caged bear. - -Finding her stifled sobs unregarded, Lucy began again, in the same -complaining voice-- - -"I thought a gentleman's wife was fit company even for dukes and -duchesses; and if it comes to fathers, I have less need to be ashamed -of mine, though he starved and beat me, than Lady Kilrush has of hers, -who was in jail for running away with a farmer's cash-box. 'Twas all in -the evening paper when his lordship married her." - -"Good God!" cried George, "are women by nature mean and petty? The -first desire of a gentleman's wife, madam, should be to think and act -like a lady, and to-day you do neither. I wish we had never seen Lady -Kilrush, since an hour of her company has made you dissatisfied with -a life for which I thought Heaven designed you. To sigh for balls and -drums--you, who never danced a step in your life! And do you think when -I left the army--the calling I loved--I meant to hang upon the skirts -of fashion, stand in doorways, or elbow and shove in supper-rooms? I -renounced all such idle pleasures when I left His Majesty's service and -took up arms for Christ, whose soldier and servant I am." - -Lucy, now entirely repentant, looked up at him with streaming eyes, -shivering at his indignation, but admiring him. - -"How handsome you are when you are angry!" she cried. "You are so -good and noble, and I am so vile a sinner. 'Tis Satan tempting -me. He makes me forget what a worm I am. He makes me proud and -ungrateful--ungrateful to you, my dear, my honoured husband; ungrateful -to God who gave me your love." - -She slipped from her chair to the ground, and knelt there, weeping -passionately, her pretty auburn hair falling over her face and neck, -whose delicate whiteness showed like ivory between loose locks of -burnished gold. - -Her husband had recovered his self-command, lifted her tenderly from -the ground, and held her against his breast. How pretty she was, how -artless and childlike, and how brutal it was in him to be so angry at -her poor little frivolous yearnings for fine clothes and fine company, -music and candlelight! He kissed her on the forehead and lips in a -gentle silence, led her to her chair, and then resumed his book. - -"'Tis I am the sinner, Lucy," he said after a pause, during which her -needle travelled slowly along the seam of the shirt she was making for -him. "I did very ill to be so hot and impatient about a trifle. But -these long empty days vex me. I hope I may be of the proper stuff for a -Christian; but sure I should never have done for a hermit. I want to be -up and doing." - -"Indeed, George, you work too hard as it is. A long day at home should -be a rest for you." - -"I am not one of those who relish rest. Come, I will read to you, if -you choose." - -"I love to hear you read." - -"Yes, and sit and dream of your baby, or your new tea-things, and -scarce know whether I have been reading Milton or the Bible when I have -done," he said gently, as he might have spoken to a child. - -"You have such a beautiful voice. I love your voice better than the -things you read. But let it be 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and I will listen -to every word. I always think Christian is you. I can see you when I -follow him with my thoughts." - -Her husband smiled at the gentle flattery, and brought Bunyan's -delightful story from the modest bookcase which held but some two score -of classics and pious works--William Law, Dr. Watts, the writers loved -and chosen by the followers of the New Light. - -"Dost remember where we left your Christian?" he asked. - -"'Twas when he was alone in the Valley of Humiliation, just before -Apollyon met him," she answered quickly, though had the book been -"Paradise Lost," she would have hardly known whether 'twas before -or after the fall when they left Adam and Eve. He read aloud till -teatime, and read to himself after tea till the hour of evening prayer -and Scripture exposition, to which the little nursemaid and a stout -maid-of-all-work were summoned; and so the long day closed at an hour -when West End London, from Wimpole Street to Whitehall, was alive with -chairs and linkmen, French horns and dancing feet. In this cottage on -the common there was a silence that made the chirp of the crickets a -burden. - - * * * * * - -George Stobart was not a quietist. Religion unsupported by philanthropy -would not have sufficed him for happiness. He could not spend half -his life upon his knees in a rapture of self-humiliation--could not -devote hours to searching his own heart. Once and for all he had been -convinced of sin, assured that the road he had been travelling was a -road that led to the gates of hell, and that in travelling it he had -carried many weaker sinners along with him, and so had been a murderer -of souls. Once and for all he had been assured of the free grace of -God, and believed himself appointed to do good work--a brand snatched -from the burning, whose duty it was to snatch other brands, to compel -the lost sheep to come into the fold. - -He loved to be up and doing. He had the soldier's temper, and must be -fighting some one or something; nor could he keep in his chamber and -wrestle with impalpable devils. He could not fight, like Luther, with -the evil that was within him till he materialized the inward tempter, -saw Satan standing before him, and flung his inkpot at a visible foe. -Abstract piety could not satisfy George Stobart. He caught himself -yawning over Law's "Serious Call," and "The Imitation of Christ." - -In the beginning of the Great Revival, when the Oxford Methodists -and the Moravian Christians had been as one brotherhood in the -meeting-house by Fetter Lane, an enthusiast, by name Molther, had put -forward a new way of salvation, which was to be "still." Those who -desired to find faith were to give up the public means of grace. They -were not even to pray or to read the Scriptures, nor to attempt to do -any good works. - -John Wesley's fine common sense had repudiated this doctrine, -whereupon there had been confusion and falling away among the Fetter -Lane society; and the great leader had withdrawn to a chapel and -dwelling-house of his own creation, in a disused foundry for cannon, -near Finsbury Square. It was here that George Stobart had found faith, -and it was in Wesley's strong and active crusade against sin and -suffering that he found satisfaction. - -After somewhat reluctantly entering upon his career as an itinerant -preacher, when the magnitude of the work, the multitudes eager to -hear the Word of God, revealed themselves to him, John Wesley, again -reluctantly, enlisted the help of lay preachers. The Church had shut -her doors upon him--that Anglican Church of which he had ever been a -true and staunch apostle--and he had to do without the Church. He saw -before him the people of England awakened from the torpor of a century -of automatic religion, and saw that he needed more labourers in this -vast vineyard than the Church could give him. - -For the last two years George Stobart had been one of Wesley's -favourite helpers, and had accompanied his chief in several of those -itinerant journeys which made half England Wesleyan. He preached at -Bristol, rode with Wesley, preaching at every stage of the journey, -from Bristol to Falmouth, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with him -in one of the worst riots the Christian hero ever faced. He was with -him through the roughest encounters in Lancashire, stood beside him on -the Market Cross at Bolton, when the great wild mob surged round them -and stones flew thick and fast, and where, as if by a miracle, while -many of the rabble were hurt, the preacher remained untouched. - -In all this, in the effect of his own preaching, in the hazards and -adventures of those long rides across the face of a country where most -things were new, Stobart found unalloyed delight. He loved his mission -in the streets and alleys of Lambeth, his visits to the London jails, -for here he had to wrestle with the devils of ignorance and blasphemy, -to preach cleanliness to men and women who had been born and reared in -filth, to meet the wants of a multitude with a handful of silver, to -give counsel, sympathy, compassion, where he could not give bread. This -was work that pleased him. Here he felt himself the soldier and servant -of Christ. - -It was in the religion of the chamber that Stobart fell short of the -mark. He loved the Word of God when God spoke by the lips of His Son; -but he had not that reverent affection for the Old Testament which -Wesley had urged upon him as essential to true religion. For the -grandeur, the poetry of Holy Writ he had the highest appreciation; but -there were many pages of the sacred volume in which he looked in vain -for the light of inspiration. If he could have read his Bible in the -same inquiring spirit that Samuel Coleridge brought to it, he might -have been better satisfied with the book and with himself; but Wesley -had forbidden any such liberal interpretation of the Scriptures. Every -line, every word, every letter was to be accepted as the law of God. - -He was dissatisfied with himself for his coldness, for wandering -thoughts, for the dying out of that sacred fire which John Wesley's -preaching had kindled in his soul at the time of his conversion. But -he told himself that such a fire can burn but once in a lifetime. 'Tis -like the burning bush in which Moses beheld his God. That stupendous -vision comes once, and once only. It has done its purifying work, and -burnt out sin. But between the starting-point of the converted penitent -and the Christian's crown, how long and difficult the race! George -Stobart had felt his footsteps flagging on the stony road. He had not -lost courage. The dogged determination to win that eternal crown was -still with him; but he had lost something of his first enthusiasm, that -romantic temper in which it had pleased him to prove his sincerity by -the sacrifice of fortune and station, and by a marriage which would -have seemed impossible to him in his unregenerate days. - - * * * * * - -A week after Lady Kilrush had given her great entertainment there came -a letter from her, addressed to Mrs. Stobart, and the very seal upon -it was as precious in the sight of the printer's daughter as if it had -been a jewel. - -"Look, George, what a beautiful seal--a naked boy with a helmet, and -two snakes twisted round his cane. Who can have written to me? Why, the -name is signed outside, 'Townshend.' Sure I know nobody of that name." - -"'Tis but the frank, child. The letter is from Lady Kilrush." - -"How can you tell that?" - -"I could swear to her hand among a hundred. Not the penmanship of one -woman in a thousand shows such strength of will." - -"Can one's writing show one's mind? I should never have thought it. -I wonder if 'tis a card for her next assembly. Oh, George, don't be -angry! I should like, once in my life, only once, to go to a party." - -Her husband sighed as he patted her shoulder, with the gentle touch -that only strong men have, and which always soothed her. - -"Read your letter," he said; "'tis no card." - -She took her scissors from her work-basket and carefully cut round the -seal--loth to spoil anything so beautiful, though her heart beat fast -with expectation. George read the letter aloud over her shoulder. - - * * * * * - - "St. James's Square, November 15th. - - "DEAR MADAM, - - "I hope that neither you nor Mr. Stobart have forgot your - polite promise to visit me, and that you will do me the - favour of dining with me at four o'clock next Monday, - when Lady Margaret Laroche, the Duchess of Portland, Mr. - Townshend, and some other of my most agreeable acquaintance, - will be good enough to give me their company in the evening. - As you live so far off, I shall venture to send my coach - to fetch you before dark, and I shall be best pleased if - you will spend the night in St. James's Square, and return - home at your leisure and convenience on Tuesday. Knowing - Mr. Stobart's serious mind, I did not presume to send you - a card for my ball last week, as I should be sorry for any - invitation of mine to seem an empty compliment. - - "Pray persuade your husband, and my cousin by marriage, to - gratify me by bidding you write 'Yes,' and believe me, with - much respect, - - "Your sincere friend and servant, - - "ANTONIA KILRUSH." - -"Must I say no, George?" Lucy asked, with a quivering lip, ready to -burst into tears. - -"Nay, child, I made you unhappy t'other day, and was miserable for two -days after at the thought I had been a brute. If it would please you to -visit her ladyship----" - -"Please me! I should feel as if I was flying over the moon." - -"But you could not fly over the moon in a grogram gown. You need not -vie with her Grace of Portland, but I doubt you have no clothes fit for -company, and my purse is empty." - -"But I have my wedding gown," she cried, clapping her hands--"the gown -I bought at Clapham with the pocket-money your mother gave me, a crown -piece at a time, and that I saved till it was over three guineas. And I -bought a pearl grey silk, and your mother's woman helped me make it, -and then when I told you what I had done you were vexed at my vanity, -and would not let me wear it; so I was married in my old stuff gown, -and the pearl grey silk has never been worn. The Duchess will not have -a newer gown than mine, if you'll let me go." - -"'When I was a child I thought as a child,'" quoted George. "Well, -dearest, thou shalt have thy childish pleasure. To have seen how idle -and empty a thing fine company is may make thee love our serious life -better." - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -IN ST. JAMES'S SQUARE. - - -On the afternoon when she was expecting Mr. and Mrs. Stobart, Lady -Kilrush was surprised by a visit from an old friend whom she had almost -forgotten. Her chair had just brought her from a round of visits, and -she had not yet removed her hat and cloak, which Sophy was waiting to -take from her, being ever jealous of her lady's French maid, when a -visitor was announced-- - -"Mrs. Granger." - -The room was the fourth and smallest of a suite of reception-rooms, -which occupied the whole of the first floor, leaving space only for the -wide central staircase, surrounded by a gallery that was a favourite -resort of visitors at a crowded assembly, as a vantage-ground from -which they could watch arrivals, look out for their particular friends, -and criticize "clothes." - -The room was half in dusk, and Antonia wondered who the little young -lady in the cherry-coloured hood and satin petticoat of the same bright -hue could be. It was not a colour favoured by people of taste at that -time, and the little plump person in the high hoop had not the air of -the Portland set, that _recherche_ group of women among whom Antonia -had been received on a friendly footing, on the strength of her own -charms and Lady Peggy's popularity. Lady Peggy was of all the sets, -best and worst, and exercised a commanding influence over all. - -"My dear creature, sure you won't pretend you've forgot me?" cried the -little woman, with broad, outspoken speech, after her first mincing -salutation had been acknowledged by a stately curtsey and a "Your -humble servant, madam." - -"Why, 'tis Patty!" exclaimed Antonia, holding out both her hands. - -"Yes, 'tis Patty--Mrs. Granger. Sure you remember old General Granger -that you used to jeer at. I have been married to him over a year, and -we have handsome lodgings in Leicester Square, and I keep my chair; and -if he outlives his two elder brothers and three nephews, I shall be a -peeress." - -"My dear Patty, I am gladder than I can say to see your kind little -face again. Sit down, child. You must stop and dine with me. I have -some cousins coming to dinner, and some company afterwards." - -"Well, I'm glad you're glad. I thought you was too proud to remember -me, since you didn't send me a card for your ball t'other night, though -all London was there." - -"I did not know what had become of you. I have asked ever so many -people who knew the theatres, and no one could say where Miss Lester -had gone since her name vanished from the playbills." - -"The General is a strait-laced old fool!" said Patty. "He doesn't like -people to know I was an actress, though I flatter myself that nobody -can hear me speak or see me curtsey without discovering it. There's an -air of high comedy that nobody can mistake. Sure 'tis in the hope of -catching it that fine ladies take up Kitty Clive." - -"You mustn't call your husband a fool, Patty, especially if he's kind -to you." - -"Oh, he's kind enough, but he's very troublesome with his pussy-cats, -and Minettes, and nonsense; though, to be sure, Minette is a prettier -name than Martha, and genteeler than Patty. And he's very close with -his money. I might have my coach as well as my chair if he wasn't a -miser. I sometimes think I was a simpleton to leave the stage for a -husband of seventy. Sure I might have been another Mrs. Cibber." - -"You had been acting seven years, Patty. You gave your genius a fair -chance." - -"Pshaw, there's some that don't begin to hit the taste of the town till -they've been at it three times seven. Look at old Colley, for instance. -The managers kept him down half a lifetime. When I look at this house -and think of my two parlours I feel I was a fool to marry the General. -But there never was such a romance as your marriage." - -"My marriage was a tragedy, Patty!" - -"Ah, but you've got the comedy now. This fine house, and your hall -porter--I never laid eyes on such a pompous creature--and your powdered -footmen. You're a lucky devil, Tonia." - -Antonia did not reprove her, being somewhat troubled in mind at the -doubt of her own wisdom in bringing this free-and-easy young person in -company with George Stobart and his wife. In her gladness at meeting -the friend of her girlhood she had forgotten how strange such a mixture -would be. - -"If 'tis not convenient to dine with me to-day, Patty, I shall be just -as pleased to see you to-morrow, or the first day that would suit you." - -"Your ladyship--ladyship! oh, lord, ain't it droll?--your ladyship is -vastly obleeging; but I came to stay if you'd have me. Granger is gone -to Hounslow to dine with his old regiment, and I'm my own woman till -ten o'clock. 'Twould be civil of you if you'd bid one of your footmen -tell my chairmen to fetch me at a quarter to ten, and then we can sit -by the fire and talk over old times. This is Mrs. Potter's girl, I -doubt, she that waited upon us once when I took a dish of tea with you. -How d'ye do, miss?"--holding out condescending finger-tips to Sophy, -who had stood gazing at her since her entrance. - -"Yes, this is Miss Potter, my friend and companion. You can take my hat -and Mrs. Granger's hood, Sophy, and come back when Mr. and Mrs. Stobart -are here." - -When Sophy was gone, Lady Kilrush took Patty's plump cheeks between two -caressing hands and contemplated her with a smile. - -"You are as pretty as ever, child," she said, with an elder-sister air, -as if she, instead of Patty, had been the senior by near a decade; "and -I am glad to think you have left the playhouse and all its perils for a -comfortable home with an honest man who loves you. Nay, I think you are -prettier than you were in Covent Garden. The quiet life has freshened -your looks. But you shouldn't wear cherry colour." - -"Because of my red hair?" - -"Because it is a cit's wife's colour, or a vain old woman's that wants -to look young. 'Tis not the mode, Patty." - -"My petticoat cost a pound a yard," said Patty, ruefully. "I thought -the General would kill me when he saw the bill." - -"Oh, 'tis pretty enough, and suits you well enough, _cherie_. I was -half in jest. I have a kind friend who lectures me upon all such -trifles, and so I thought I'd lecture you. And, my dearest Patty, as -the cousin that's to dine with us is a very serious person, I should -take it kindly of you not to talk of the playhouse, nor to abuse your -husband." - -"I hope I know how to behave in company," answered Patty, slightly -huffed; and on Mr. and Mrs. Stobart being announced the next moment, -she assumed a mincing stateliness which lasted the whole evening. - -Stobart thought her an appalling personage, in spite of her reticence. -Her cherry satin bodice was cut very low, and her ample bosom was -spread with pearls and crosses like a jeweller's show-case. She made -up for a paucity of diamonds by the size of her topazes and the -profusion of her amethysts, and her Bristol paste buckles would have -been big enough for the tallest of the Prussian king's grenadiers. Lucy -Stobart, in her pearl-grey silk, made with a quaker-like simplicity, -her pure complexion, golden-brown curls and slender shape, seemed all -the lovelier by the contrast of Mrs. Granger's florid charms; but poor -Patty behaved herself with an admirable reserve, and uttered no word -that could offend. - -Lucy looked at everything in a wondering rapture--the pictures, the -marble busts on ebony and ormolu pedestals, the miniatures and jewels -and toys scattered on tables, the glass cabinets displaying the most -exquisite porcelain, the China monsters standing about the carpet, the -confusion of beautiful objects which met her gaze on every side almost -bewildered her. She looked about her like a child at a fair. - -"And does your ladyship really live in this house?" she asked -innocently. "'Tis not like a house to live in." - -"Do you think it should he put under a glass case, or buried under -burning ashes like Herculaneum, so that it may be found perfect and -undisturbed two thousand years after we are all dead?" said Stobart, -smiling at her. - -He was pleased with her fresh young prettiness, which was not disgraced -even by Antonia's imperial charms. - -"You see, madam, how foolish I have been to indulge my wife with a -sight of splendours which lie so far away from our lives," he said to -Antonia, who accompanied them through the suite of drawing-rooms where -clusters of candles had just been lighted in sconces on the walls, to -show them the famous Gobelins tapestries that had once belonged to -Madame de Montespan. - -"I doubt, sir, Mrs. Stobart is too happy in her rural life ever to -sigh for a large London house and its obligation to live in company," -answered Antonia. - -"I love our cottage dearly when my husband is at home, madam; but I -have to spend weeks and months with no companion but my baby son, who -can say but four words yet, while Mr. Stobart is wandering about the -country with Mr. Wesley, and having sticks and stones aimed at him -sometimes in the midst of his sermons. If your ladyship would persuade -him to leave off field preaching I should be a happy woman." - -"Nay, madam, I cannot come between a man and his conscience, however -much our opinions may differ; and if Mr. Stobart thinks his sermons do -good----" - -"'Tis a question of living in light or darkness, madam. Those who carry -the lamp John Wesley lighted know too well what need there is of their -labours." - -"You go among great sinners?" - -"We go among the untaught savages of a civilized country, madam. If -there is need of God's word anywhere upon this earth, it is needed -where we go. Thousands of awakened souls answer for the usefulness of -our labours." - -"And you are content to pass your life in such work? You have not taken -it up for a year or so, to abandon it when the fever of enthusiasm -cools?" - -"I have no such fever, madam. And to what should I go back if I took -my hand from the plough? I have renounced the profession I loved, and -have forfeited my mother's affection. She was my only near relation. -My wife and I stand alone in the world; we have no friend but God, no -profession but to serve Him." - -"I wonder you do not go into the Church." - -"The Church that has turned a cold shoulder upon Wesley and Whitefield -is no church for me. I can do more good as a free man." - -The door was flung open as the clock struck four, and Lady Margaret -Laroche came fluttering in, almost before the butler could announce her. - -"My matchless one, will you give me some dinner?" she demanded gaily. -"I have been shopping in the city, hunting for feathers for my screen, -and I know your hour. But I forgot you had visitors. Pray make us -acquainted." - -"My cousin, Mr. Stobart, Mrs. Stobart, Mrs. Granger." Lady Peggy sank -to the floor in a curtsey, smiled benignantly at Lucy, and put up her -glass to stare disapprovingly at Patty's cherry-coloured bodice. - -Dinner was announced, and they went downstairs to that spacious -dining-room, which had been so gloomy an apartment when Lord Kilrush -dined there in his later years, generally alone. The room had seen -wilder feasts than any that Lady Kilrush was likely to give there, -when her late husband was in his pride of youth and folly, the boldest -rake-hell in London. - -The conversation at dinner was confined to Lady Margaret, Mr. Stobart, -and Antonia; for Lucy had no more idea of talking than if she had been -in church, and Mrs. Granger only opened her mouth when obliged by the -business of the table, where two courses of eight dishes succeeded each -other in the ponderous magnificence of silver and the substantiality -of mock-turtle soup, turkey and chine, chicken pie, boiled rabbits, -cod and oyster sauce, veal and ham, larded pheasants, with jellies and -puddings, a bill of fare which, in its piling of Pelion upon Ossa, -would be more likely to excite disgust than appetite in the modern -_gourmet_. But in spite of such travelled wits as Bolingbroke, Walpole, -Chesterfield, and Carteret, the antique Anglo-Saxon _menu_ still -obtained when George II. was king. - -"You are the first Methodist I have ever dined with," said Lady Peggy, -keenly interested in a new specimen of the varieties of mankind, "so I -hope you will tell me all about this religious revival which has made -such a stir among the lower classes, and sent Lady Huntingdon out of -her wits." - -"On my honour, madam, if but half the women of fashion in London were -as sane as that noble lady, society would be in a much better way than -it is." - -"Oh, I grant you we have mad women enough. Nearly all the clever ones -lean that way. But I doubt your religious mania is the worst; and a -woman must be far gone who fills her house with a mixed rabble of -crazy nobility and converted bricklayers. I am told Lady Huntingdon -recognizes no distinctions of class among her followers." - -"Nay, there you are wrong, Lady Peggy," cried Antonia, "for Mr. -Whitefield preaches to the quality in her ladyship's drawing-room, but -goes down to her kitchen to convert the rabble." - -"Lady Huntingdon models her life upon the precepts of her Redeemer, -madam," said Stobart, ignoring this interruption. "I hope you do not -consider that an evidence of lunacy." - -"There is a way of doing things, Mr. Stobart. God forbid I should blame -anybody for being kind and condescending to the poor." - -"Christians never condescend, madam. They have too acute a sense of -their own lowness to consider any of their fellow-creatures beneath -them. They are no more capable of condescending towards each other than -the worms have that crawl in the same furrow." - -"Ah, I see these Oxford Methodists have got you in their net. Well, -sir, I admire an enthusiast, even if he is mistaken. Everybody in -London is so much of a pattern that there are seasons when the wretch -who fired the Ephesian dome would be a welcome figure in company--since -any enthusiasm, right or wrong, is better than perpetual flatness." - -"Lady Margaret has so active a mind that she tires of things sooner -than most of us," said Antonia, smiling at the lively lady, whose -hazel eyes twinkled almost as brightly as the few choice diamonds that -sparkled in the folds of her Brussels neckerchief. - -"I confess to being sick of feather-work and shell-work, and the women -who can think of nothing else. And even the musical fanatics weary me -with their everlasting babble about Handel and the Italian singers. -There is not a spark of mind among the whole army of _conoscenti_. -With a month's labour I'd teach the inhabitants of a parrot-house to -jabber the same flummery." - -And then Lady Peggy turned to Mr. Stobart and made him talk about his -Methodists, as she called them, and listened with intelligent interest, -and gave him no offence by her replies. - -"Our cousin is a very pretty fellow, and the wife has not an ill -figure," she said to Antonia after dinner, in a corner of the inner -drawing-room, while Mrs. Stobart and Mrs. Granger sat side by side in -the great saloon, looking at a portfolio of Italian prints; "but how, -in the name of all that's odious, did you come by that cherry-coloured -person?" - -"She is my old friend, an actress at Drury Lane, but now retired from -the stage and prosperously married." - -"The creature has a pretty little face, but her clothes are execrable, -and then the audacity of her shoulders! Such nakedness can only be -suffered in a woman of the highest mode. Indecency with an ill-cut gown -is unpardonable. Don't let her cross your threshold again, child." - -"Dear Lady Peggy, you are too good a friend for me to disoblige you; -but I will never be uncivil to one who was kind when I was poor." - -"Well, well, you are a fine pig-headed creature, but if you must have -such a friend, pray let your dressmaker clothe her. 'Twill cost you -less than you will lose of credit by her appearance. Remember 'tis by -your women friends you will be judged. 'Tis of little consequence what -notorious gamblers and rakes pass in and out of your great assemblies, -so long as they are men of fashion; but your women must be of the -highest quality for birth, clothes, and breeding." - -'Twas six o'clock, and a bevy of footmen were busied in setting out -a tea and coffee table with Indian porcelain and silver urn, and the -rooms began to be picturesquely sprinkled with elegant figures, like a -canvas of Watteau's. It was a prettier scene than one of her ladyship's -great assemblies, for the fine furniture, the priceless china and other -ornaments were undisturbed, and there was enough space and atmosphere -for people to admire the rooms and each other. - -The Duchess of Portland and her chosen friend Mrs. Delany came sailing -in, sparkling with gaiety, and tenderly embracing their matchless -Orinda. Everybody of mark in those days had a nickname, and Mrs. -Delany, who had a genius for finding nonsense names, had hit upon this -one for Lady Kilrush; not because she was a poetess like the original -Orinda, but because the epithet "matchless" seemed appropriate to so -perfect a beauty and twenty thousand a year. - -George Stobart stood in the curtained embrasure of a window, -contemplating this elegant circle amidst which Antonia moved like a -goddess, the loveliest where all had some claim to beauty, peerless -among the _elite_ of womankind. Her grace, her ease, her dignity would -have become a throne, but every charm was natural, and a part of -herself; not a modish demeanour acquired by an imitative faculty--the -surface gloss of the low-born woman apt to mimic her betters. He could -not withhold his admiration from charms that all the world admired, -but the extravagance of the fashionable toilette disgusted him, and -he looked with angry scorn at brocades of dazzling hues interwoven -with gold and silver; court gowns of such elaborate decoration that a -Spitalfields weaver might have worked half a lifetime upon a fabric -where trees and flowers, garlands and classic temples, lakes and -mountains were depicted in their natural colours on a ground of gold. -He had been living among such people a few years ago, and had never -questioned their right so to squander money; or, casually reckoning the -cost of a woman's gala dress, or the wax candles burnt at a ball, he -had approved such expenditure as a virtue in the rich, since it must -needs be good for trade. To-night as he stood aloof, watching those -radiant figures, his imagination conjured up the vision of an alley in -which he had spent his morning hours, going from house to house, with -a famished crowd hanging on his footsteps, a scene of sordid misery he -could not remember without a shudder. Oh, those hungry faces, those -gaunt and spectral forms, skeletons upon which the filthy rags hung -loose; those faces of women that had once been fair, before vice, -want, and the small-pox disfigured them; those villainous faces of men -who had spent half their lives in jail, of women who had spent all -their womanhood in infamy, and, mixed with these, the faces of little -children still unmarked by the brand of sin, children whom he longed -to gather up in his arms and carry out of that hell upon earth, had -there been any refuge for such! His heart sickened as he looked at the -splendour of clothes and jewels, pictures, statues, curios, and thought -how many of God's creatures might be plucked from the furnace and set -on the highway to heaven for the cost of all that finery. - -He was not altogether a stranger in that scene, for he saw several old -acquaintances among the company, but he felt himself out of touch with -them, and tried to escape all greetings and inquiries. And later, when -the tables had been opened, and half the assembly were seated at whist -or commerce, while the other half pretended to listen to a _pot-pourri_ -from Handel's "Semele," arranged for fiddles and harpsichord, which was -being performed in the saloon, he went to the inmost room where Lucy -was sitting solitary beside the deserted tea-table. - -"Come, child," he said curtly, "we have had enough of this. 'Tis a -pleasure that leaves an ill taste in the mouth." - -His wife rose with alacrity. She had crept away from the music-room, -dazzled by the splendour of the scene, and too shy to remain among -such magnificent people, who looked at her with a bland wonder through -jewelled eye-glasses. - -"I think there is to be a supper," she said hesitatingly. - -"Do you wish to stay for it?" - -"Nay, 'tis as you please." - -"I have no pleasure but to escape from this herd." - -Lucy saw that something had vexed him, and went hungry to bed, having -been too much embarrassed by the unaccustomed attentions of splendid -beings in livery to eat a good dinner. - - * * * * * - -There was nobody in the dining-room when Mr. and Mrs. Stobart went -to breakfast at nine o'clock next morning. George, who had slept -little, had been steeping himself in a grey fog in St. James's Park -since eight; but Lucy had found it more difficult to dress herself, -encumbered by the officious assistance of one of Antonia's women, than -unaided in her own little bedchamber at Sheen. - -"Her ladyship takes her chocolate in her dressing-room," the butler -informed Mr. Stobart, "and desires that you and your lady will -breakfast at your own hour," whereupon George and his wife seated -themselves in the magnificent solitude of the dining-room, and ate -moderately of a meal almost as abundant as the previous day's dinner, -for what was less of substance upon the table was balanced by the cold -joints, pies, and poultry of the "regalia," or sideboard display. - -Lucy returned to her room directly after breakfast to pack her trunk, -or rather to look on ruefully while her ladyship's woman packed it. -Happily, all her garments were neat and in good condition, although of -a quaker-like plainness. - -George sat in the library, waiting till his wife should be ready for -departure, and opened one book after another in a strange inability to -fix his attention upon anything. How well he remembered that room, and -his last interview with his cousin! This was the table on which Kilrush -had struck his clenched fist, when he swore that not to secure a life -of bliss would he marry beneath his rank. The mystery of his passionate -words, his violent gesture, was clear enough now. To his pride of -birth, to a foolish reverence for trivial things, he had sacrificed -his earthly happiness. To the man who esteemed all things small in -comparison with life eternal it seemed a paltry renunciation; yet there -had been a kind of grandeur in it, a Roman stoicism that could suffer -for an idea. And now that George Stobart knew the woman his cousin had -loved, her charm, her beauty, he could better understand the pangs of -unsatisfied love, the conflict between passion and pride. - -There were hot-house flowers in a Nankin bowl on the table, and a fire -of coal and logs burnt merrily in the wide basket grate. The room had a -far more cheerful aspect on this November morning than on that sultry -summer day, four years ago. - -On a side table by the fireplace Stobart noticed a pile of books richly -bound in crimson morocco--the newest edition of Voltaire. - -"She reads and loves that arch mocker still, cherishes a writer who -would laugh away her hope of heaven, her belief in the Physician of -souls. Beset with temptation, the cynosure of profligates, she rejects -the only rock that stands firm and high, a sure refuge when the waves -of passion sweep over the drowning soul." - -He remembered the world he lived in five years ago, a world that seemed -as far away as if those years had been centuries. He knew that of the -men who surrounded Lady Kilrush with the stately adulation courtiers -offer to queens there was scarce one who was not at heart a seducer, -who would not profit by the first hint of human weakness in their -goddess. And she was alone, motherless, sisterless, without a friend of -her own blood, alone among envious women and unprincipled men. - -"Of all those fine gentlemen who prate of honour, and would rather -commit murder than submit to a trumpery impertinence, I doubt if there -is one who would scruple to act unfairly by a woman, or who would hold -himself bound by the impassioned vows that cajoled her into sin," he -thought. - -He looked into the crimson-bound octavos, tossing them aside one by -one. They were not all of them deadly, but the poison was there; in -those satirical romances, in those "Questions sur l'Encyclopedie," in -those notes upon ancient history, on page after page he might have -found the same deadly mockery, the same insidious war against the -Christian faith, _l'Infame_. - -The door was flung open by a footman, and Antonia appeared before -him, radiant in the freshness of her morning beauty, unspoilt by -eighteenth-century washes and pigments. She was dressed for walking, -in a sea-green lute-string and a pink gauze hat, her elbow-sleeves and -the bosom of her gown ruffled with the same pale pink, and she wore -long loose straw-coloured Saxony gloves, wrinkled here and there from -wrist to elbow. Her only jewels were diamond solitaire ear-rings and -a diamond brooch with a pear-shaped pearl pendant, one of the famous -Kilrush pearls, from the treasures of the Indian merchant, the spoil of -kings and rajahs. - -They shook hands, and she hoped he and Mrs. Stobart had breakfasted -well. - -"I take my own breakfast in my dressing-room with a book," she said -apologetically, "because that is the only hour I can feel sure of being -alone. Morning visits begin so early. I am deep in 'Sir Charles.' -Incomparable man!" - -"'Sir Charles?'" he faltered. "Oh, I understand. You are reading -Richardson's new novel--a tedious, interminable book, I take it." - -"Tedious! I tremble for the day when I finish it. The world will seem -empty when I bid Harriet and Clementina farewell. But I shall return -again and again to those dear creatures. I wish myself a bad memory for -their sakes." - -"Oh, madam, to be thus concerned about the flimsy creations of an old -printer's idle brain!" - -"Idle! Do you call genius idle? There was never another Richardson. I -fear there never will be. A hundred years hence women will weep for -Clarissa, and men will model themselves upon Grandison." - -"It saddens me, madam, to see you as enthusiastic about a paltry -fiction as I would have you about the truths of the gospel. And I -see with pain that you still cherish the works of the most notorious -blasphemer in Europe." - -"The man who stands up like little David against the Goliath of -intolerance; the man who has rescued the Calas family from undeserved -infamy, cleared the name of that unhappy victim of a persecuting -priesthood, condemned, not because it was clear that he was a murderer, -but because it was certain that he was a Protestant." - -"I own, madam, that in his fight for a dead man's honour, Monsieur -de Voltaire acted handsomely. I am sorry that he who did so much for -the love of his neighbour should spurn the gospel which instils that -virtue." - -"Voltaire loved his neighbour without being taught, or say rather that -he can accept all that his reason approves in the teaching of Jesus of -Nazareth, while he rejects the traditions of the Roman Church." - -"Nay, did he stop _there_ I were with him heart and soul. But he does -more. He turns the Gospel light to darkness. Would to God, madam, that -you could find a wiser guide for your footsteps through a world where -Satan has spread his worst snares in the fairest places." - -"Mr. Stobart," she said, looking at him gravely, her violet eyes -darkened to black under the rosy shadow of her hat, "I sometimes wish I -could believe in Christ the Saviour; but I would not if I must believe -also in Satan. Let us argue no more upon theology; I only shock you. -My coach is at the door, and I want to take Mrs. Stobart to an auction -where I believe she will see the finest collection of Nankin monsters -and willow-pattern tea-things that China has sent us since last winter. -'Tis the first sale of the season, and all the world will be there, and -twenty who go to stare and chatter for one who means to buy." - -"Your ladyship is vastly kind, but my wife and I must travel by the -Richmond coach, which leaves the Golden Cross at noon. I have to thank -you in her name and my own for your kind hospitality." - -"Oh, sir, don't thank me. Only promise that you will come to see me -again, and often. We will not talk about serious things, lest we should -quarrel." - -"Madam, if I come into this house again we must talk of serious things. -Can I pretend to be your friend, see you living without God in the -world--I who believe in His judgments as I believe in His mercies--and -not try to save a beautiful soul that I see hovering above the pit of -hell? Can I be your friend, and hold my peace?" - -"Nay, sir, leave my soul to your God. If He is all you believe, He will -not let me perish." - -"If you are obstinate and deny Him He will cast you out. He has given -you talents for which you have to render an account, intellect, force -of will, wealth, and the power that goes with it. I will come to this -house no more to see you wasting yourself upon insipid amusements, -listening to idle flatteries, smiling upon sybarites and fops, moving -from one to another, false alike to all, since all are your inferiors, -and you can esteem none of them. Your coquetries, your friendships are -alike hollow, as artificial as your swooning curtsey, taught by Serise, -the dancing-master." - -"Oh, sir, are all the Oxford Methodists as rude as you?" - -"Forgive me, madam. I cannot stoop to that smooth lying that goes by -the name of politeness. 'Now, now is the accepted time, now is the -day of salvation.' My heart yearns to snatch a sinner from doom. Five -years ago I should have been among your admirers, should have burnt the -incense of vain adulation before you, as at the shrine of a goddess, -should have been made happy with a smile, ineffably blessed by a civil -word. But I have lived aloof from your _beau monde_, and I come back to -discover what a Sodom it is. The company I once loved fills me with -disgust and loathing. I see the flames of Tophet behind your galaxy -of wax candles, the rags of lost sinners under your gold and silver -brocade. I will come here no more." - -He moved towards the door, she following him, holding out both her -hands. - -"Mr. Stobart, you make life a tragedy. I protest that some of my -friends in gold and silver brocade are as good Christians as even your -kindness could desire me to be. They are more fortunate than I am in -never having been taught to question the creed that satisfied their -fathers and grandfathers. I sometimes wish I had less of the doubting -spirit. But pray do not let theological differences part us. You and -your wife are a kind of relations, for you are of my dear husband's -blood; I can never forget that. Come, sir, let us be reasonable," she -exclaimed, seating herself at the table, and motioning him to the -opposite chair. - -She was sitting where Kilrush had sat during that last interview with -his kinsman, in the same high-backed chair, the bright colouring of her -face and hat shining against a background of black horsehair. - -"What do you want me to do? Of what sins am I to repent?" she asked, -smiling at him. "I try to help my fellow-creatures, to be honest and -truthful and kind. What more can I do?" - -"Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor." - -"I cannot do that. I think I have a right to be happy. Fate has flung -riches into my lap; and I love the things that money buys--this house, -foreign travel, ease and splendour, pictures, music, the friends that -wealth and station have brought round me. I love to mix with the salt -of the earth. And you want me to renounce all these things, and to live -as Jesus of Nazareth lived--Jesus, the Son of Joseph the carpenter." - -"Jesus, the Son of God, who so lived His brief life on earth to be for -all mankind an example." - -"And are we all to be peasants?" - -"Believe me, madam, there is only one perfect form of the Christian -life, and that is the imitation of Christ." - -"You would make this a hateful world if you had your way, Mr. Stobart." - -"I would make it a Christian world if I could, Lady Kilrush." - -"Well, sir, let me help you with your poor. I should like to do -that, though I do not mean to sell this house, or the jewels that my -husband's grandfather brought from the East Indies. I can spare a good -deal for almsgiving, and yet sparkle at St. James's. Take me to see -your poor people at Lambeth. Bring their sorrows nearer to my heart. I -know I am leading a foolish, idle life, made up of gratified vanities -and futile fevers, but 'tis such a pleasant life. I had my day of -drudgery and petty cares, the struggle to make one shilling go as far -as five, and my heart dances for joy sometimes among the pleasures -and splendours in which I move to-day. But be sure I have a heart to -pity the suffering. Let me go with you to Lambeth. I will buy no china -dragons to-day; and the money I put in my purse to waste on toys shall -be given to your poor. Take me to them to-day. You can go back to Sheen -by a later coach." - -He refused at first, protesting that the places to which he went were -no fitting scenes for her. She would have to confront vice as well as -poverty--revolting sights, hideous language, Lazarus with his sores, -and a blaspheming Lazarus--things odious and things terrible. - -"I am not afraid," she answered. "If there are such things we ought to -know of them. I do know that vice and sin exist. I am not an ignorant -girl. I was not born in the purple." - -She was impetuous, resolute, insistent, and she overruled all his -objections. - -"You will be sorry that I let you have your way," he said at last, "and -I am foolish so to humour a fine lady's whim." - -"I am not a fine lady to-day. There is more than one side to my -character." - -"If you mean to come with me, you had best put on a plainer gown." - -"I have none plainer than this. 'Tis no matter if I spoil it, for I am -tired of the colour. Oh, here is Mrs. Stobart," she cried, as a servant -ushered in Lucy, who entered timidly, looking for her husband. - -"Your ladyship's servant," she murmured with a curtsey. "Is it time for -us to go home, George?" - -"Time for me to take you to the coach, Lucy. I shall spend the day -among my people." - -"And I am to go home alone," his wife said ruefully. - -"I shall be with you by tea-time, and you will have your boy and a -world of household cares to engage you till then." - -She brightened at this, and smiled at him. - -"I'll warrant Hannah will not have dusted the parlour," she said. "Oh, -madam, we have such pretty mahogany furniture, and I do love to keep it -bright. There's nothing like elbow-grease for a mahogany table." - -"I know that by experience, child. I have used it myself," Antonia -answered gaily. - -She was pleased and excited at the idea of a plunge into the mysteries -of outcast London. She had been poor herself, but had known only the -shabby genteel poverty which keeps shoes to its feet and a weathertight -roof over its head. With want and rags and filth she had never come in -contact save in her brief glimpse of the Irish and English towns at -Limerick; and looking back upon that experience of a brain overwrought -with grief, it seemed to her like a fever-dream. To-day she would go -among the abodes of misery with a mind quick to see and understand. -Surely, surely she could do her part in the duty that the rich owe the -poor without selling all that she had, without abrogating one iota -of the sumptuous surroundings so dear to her romantic temper, to her -innate love of the beautiful. - -She kissed Mrs. Stobart at parting, and promised to visit her at Sheen -the first day she was free of engagements. - -George found her chariot at the door when he came back from despatching -his wife in the Richmond stage. - -"Come, come," she said, "let us hasten to your poor wretches. I am -dying to give them the guineas I meant for my monsters." - -"Faith, madam, you will find monsters enough where we are going, but -not such as a fine lady could display on her china cupboard." - -Mr. Stobart stopped the carriage on the south side of Westminster -Bridge. - -"If you are not averse to walking some little distance, it might be -well to send your carriage home," he said. "I can take you back to your -house in a hackney coach;" and on this the chariot was dismissed. - -"You shall not go a yard out of your way on my account," she said. "I -am not afraid of going about alone. The great ladies I know would swoon -if they found themselves in a London street unattended; but I am not -like them." - -He gave her his arm, and they threaded their way through a labyrinth -of streets and alleys that lay between the Thames and the waste spaces -of Lambeth Marsh, a dreary region where the water lay in stagnant -pools, receptacles for all unconsidered filth, exhaling putrid fever. -Here and there above the forest of chimneys and chance medley of -roofs and gables there rose the bulk of a pottery, for this was the -chosen place of the potter's art; but for the rest the desolate region -between Stangate and the New Cut was given over to poverty and crime. -Fine old houses that had once stood in the midst of fair gardens had -been divided into miserable tenements, and swarmed like anthills with -half-starved humanity; alleys so narrow that the sunshine rarely -visited them, covered and crowded the old garden ground; four-storied -houses, built with a supreme neglect of such trifles as light and air, -overshadowed the low hovels that had once been rustic cottages smiling -across modest flower-gardens. - -Mr. Stobart came to a halt in a lane leading to the river, where a row -of rickety wooden houses hung over an expanse of malodorous mud. The -tide was out, and a troop of half-naked children were chasing a starved -dog, with a kettle tied to his tail, through the slime and slush of the -foreshore. - -"Oh, the poor dog!" cried Tonia, as they stood on a causeway at the end -of the lane. "For pity's sake stop those little wretches!" - -George called to them, but they only looked at him, and pursued their -sport. Had he been alone he would have given the little demons chase, -but he could not risk bespattering himself from head to foot in a -lady's company. - -"There is but one way to stop them," he said, "and that is to teach -them better. We are trying to do that in our schools, but the task -needs twenty-fold more men and more money than we can command. 'Twould -shock you, no doubt, to see how the children of the poor amuse -themselves; but I question if there is more cruelty to the brute -creation among those unenlightened brats than among the children of -our nobility, who are bred up to think a cock-fight or a stag-hunt the -summit of earthly bliss. Jim Rednap," he shouted, as the chase doubled -and came within earshot, "if you don't untie that kettle and let the -dog go, I'll give you a flogging that will make you squall." - -The biggest of the boys looked up at this address, recognized a -well-known figure, and called to his companions to stop. They halted, -their yells ceased, and the hunted cur scrambled up the slippery stone -steps, at the top of which Antonia and Stobart were standing. He caught -the dog, took off the kettle, and flung it into the river. The boy -Rednap came slowly up the steps. - -"'Twarn't me that begun it," he said sheepishly. - -"'Twas you that should have stopped it. You're bigger and older than -the others. You are twice as wicked, because you know better. What -will your poor mother say when I tell her that you take pleasure in -tormenting God's creatures?" - -He was stooping to pat the half-starved mongrel as he spoke to the boy, -and perhaps that tender touch of his hand and his countenance as he -looked at the beast, was a better lesson than his spoken reproof. - -"See," Antonia said, dropping a shilling into the boy's grimy palm. -"Fetch me twopenn'orth of bread for the dog, and keep the change for -yourself." - -The boy stared, clutched the coin, and ran off. - -"Will he come back?" asked Antonia. - -"Yes; he's not as bad as he looks. His mother is one of the lost sheep -that the Shepherd has found. Her season of repentance will be but -brief, poor soul, since she is marked for death; but she leans on Him -who never turned the light of His countenance from the penitent sinner." - -"Is the boy's father living?" - -George Stobart shrugged his shoulders. - -"Who knows? She does not, poor wretch! He is dead for her. She has -three children, and has toiled to keep them from starving till she has -fallen under her burden." - -"Let me provide for them! Let her know that they will be cared for -when she is gone. It may make her last hours happy," said Antonia, -impetuously. - -"I will not hinder you in any work of beneficence; but among so many -and in such pressing need of help it would be well to take time, and to -consider how you can make your money go furthest." - -"I will buy no more foolish things--trumpery that I forget or sicken -of a few hours after 'tis bought. I will go to no more china auctions, -squander no more guineas at Mrs. Chenevix's. Oh, Mr. Stobart, I know -you despise me because I am like the young man in the gospel story. I -am too rich not to be fond of riches. But indeed, sir, I do desire to -help the poor." - -"I believe it, madam, and that God will bless your desires. 'Tis not -easy for a woman in the bloom of youth and beauty to take up the cross -as Lady Huntingdon has done--to dedicate all she has of fortune and -influence to the service of Christ. 'Twere cruel to reproach you for -falling short of so rare a perfection." - -"I have been told that Lady Huntingdon leaves it to doubters like me to -feed the hungry and clothe the naked--since the cry of the destitute -appeals to all alike--and that she devotes all her means to paying -preachers, and providing chapels." - -"That, madam, is her view of Christ's service; and I doubt she is -right. When all mankind believe in Christ, there will be no more want -and misery in this world; for the rich will remember that to refuse -help to His poor is to deny Him." - -The boy came back, breathless with running, and carrying a twopenny -loaf in his grimy paw. He had gnawed off a corner crust as he ran. - -"Dogs don't love crust," he remarked apologetically, as he knelt down -in the dirt and fed the famished cur. - -He went with them presently to his mother's garret, where Antonia sat -by the woman's bed for half an hour, while Stobart read or talked to -her. His tenderness to the sick woman and the reasonableness of all he -said impressed even the unbeliever. His words touched her heart, though -they left her mind unconvinced. The room showed an exceeding poverty, -but was cleaner than Antonia had hoped to find it; and she could but -smile upon discovering that Mr. Stobart had helped the three children -to scrub the floor and clean the windows in the course of his last -visit, and had made Jim, the eldest of the family, promise to brush the -hearth and dust the room every morning, and had supplied him with a -broom, and soap, and other materials for cleanliness. The boy was his -mother's sick nurse, and was really helpful in his rough way. The other -two children attended at an infant school which Stobart had set up in a -room near, at a minimum cost for rent and fire. The teachers were three -young women of the prosperous middle-classes, who each worked two days -a week without remuneration. - -After this quiet visit to the dying woman, Stobart led Lady Kilrush -through crowded courts and alleys, where every object that her eyes -rested on was a thing that revolted or pained her--brutal faces; -famished faces; lowering viciousness; despairing want; brazen impudence -that fixed her with a bold stare, and then burst into an angry laugh at -her beauty, or pointed scornfully to the diamonds in her ears. Insolent -remarks were flung after her; children in the gutters larded their -speech with curses; obscene exclamations greeted the strange apparition -of a woman so unlike the native womanhood. Had she been some freak of -nature at a show in Bartholomew Fair, she could scarcely have been -looked at with a more brutal curiosity. - -Stobart held her arm fast in his, and hurried her through the filthy -throng, hurried her past houses that he knew for dangerous--houses in -which small-pox or jail fever had been raging, fever as terrible as -that of the year '50, when half the bar at the Old Bailey had been -stricken with death during the long hours of a famous trial for murder. -Jail birds were common in these rotten dens where King George's poor -had their abode, and they brought small-pox and putrid fever home with -them, from King George's populous prisons, where the vile and the -unfortunate, the poor debtor and the notorious felon, were herded cheek -by jowl in a common misery. He was careful to take her only into the -cleanest houses, to steer clear of vice and violence. He showed her his -best cases--cases where gospel teaching had worked for good; the people -he had helped into a decent way of life; industrious mothers; pious -old women toiling for orphaned grandchildren; young women, redeemed -from sin, maintaining themselves in a semi-starvation, content to -drudge twelve hours a day just to keep off hunger. - -Her heart melted with pity, and glowed with generous impulses. She -clasped the women's hands; she vowed she would be their friend and -helper, and showered her gold among them. - -"Teach me how to help them," she said. "Oh, these martyrs of poverty! -Show me how to make their lives happier." - -"Be sure I shall not be slack to engage your ladyship in good works," -he answered cordially. "If you will suffer me to be your counsellor you -may do a world of good, and yet keep your fine house and your Indian -jewels. Your influence should enlist others in the crusade against -misery. It needs but the superfluous wealth of all the rich to save the -lives and the souls of all the poor." - -He was hurrying her towards a coach stand, through the deepening gloom -of November. They had spent more than three hours in these haunts of -wretchedness, and the brief day had closed upon them. The lights on -Westminster Bridge and King Street seemed to belong to another world as -the coach drove to St. James's Square. Stobart insisted on accompanying -Antonia to her own door, and took leave of her on the threshold with -much more of friendship than he had shown her hitherto. He seemed to -her a changed being since they had walked through those wretched alleys -together. Hitherto his manner with her had been stiff and constrained, -with an underlying air of disapproval. But now that she had seen him -beside a sick-bed, and had seen how he loved and understood the poor, -and how he was loved and understood by them, she began to realize how -good and generous a heart beat under that chilling exterior. The idea -of a man in the flower of his youth flinging off a profession he loved, -to devote his life to charity appealed to all her best feelings. - -"I shall wait on your wife to-morrow morning," she said. "You will have -time before I come to decide what I can do to help those poor wretches. -Their white faces would haunt my dreams to-night if I did not know -that I could do something to make them happier." - -"Sleep sweetly," he answered gently. "You have a heart to pity the -poor." - -He bent over her gloved hand, touched it lightly with his lips, and -vanished as she crossed her threshold, where the hall-porter and three -pompous footmen gave a royal air to her entrance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -"ONE THREAD IN LIFE WORTH SPINNING." - - -Antonia spent the next morning, from twelve to two, in the cottage -parlour at Sheen, where Stobart spread out his reports and calculations -before her, showed her what he had done in the district John Wesley -had allotted to him, and how much--how infinitely more than had been -done--there remained to do! - -"My own means are so narrow that I can give but little temporal help," -he said. "I have to stand by with empty pockets and see suffering that -a few shillings could relieve. I have even thought of appealing to my -mother--who has not used me well--but she was married six months ago -to an old admirer, Sir David Lanigan, an Irish soldier, and a fierce -High Churchman, who hates the Wesleys; so I doubt 'twould be wasted -humiliation to ask her for aid. I have not scrupled to beg of my rich -friends, and have raised money to apprentice at least fifty lads who -were in the way to become thieves and reprobates. I have ministered to -the two ends of life--to childhood and old age. The middle period must -fight for itself." - -He read his notes of various hard cases. He had jotted down stern -facts with a stern brevity; but the pathos in the facts themselves -brought tears to Antonia's eyes more than once in the course of his -reading. He showed her what good might be done by a few shillings a -week to this family, in which there was a bedridden son--and to another -where there was a consumptive daughter; how there was a little lad -starving in the gutter who could be billeted upon a hard-working honest -family--how for the cost of a room with fire and candle, and sixpence a -day for a nurse, he could provide a nursery where the infants of the -women-toilers could be kept during the day. - -"I have heard of some nuns at Avignon who set up such a room for the -women workers in the vineyards," he said. "I think they called it a -_creche_." - -Mrs. Stobart sat by the window busy with her plain sewing, of which she -had always enough to fill every leisure hour. She looked up now and -then and listened, with a mild interest in her husband's work; but she -was just a little tired of it, and the fervid enthusiasm of the time -of her conversion seemed very far away. Staffordshire tea-things and -copper tea-kettle, brass fender and mahogany bureau filled so large -a place in her thoughts, after her husband and son, both of whom she -loved with her utmost power of loving, which was not of a high order. -She crept away at one o'clock to see her baby George eat his dinner. He -was old enough to sit up in his high mahogany chair and feed himself, -with many skirmishing movements of his spoon, which he brandished -between the slow mouthfuls as if it were a tomahawk. - -George and Antonia were so absorbed in their work that Mrs. Stobart had -been gone nearly an hour before either of them knew she was absent. The -maid came blundering in with a tray as the clock struck two, and began -to lay the cloth. Antonia rose to take leave, and insisted on going -at once. Her carriage had been waiting half an hour in a drizzling -November rain. She left quickly, but not before she had seen that -Mr. Stobart's dinner consisted of the somewhat scrimped remains of a -shoulder of mutton, and a dish of potatoes boiled in their skins. - -She knew some of the officers in his late regiment, and knew how they -lived; and it shocked her a little to recall that squalid meal when she -sat down at four o'clock, with a party of friends, at a table loaded -with an extravagant profusion of the richest food her cook's inventive -powers could bring together. She had seen the expensive French _chef_ -standing before her with pencil and bill of fare, racking his brains to -devise something novel and costly. - -That morning at Sheen was the beginning of a close alliance in the -cause of charity between Mr. Stobart and Lady Kilrush. They were -partners in a business of good works; and all questions of creed were -for the most part ignored between them. He would have gladly spoken -words in season, but she had a way of putting him off, and she had -become to him so beneficent and divine a creature that it was difficult -for him to remember that she was not a Christian. - -The five thousand a year which she had so freely offered him for his -own use she now set aside for his poor. - -"I can spare as much," she said, "and yet be a fine lady. Some day, -perhaps, when I am old and withered, like the hags that haunt Ranelagh, -I may grow tired of finery; and then the poor shall have nearly all my -money, and I will live as you do, in a cottage, at ten pounds a year, -on a bone of cold mutton and a potato. But while I am young I doubt I -shall go on caring for trumpery things. It is such a pleasant change, -when I have been in one of your loathsome alleys, to find myself at -Leicester House with the princess and her party of wits and _savants_, -or at Carlisle House, dancing in a chain of dukes and duchesses, with a -German Royal Highness for my partner." - -The responsibilities that went with the administration of so large a -fund made a change in George Stobart's life. His residence at Sheen -had long been inconvenient, the journey to and fro wasting time for -which he had better uses. Lucy loved her rustic home and garden in -summer; but she was one of those people who love the country when the -sun shines and the roses are in bloom. In the damp autumnal afternoons, -when silvery mists veiled the common, her spirits sank, and she began -to grow fretful at her husband's absence, and to reproach him if he -were late in coming home. - -He wanted his wife to be happy, and he wanted to be near the scene of -his labours, and within half an hour's walk of St. James's Square. -After a careful search he found a house on the south side of the -Thames, a quarter of a mile from Westminster Bridge, in Crown Place, -a modest terrace facing the river. The house was roomier and more -convenient than his rustic cottage; but the long strip of garden -between low walls was a sad falling off from the lawn and orchard at -Sheen, and he feared that Lucy would regret the change. - -Lucy had no regrets. The larger rooms at Lambeth, the dwarf cupboards -on each side of the parlour fireplace, the convenient closets on the -upper floor, the doorsteps and iron railings, and the view of the -river, with the Abbey and Houses of Parliament, and the crowded roofs -and chimneys of Westminster, filled her with delight. The cottage and -garden had been enchanting while the glamour of newly wedded love -shone upon them; but by the time her spirits had settled into a calm -commonplace of domestic life Lucy had discovered that she hated the -country, and smelt ghosts under the sloping ceilings of those quaint -cottage garrets where generations of labouring men and women had -been born and died. Not unseldom had she longed for the bustle of -Moorfields, and the din and riot of Bartholomew Fair, the annual treat -of her childhood. - -She arranged her furniture in the new home with complacency, and -thought her son's nursery and her best parlour the prettiest rooms in -the world, much nicer to live in than her ladyship's suite of saloons, -where the splendid spaciousness scared her. She had known few happier -hours in her life than the February afternoon when Lady Kilrush and -Sophy Potter came to tea, and were both full of compliments upon her -parlour, which had been newly done up, with the panelled dado painted -pink, and a wallpaper sprinkled with roses and butterflies. - -Sophy Potter, who retired into the background of Antonia's life in St. -James's Square, was often her companion in her visits to the poor, and -took very kindly to the work. As it was hardly possible to avoid the -peril of small-pox in such visits, Mr. Stobart prevailed upon mistress -and maid to submit to the ordeal of inoculation. The operation in -Sophy's case was succeeded by a mild form of the malady; but the virus -had no effect upon Antonia, and her physician argued that the vigour of -a constitution which resisted the artificial infection would ensure her -immunity from the disease. Neither her husband's entreaties, nor the -example of Lady Kilrush could induce Mrs. Stobart to brave the perils -of inoculation. It was in vain that George pleaded, and set a doctor -to argue with her. Her horror of the small-pox made her shrink with -tears and trembling from the notion of the lightest attack produced -artificially. - -"If it kills me you will be sorry for having forced me to consent," she -said, and George reluctantly submitted to her refusal. _She_ never went -among his poor, and had never expressed a desire to see them. - -"I saw enough of such wretches round Moorfields," she said. "I never -want to go near them again. And I have quite enough to do to keep my -house clean, and look after my little boy. You would want another -servant if I went trapesing about your lanes and alleys, when I ought -to be washing the tea-things and polishing the furniture." - -Could he be angry with her for being industrious and keeping his house -a pattern of neatness? He had long ago come to understand the narrow -range of her thoughts and feelings; but while she was pious and gentle -and his devoted wife, he had no ground for thinking he had made a -mistake in choosing a lowborn helpmeet. - -From the hurried idleness of a fashionable life Antonia stole many -hours for the dwellings of the poor. In most of her visits to those -haunts of misery she was attended by Stobart; but she had a way of -eluding his guardianship sometimes, and would set out alone, or with -Miss Potter, on one of her visits of mercy. - -As time went on he grew more apprehensive of danger in her -explorations; for now that she was familiar with the class among which -he worked, her intrepid spirit tempted her to plunge deeper into the -dark abyss of guilty and unhappy lives. - -The time came when he could no longer bear to think of the perils that -surrounded her in the close and fetid alleys where typhus and small-pox -were never wholly absent; and at the risk of offending her he assumed -the voice of authority. - -"You told me once that I was your only family connection," he said, -"and I presume upon that slender tie to forbid you running such risks -as you incur when you enter such a den of fever as the house where I -found you yesterday." - -"What, sir, _you_ forbid me?--you whose clarion call startled me from -my selfish pleasure; _you_ who showed me my worthless life!" - -"You have done much to redeem that worthlessness, by your sacrifice of -income." - -"Sacrifice! You know, sir, that in your heart of hearts you despise -such paltering with charity. In your estimation, not to give all is to -give nothing!" - -"You paint me as a bigot, madam, and not as a Christian. Be sure that -_He_ who praised the Samaritan approves your charity, and that He -who holds the seven stars in His right hand will open your eyes to -the light of revelation. A soul so lofty will not be left for ever -in darkness. But in the mean time there can be no good done by your -presence in places where you hazard health and life. You have made me -your almoner, and it is my duty to see that the uttermost good is done -with the money you have entrusted to me. Your own presence in those -perilous places is useless. You have no gospel to carry to the sick and -dying." - -"Oh, sir, I have sympathy and compassion to give them. I doubt they -get enough of the gospel, and that the company of a woman who can feel -for their sufferings and soothe them in their pain is not without use. -There is no sick-bed that I have sat by where I have not been entreated -to return. The poor creatures like to tell me their troubles, to -expatiate on their miseries, and I listen, and never let them think I -am tired." - -"You scatter gold among them; you demoralize them by your reckless -almsgiving." - -"No, no, no! I feed them. If there come days when the larder is empty, -they have at least the memory of a feast. Your gospel will not stop the -pangs of hunger. That is but a hysterical devotion which goes famishing -to bed to dream of the Golden City with jasper walls, and the angels -standing round the throne. Dreams, dreams, only dreams! You stuff those -suffering creatures with dreams." - -"I strive to make them look beyond their sufferings here to the -unspeakable bliss of the life hereafter," Stobart answered gravely; -and then he entreated her to go no more into those alleys where he now -worked every day, and from which he came to her two or three times a -week to report progress. - -He came to her after his work, in the hour before the six o'clock -tea at which she was rarely without visitors. If he was told she had -company he went away without seeing her; but between five and six was -the likeliest hour for finding her alone, since her drawing-rooms were -crowded with morning visitors, and her evenings were seasons of gaiety -at home or abroad. - -She received him always in the library, a room she loved, and where -they had had their first serious conversation. Here, if he looked -tired, she would order in the urn and tea-things, and would make -tea for him, while he told her the story of the day. To sit in an -easy-chair beside the wood fire and to have her minister to him made an -oasis of rest in the desert of toil, and he soon began to look forward -to this hour as the bright spot in his life, the recompense for every -sacrifice of self. - -The first thunder of a footman's double knock, the clatter of high -heels and rustle of brocade in the hall, sent him away. He had made no -second appearance among her modish visitors. - -"Go and shine, and sparkle, and flutter your jewelled wings among other -butterflies," he said. "I claim no part in your life in the world; but -I am proud to know that there are hours in which you are something -better than a woman of fashion." - - * * * * * - -The pleasures of the town and the assiduities of Antonia's friends and -admirers became more absorbing as her influence in the great world -increased. Her open-handed hospitality, the splendour of her house, and -the success of her entertainments had placed her on a pinnacle of _ton_. - -She held her own among the greatest ladies in London, and was on -familiar terms with all the duchesses--Portland, Queensberry, Norfolk, -Bedford, Hamilton--and nobody ever reminded her, by a shade of -difference in their appreciation, that she had not been born in the -purple. - -She had more admirers than she took the trouble to count, and -had refused offers of marriage that most women would have found -irresistible. Charles Townshend had followed and courted her; and in -spite of all she could do to discourage his addresses by a light gaiety -of manner that proclaimed her indifference, he had found her alone one -morning, and flung himself on his knees to sue for her hand. - -Deeply hurt when she rejected him, he reproached her for having fooled -him by her civility. - -"Oh, sir, would you have me distant or sullen to the most brilliant man -in London? I thought I let you see that, though I loved your company, -my heart was disengaged, and that I had no preference for one man over -another." - -"I doubt, madam, you despise a plain mister, and will wait for the next -marrying Duke. Wert not for the recent Marriage Act you might aspire to -a prince of the blood royal. Your ambition would be justified by your -beauty; and I believe your pride is equal to your charms." - -"I shall never marry again, Mr. Townshend. I loved my husband; and the -tragedy of our marriage made that love more sacred than the common -affection of wives." - -"Nay, madam, is there not something more potent than the memory of a -departed husband, which makes you scorn my passion? I have several -times met a certain grave gentleman in your hall, who seems privileged -to enjoy your society when you have no other company, and who leaves -you when your indifferent acquaintance are admitted." - -"That gentleman is my dear lord's cousin, and a married man. He can -have no influence upon my resolve against a second marriage." - -She rang a bell, and made Mr. Townshend a curtsey which meant -dismissal. He retired in silent displeasure, knowing that he had -affronted her. - -"'Tis deuced hard to be cut out by a sneaking Methodist," he muttered -as he followed the footman downstairs. - -He spent the evening at White's, played higher and drank deeper than -usual, and was weak enough to mention the lady's name with a scornful -anger which betrayed his mortification; and before the next night all -the town knew that Townshend had been refused. - -The rumour came to Stobart's knowledge a week later by means of a -paragraph in the _Daily Journal_, with the usual initials and the usual -stars. "Lady K., the beautiful widow, has fallen out with Mr. C. T., -the aspiring politician, wit and trifler, whose eminent success as a -lady-killer has made him unable to endure rejection at the hands of a -beauty who, after all, belongs but to the lower ranks of the peerage, -and cannot boast of a genteel ancestry." - -Stobart read this stale news in a three-days'-old paper at the shabby -coffee-house in the Borough, where he sometimes took a snack of bread -and cheese and a glass of twopenny porter, instead of going home to -dinner. - -"I doubt she has many such offers," he thought, "for she hangs out -every bait that can tempt a lover--beauty, parts, fortune. If she has -refused Townshend 'tis, perhaps, only because there is some one else -pleases her better. She will marry, and I shall lose her; for 'tis -likely her husband will cut short her friendship for a follower of John -Wesley, lest the Word of God should creep into his house unawares." - -He left London early in April in Mr. Wesley's company, and rode with -that indefatigable man through the rural English landscape, making from -forty to fifty miles a day, and halting every day at some market cross, -or on some heathy knoll on the outskirts of town or village, to preach -the gospel to listening throngs. Their journey on this occasion took -them through quiet agricultural communities and small market towns, -where the ill-usage that Wesley had suffered at Bolton and at Falmouth -was undreamt of among the congregations who hung upon his words and -loved his presence. He was now in middle life, hale and wiry, a small, -neatly built man, with an extraordinary capacity for enduring fatigue, -and a serene temper which made light of scanty fare and rough quarters. -He was an untiring rider, but had never troubled himself to acquire the -art of horsemanship, and as he mostly read a book during his country -rides, he had fallen into a slovenly, stooping attitude over the neck -of his horse. He had been often thrown, but rarely hurt, and had a -Spartan indifference to such disasters. He loved a good horse, but was -willing to put up with any beast that would carry him to the spot where -he was expected. He hated to break an appointment, and was the most -punctual as well as the most polite of men. - -He liked George Stobart, having assayed his mental and moral qualities -at the beginning of their acquaintance, and having pronounced him true -metal. He was a man of wide sympathies, and during this April journey -through the heart of Hertfordshire, and then by the wooded pastures and -wide grassy margins of the Warwickshire coach roads between Coventry -and Stratford-on-Avon, he discovered that something was amiss with his -helper. - -"I hope you do not begin to tire of your work, Stobart," he said. -"There are some young men I have seen put their hands to the plough -in a fever of faith and piety, and drive their first furrow deep and -straight, and then faith grows dim, and the line straggles, and my -sorrowful heart tells me that the labourer is good for nothing. But I -do not think you are of that kidney." - -"I hope not, sir." - -"But I see there is trouble of some sort on your mind. We passed a -vista in that oak wood yonder, with the smiling sun showing like a disk -of blood-red gold at the end of the clearing; and you, who have such -an eye for landscape, stared at it with a vacant gaze. I'll vouch for -it you have uneasy thoughts that come between you and God's beautiful -world." - -"I trouble myself without reason, sir, about a soul that I would fain -win for Christ, and cannot." - -"'Tis of your cousin's widow, Lady Kilrush, you are thinking," Wesley -said, with a keen glance. - -"Oh, sir, how did you divine that?" - -"Because you told me of the lady's infidel opinions; and as I know how -lavish she has been with her money in helping your work among the poor, -I can understand that in sheer gratitude you would desire to bring her -into the fold. I doubt you have tried, in all seriousness?" - -"I have tried, sir; but not hard enough. My cousin is a strange -creature--generous, impetuous, charitable; but she has a commanding -temper, and a light way of putting me off in an argument, which make it -hard to reason with her. And then I doubt Satan has ever the best of -it, and that 'tis easier to argue on the evil side, easier to deny than -to prove. When I am in my cousin's company, and we are both interested -in the wretches she has saved from misery, I find myself forgetting -that while she snatches the sick and famished from the jaws of death, -her immortal soul is in danger of a worse death than the grave, and -that in all the time we have been friends nothing has been done for her -salvation." - -"Mr. Stobart, I doubt you have thought too much of the woman and -too little of the woman's unawakened soul," Wesley said, with grave -reproof. "Her beauty has dazzled your senses; and conscience has been -lulled to sleep. As your pastor and your friend I warn you that you do -ill to cherish the company of a beautiful heathen, save with the sole -intent of accomplishing her salvation." - -"Oh, sir, can you think me so weak a wretch as to entertain one -unworthy thought in relation to this lady, who has ever treated me with -a sisterly friendship? The fact that she is exquisitely beautiful can -make no difference in my concern for her. I would give half the years -of my life to save her soul; and I see her carried along the flood-tide -of modish pleasures, the mark for gamesters and spendthrifts, and I -dread to hear that she has been won by the most audacious and the worst -of the worthless crew." - -"If you can keep your own conscience clear of evil, and win this woman -from the toils of Satan, you will do well," said Wesley, "but tamper -not with the truth; and if you fail in bringing her to a right way -of thinking, part company with her for ever. You know that I am your -friend, Stobart. My heart went out to you at the beginning of our -acquaintance, when you told me of your marriage with a young woman -so much your inferior in worldly rank, for your attachment to a girl -of the servant class recalled my own experience. The woman I loved -best, before I met Mrs. Wesley, was a woman who had been a domestic -servant, but whose intellect and character fitted her for the highest -place in the esteem of all good people. Circumstances prevented our -union--and--I made another choice." - -He concluded his speech with an involuntary sigh, and George Stobart -knew that the great leader, who had many enthusiastic followers and -helpers among the women of his flock, had not been fortunate in that -one woman who ought to have been first in her sympathy with his work. - -Stobart spent a month on the road with his chief, preaching at Bristol -and to the Kingswood miners, and journeying from south to north with -him, in company with one of Wesley's earliest and best lay preachers, a -man of humble birth, but greatly gifted for his work among assemblies -in which more than half of his hearers were heathens, to whom the Word -of God was a new thing--souls dulled by the monotony of daily toil, -and only to be aroused from the apathy of a brutish ignorance by an -emotional preacher. Those who had stood by Whitefield's side when the -tears rolled down the miners' blackened faces, knew how strong, how -urgent, how pathetic must be the appeal, and how sure the result when -that appeal is pitched in the right key. - -The little band bore every hardship and inconvenience of a journey on -horseback through all kinds of weather, with unvarying good humour; -for Wesley's cheerful spirits set them so fine an example of Christian -contentment that they who were his juniors would have been ashamed to -complain. - -In some of the towns on their route Mr. Wesley had friends who were -eager to entertain the travellers, and in whose pious households they -fared well. In other places they had to put up with the rough meals -and hard beds of inns rarely frequented by gentlefolks; or sometimes, -belated in desolate regions, had to take shelter in a roadside hovel, -where they could scarce command a loaf of black bread for their supper, -and a shakedown of straw for their couch. - -May had begun when Wesley and his deacons arrived in London, after -having preached to hundreds of thousands on their way. Stobart had -been absent more than a month, and the time seemed much longer than it -really was by reason of the distances traversed and the varieties of -life encountered on the way. He had received a weekly letter from his -wife, who told him of all her household cares, and of Georgie's daily -growth in childish graces. He had answered all her letters, telling -her of his adventures on the road, in which she took a keen interest, -loving most of all to hear of the fine houses to which he was invited, -the dishes at table, and the way they were served, the tea-things and -tray, and if the urn were copper or silver, also the dress of the -ladies, and whether they wore linen aprons in the morning. He knew her -little weaknesses, and indulged her, and rarely returned from a journey -without bringing her some trifling gift for her house, a cream-jug of -some special ware, a damask table-cloth, or something he knew she loved. - -Their union had been one of peace and a tranquil affection, which on -Stobart's part outlived the brief fervour of a self-sacrificing love. -The romantic feeling, the glow of religious enthusiasm which had led -to his marriage, belonged to the past; but he told himself that he had -done well to marry the printer's daughter, and that she was the fittest -helpmeet he could have chosen, since she left him free to work out his -salvation, and submitted with gentle obedience to the necessities of -his spiritual life. - -"Mr. Wesley would thank Providence for so placid a companion," he -thought, having heard of his leader's sufferings from a virago who -opened and destroyed his letters, insulted his friends, and tormented -him with an unreasoning jealousy that made his home life a kind of -martyrdom. - -During that religious pilgrimage Stobart had written several times to -Lady Kilrush--letters inspired by his intercourse with Wesley, and by -the spiritual experiences of the day; letters written in the quiet of -a sleeping household, and aflame with the ardent desire to save that -one most precious soul from eternal condemnation. He had written with a -vehement importunity which he had never ventured in his conversation; -had wrestled with the infidel spirit as Jacob wrestled with the angel; -had been moved even to tears by his own eloquence, carried away by the -ardour of his feelings. - -"Since I was last in your company I have seen multitudes won from -Satan; have seen the roughest natures softened to penitent tears at the -story of Calvary--the hardest hearts melted, reprobates and vagabonds -laying down their burden of sins, and taking up the Cross. And I have -thought of you, so gifted by nature, so rare a jewel for the crown of -Christ--you whose inexhaustible treasures of love and compassion I have -seen poured upon the most miserable of this world's outcasts, the very -scum and refuse of debased humanity. You, so kind, so pitiful, so clear -of brain and steadfast of purpose, can you for ever reject those Divine -promises, that gift of eternal life by which alone we are better than -the brutes that perish?" - -"Alas! dear sir," Antonia wrote in her reply to this last letter, -"can you not be content with so many victories, so great a multitude -won from Satan, and leave one solitary sinner to work out her own -destiny? If my mind could realize your kingdom of the saints, if I -could believe that far off, in some vague region of this universe, -whose vastness appals me, there is a world where I shall see the holy -teacher of Nazareth, hear words of ineffable wisdom from living lips, -and, most precious of all, see once again in a new and better life the -husband who died in my arms, I would accept your creed with ecstatic -joy. But I cannot. My father taught me to reason, not to dream; and I -have no power to unlearn what I learnt from him, and from the books he -put into my hands. Do not let us argue about spiritual things. We shall -never agree. Teach me to care for the poor and the wretched with a wise -affection, and to use my fortune as a good woman, Pagan or Christian, -ought to use riches, for the comfort of others, as well as for her own -pleasure in the only world she believes in." - - * * * * * - -The London season, which in those days began and ended earlier than -it does now, was growing more brilliant as it neared the close. -When Mr. Stobart returned to town, Ranelagh, Vauxhall, the Italian -Opera, Handel's Oratorios, the two patent theatres, and that little -theatre in the Haymarket, where the malicious genius of Samuel Foote -revelled in mimicry and caricature, were crowded nightly with the salt -of the earth; and the ruinous pleasures of the St. James's Street -clubs--White's, Arthur's, and the Cocoa Tree--were still in full -swing, to the apprehension and horror of fathers and mothers, sisters, -wives, and sweethearts, who might wake any morning to hear that son or -husband, brother or lover, had been reduced to beggary between midnight -and dawn. Losses at cards that ruined families, disputes that ended -in blood, were the frequent tragedies that heightened the comedy of -fashionable life by the zest of a poignant contrast. - -George Stobart returned to London with Wesley's counsel in his mind. He -had been told his duty as a Christian. He must hold no commune with a -daughter of Belial, save in the hope of leading her into the fold. If -his most strenuous endeavours failed to convert the unbeliever he must -renounce her friendship and see her no more. He must not trifle with -sacred things, honour her for a compassionate and generous disposition, -admire her natural gifts, and forget that she was a daughter of -perdition. - -He recalled the hours he had spent in her company, hours in which all -religious questions had been ignored while they discussed the means of -feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. Surely they had been about -the Master's work, though the Master's name had not been spoken. He -remembered how, instead of being instant in season and out of season, -he had kept silence about spiritual things, had even encouraged her -to talk of those trivial pleasures she loved too well--the court, the -opera, her patrician friends, her social triumphs. He recalled those -romantic legends in which some pious knight, journeying towards the -Holy Land, meets a lovely lady in distress, succours her, pities, -and even loves her, only to discover the flames of hell in those -luminous eyes, the fiery breath of Satan upon those alluring lips. He -swore to be resolute with himself and inexorable to her, to accept -no compromises, to reject even her gold, if he could not make her a -Christian. - -In his anxiety for her spiritual welfare it was a bitter disappointment -to him not to find her at home when he called in St. James's Square on -the day after his return. He called again next day, and was told that -she was dining with the Duchess of Portland at Whitehall, and was to -accompany her grace to the Duchess of Norfolk's ball in the evening. - -He felt vexed and offended at this second repulse, yet he had reason -to be grateful to her for her kindness to his wife during his absence. -She, the fine lady, whose every hour was allotted in the mill-round -of pleasure, had taken Lucy and the little boy to Hyde Park in her -coach, and for long country drives to Chiswick and Kew, and had even -accepted an occasional dish of tea in the parlour at Crown Place, had -heard Georgie repeat one of Dr. Watts's hymns, and had brought him a -present of toys from Mrs. Chevenix's, such as no Lambeth child had ever -possessed. - -He had been full of work since his return, visiting his schools and -infant nurseries, and preaching in an old brewhouse which he had -converted into a chapel, where he held a nightly service, consisting -of one earnest prayer, a chapter of the New Testament, and a short -sermon of friendly counsel, gentle reproof of evil habits and evil -speech, and fervent exhortation to all sinners to lead a better life; -and where he held, also, a class for adults who had never been taught -to read or write, and for whom he laboured with unvarying patience and -kindness. - -He was more out of humour than a Christian should have been when, on -his third visit to St. James's Square, he was told that her ladyship -was confined to her room by a headache, and desired not to be -disturbed, as she was going to the masquerade that evening. - -The porter spoke of "the masquerade" with an assurance that no -gentleman in London could fail to know all about so distinguished an -entertainment. - -Stobart left the door in a huff. It was six weeks since he had seen her -face, and she valued his friendship so little that she cared not how -many times he was sent away from her house. She would give herself no -trouble to receive him. - -Instead of going home to supper he wandered about the West End till -nightfall, when streets and squares began to be alive with links and -chairmen. At almost every door there was a coach or a chair, and the -roll of wheels over the stones made an intermittent thunder. Everybody -of any importance was going to the masquerade, which was a subscription -dance at Ranelagh, given by a number of bachelor noblemen, and supposed -to be accessible only to the choicest company; though 'twas odds that -a week later it would be known that more than one notorious courtesan -had stolen an entrance, and displayed her fine figure and her diamonds -among the duchesses. - -A fretful restlessness impelled Stobart to pursue his wanderings. The -thought of the Lambeth parlour, with the sky shut out, and the tallow -candles guttering in their brass candlesticks, oppressed him with an -idea of imprisonment. - -He walked at random, his nerves soothed by the cool night air, and -presently, having turned into a main thoroughfare, found himself -drifting the way the coaches and chairs were going, in a procession of -lamps and torches, an undulating line of fire and light that flared and -flickered with every waft of the south-west wind. - -All the road between St. James's and Chelsea had a gala air to-night, -for 'twas said the old king and the Duke of Cumberland would be at -Ranelagh. People were standing in open doorways, groups were gathered -at street corners, eager voices named the occupants of chariot or -sedan, mostly wrong. The Duke of Newcastle was greeted with mingled -cheers and hisses; Fox evoked a storm of applause; and young Mrs. -Spencer's diamonds were looked at with gloating admiration by -milliners' apprentices and half-starved shirt-makers. - -Stobart went along with the coaches on the Chelsea Road to the entrance -of Ranelagh, where a mob had assembled to see the company--a mob which -seemed as lively and elated as if to stand and stare at beauty and -jewels, fops and politicians, afforded almost as good an entertainment -as the festivity under the dome. Having made his way with some elbowing -to the front row, Stobart had a near view of the company, who had to -traverse some paces between the spot where their coaches drew up and -the Doric portico which opened into the rotunda, that magnificent -pleasure-house which has been compared to the Pantheon at Rome for size -and architectural dignity. - -The portico was ablaze with strings and festoons of many-coloured -lamps, and from within there came the inspiring sounds of dance music -played by an orchestra of strings and brasses--sounds that mingled -with the trampling of horses' hoofs, the cracking of whips, the oaths -of coachmen, and the remonstrances of link-boys and footmen, trying to -keep back the crowd. - -"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the front row at the appearance of a tall woman, -masked, and wearing a long pink satin cloak, which fell back as she -descended from her chariot, revealing a magnificent form attired as -Diana, in a white satin tunic which displayed more of a handsome leg -than is often given to the public view, and a gauze drapery that made -no envious screen between admiring eyes and an alabaster bust and -shoulders. - -"I'll wager her ladyship came out in such a hurry she forgot to put on -her clothes," said one spectator. - -"I say, Sally," cried another, "if you or me was to come out such a -figure, we should be in the stocks or the pillory before we went home." - -"Sure 'tis a kindness in a great lady to show us that duchesses are -made of flesh and blood like common folks, only finer." - -Flashing eyes defied the crowd as the handsome duchess strode by, her -silver buskins glittering in the rainbow light, her head held at an -imperial level, admiring fops closing round her, with their hands on -their sword-hilts, ready to repress or to punish insult. - -"Sure, Charley, one would suppose these wretches had never seen a -handsome woman till to-night," laughed the lady. - -"I doubt they never have seen so much of one," answered the gentleman -in a half-whisper, on which he was called "beast," and rebuked with a -smart tap from Diana's fan. - -A great many people had arrived, peeresses without number, and among -them Katharine, Duchess of Queensberry, Prior's Kitty, made immortal -by a verse. This lovely lady appeared in a studied simplicity of white -lute-string, without a jewel--a beauty unadorned that had somewhat -missed fire at the last birthday, against the magnificence of her -rivals. The beautiful Duchess of Hamilton went by with her lovely -sister, Lady Coventry, radiant in a complexion of white-lead which was -said to be killing her. Starry creatures like goddesses passed in a -glittering procession; the music, the babel of voices from within, made -a tempest of sound; but _she_ had not yet appeared, and Stobart waited -to see her pass. - -She came in her chariot, like Cinderella in the fairy tale. -Hammer-cloth and liveries were a blaze of gold and blue. Three footmen -hung behind, with powdered heads, sky-blue velvet coats, white -breeches, pink stockings and gold garters--gorgeous creatures that -leapt down to open the coach door and let down the steps, but were not -suffered to come near her, for a bevy of her admirers had been watching -for her arrival, and crowded about her carriage door, thrusting her -lackeys aside. - -She laughed at their eagerness. - -"'Twas vastly kind of you to wait for me, Sir Joseph," she said to the -foremost. "I should scarce have dared to plunge into the whirlpool -of company unattended. Lady Margaret had a couple of young things to -bring, who insisted upon coming here directly the room opened, so I -let her come without me. I love a _fete_ best at the flood-tide. Sure -your lordship must think me monstrous troublesome if I have robbed you -of a dance," she added, turning to a tall man in smoke-coloured velvet -and silver. - -"I think your ladyship knows that there is but one woman in Europe I -love to dance with," said Lord Dunkeld, gravely. - -He was a man of distinguished rank and fortune, distinguished merit -also--a man whom Stobart had known and admired in his society days. - -"Then 'tis some woman in Asia you are thinking of when I see you -distrait or out of spirits," Antonia said lightly, as she took his arm. - -"Alas! fair enslaver, you know too well your power to make me happy or -wretched," he murmured in her ear. - -"I hope everybody will be happy to-night," she said gaily, "or you -subscribing gentlemen, who have taken so much trouble to please us, -will be ill-paid for your pains. For my own part, I mean to think -Ranelagh the seventh heaven, and not to refuse a dance." - -She wore her velvet loup, with a filmy border of Brussels that clouded -the carmine of her lips. Her white teeth flashed against the black -lace, her smile was enchantingly gay. - -Stobart heard her in a gloomy temper. What hope was there for such a -woman--so given over to worldly pleasures, with no capacity for thought -of serious things, no desire for immortality, finding her paradise in a -masquerade, her happiness in the adulation of fools? - -"How can I ever bring her nearer to God while she lives in a perpetual -intoxication of earthly pleasures, while she so exults in her beauty -and her power over the hearts of men?" - -She wore a diamond tiara and necklace of matchless fire. Her gown -was white and silver, the stomacher covered with coloured jewels -that flashed between the opening of her long black silk domino, an -ample garment with loose sleeves. She had arrayed herself in all her -splendour for this much-talked-of masquerade, wishing to do honour to -the gentlemen who gave the treat. - -"Bid my servants fetch me at one o'clock, if you please, Sir Joseph," -she said to the cavalier on her left. - -"At one! Impossible! 'Tis nearly eleven already. I shall order them at -three, and I'll wager they'll have to wait hours after that." - -"You make very sure of your dance pleasing folks," she said. "I doubt -I shall have yawned myself half dead before three o'clock; but you'll -have to find me a seat in a dark corner where I can sleep behind my -fan." - -"There are no dark corners--except in the gallery for lovers and -dowagers--and I pledge myself nobody under forty shall have any -disposition for slumber," protested Sir Joseph, as he ran off to give -her orders. - -She passed under the lamp-lit portico on Lord Dunkeld's arm. - -"_That_ is the man she will marry," Stobart thought, as he walked away, -hurrying from the crowd and the lights, and noise and laughter, and -past a tavern a little way off, in front of which an army of footmen -and links were gathered, and where they and the crowd were being served -with beer and gin. He was glad to get into a dark lane that led towards -Westminster Bridge, skirting the river, and to be able to think quietly. - -She would marry Dunkeld. Was it not the best thing she could do--her -best chance for the saving of that immortal soul which he had tried in -vain to save? Dunkeld was no idle pleasure-lover, though he mixed in -the diversions of his time. He was a politician, had written more than -one pamphlet that had commanded the attention of the town. He was a -good Churchman, a regular attendant at the Chapel Royal. He was rich -enough to be above suspicion of mercenary views. He had never been a -gambler or a profligate. He was seven and thirty, Antonia's senior by -about twelve years. Assuredly she would be safer from the evil of the -time as Dunkeld's wife than in her present unprotected position. - -He repeated these arguments with unending iteration throughout his -homeward walk. It was perhaps his duty to urge this union upon her. -She had never spoken to him of Dunkeld, or in so casual a tone that he -had suspected her of no uncommon friendship for that excellent man; -yet he could hardly doubt that she favoured his suit. Dunkeld was -handsome, accomplished, of an ancient Scottish family, had made his -mark in the English House of Commons. Stobart could scarcely believe it -possible that such a suitor had failed to engage Antonia's affections. -At any rate, it was his duty--his duty as a friend, as a Christian--to -persuade her to this marriage. - -He found his wife sitting up for him, and the supper untouched, though -it was midnight when he got home. The supper was but a frugal meal of -bread and cheese, a spring salad, and small beer; but the table was -neatly laid with a clean damask cloth, and adorned with a Lowestoft -bowl of wallflowers. Lucy had a genius for small things, and was quick -to learn any art that light hands and perseverance could accomplish. - -"How late you are, George!" she exclaimed. "I was almost frightened. -Have you been teaching your night class all these hours?" - -"No, 'tis not a class night. I have been roaming the streets, full of -thought, but idle of purpose. I let myself drift with the crowd, and -went to stare at the fine people going into Ranelagh." - -"You! Well, 'tis a wonder. But why didn't you take me? I should have -loved to see the fancy dresses and masks and dominos. Indeed, I should -have asked you many a time to let me see the quality going to Court, -only I fancied you thought all such shows wicked." - -"A wicked waste of time. I doubt I have been wickedly wasting my time -to-night, Lucy; yet perhaps some good may come of my idleness. God can -turn even our errors to profit." - -"Oh, George, I have done very wrong," his wife said, with sudden -seriousness. "I have forgotten something." - -"Nay, child, 'tis not the first time. Thy genius never showed strongest -in remembering things." - -"But this was a serious thing, and you'll scold me when you know it." - -"Be brief, dear, and I promise to be indulgent." - -"You know Sally Dormer, the poor woman that's in a consumption, and -that you and her ladyship are concerned about?" - -"Yes." - -"Her young brother called the day you came home, and told me the -doctor had given her over, and she wanted to see you--she was pining -and fretting because you was away; and she had been a terrible sinner, -the boy said, and was afeared to meet her God. I meant to tell you the -first minute I saw you, George; and then I was so glad to see you, and -that put everything out of my head." - -"And kept it out of your head for a week, Lucy--the prayer of a dying -woman?" - -"Ah, now you are angry with me." - -"No, no; but I am sorry--very sorry. The poor soul is dead, perhaps. -I might have been with her at the last hour, and might have given her -hope and comfort. You should not forget such things as those, Lucy; -your heart should serve instead of memory when a dying penitent's peace -is in question." - -"Oh, I am a hateful wretch, and I'd sooner you scolded me than not. But -you had been away so long, and I had fretted about you, and was so glad -to have you again." - -She was in tears, and he held out his hand to her across the table. - -"Don't cry, Lucy. Perhaps I do ill to leave you--even in God's service; -but the call is strong." - -He left his thought unspoken. He had been thinking that the man who -gave himself to the service of Christ should have neither wife nor -child. The earthly and the heavenly love were not compatible. - -"I will go to Sally's garret the first thing to-morrow morning," he -said. "Please God I may not be too late!" - -He was silent for the rest of the meal, and his slumbers were brief and -perturbed, his fitful sleep haunted by visions of splendour and beauty: -the brazen duchess, erstwhile maid-of-honour, wife of two husbands, -radiant and half-naked as the goddess of chastity, with a diamond -crescent on her brow; and that other woman, whose modest bearing gave -the grace of purity even to the splendour of her jewels and glittering -silver gown. Dream faces followed him through the labyrinth of sleep, -and his last dream was of the nightmare kind. He was in the retreat at -Fontenoy, fighting at close quarters with a French dragoon, whom he -knew of a sudden for the foul fiend in person, and that the stake for -which he fought was Antonia's soul. - -"He shall not have her," he cried. "I'd sooner see her another man's -wife than the devil's prize." - -He was awakened by his own voice, in a hoarse, gasping cry, and -starting up in the broad light of a May morning, looked at his watch, -and found it was half-past five. He rose quietly, so as not to disturb -his sleeping wife, and made his morning toilet in a little back room -that served as his dressing-closet--a Spartan chamber, in which an -abundance of cold water was his only luxury. He left the house soon -after six, and walked quickly through the quiet morning streets to the -pestiferous alley where Sally Dormer lay dying or dead. - -She was one of his penitents, a woman who was still young, and had -once been beautiful, steeped in sin in the very morning of life, in -the company of thieves and highwaymen, grown prematurely old in a -profligate career, a courtesan's neglected offspring, and carrying the -seeds of consumption from her cradle. Her mother had been dead ten -years; her father had never been known to her; her only relative was -a boy of eleven, her mother's sole legacy. A sermon of Whitefield's -preached to thousands of hearers on Kennington Common, in the sultry -stillness of an August night, had awakened her to the knowledge of sin. -She was one of the many who went to hear the famous preacher, prompted -by idle curiosity, and who left him changed and exalted, shuddering -at the sins of the past, horrified at the perils of the future. That -wave of penitent feeling might have ebbed as quickly as it rose but for -George Stobart, who found the sinner while the effect of Whitefield's -eloquence was new, and completed the work of conversion--a work more -easily accomplished, perhaps, by reason of Sally Dormer's broken health. - -She had been marked for death before that sultry night when she had -stood under the summer stars, trembling at Whitefield's picture of the -sinner's doom, pale to the lips as he dwelt on the terrors of hell, and -God's curse upon the stubborn unbeliever. "All the curses of the law -belong to you, oh, ye adamantine hearts, that melt not at the name of -Jesus. Cursed are you when you go out; cursed are you when you come in; -cursed are your thoughts; cursed are your words; cursed are your deeds! -Everything you do, say, or think, from morning to night, is only one -continued series of sin. Awake, awake, thou that sleepest, melt and -tremble, heart of stone. Look to Him whom thou hast pierced! Look and -love; look and mourn; look and praise. Though thou art stained with -sin, and black with iniquity, thy God is yet thy God!" - -Stobart had told Antonia of Sally Dormer's condition, and had provided -by her means for the penitent's comfort in her lingering illness, the -fatal end of which was obvious, however much her state varied from week -to week. But he had opposed Antonia's desire to visit the invalid, -shrinking with actual pain from the idea of any contact between the -spotless woman and the castaway, who in her remorse for her past life -was apt to expatiate upon vile experiences. - -Five minutes' walk brought Mr. Stobart to a narrow street on the edge -of the river, a street long given over to the dregs of humanity. The -houses were old and dilapidated, and several of those on the water-side -had been shored up at the back with timber supports, moss-grown and -slimy from the river fog, yet a favourite climbing place for vagabond -boys, as well as for a colony of starveling rats. - -Sally's lodging was on the third story of a corner house, one of the -oldest and most tumble-down, but also one of the most spacious, having -formed part of a nobleman's mansion under the Tudor kings, when all the -river-side was pleasaunce and garden. - -The garret occupied the whole of the top floor, under a steeply sloping -roof, and had two windows, one looking to the street, the other to the -river. Here Sally had been slowly dying for near half a year, in charge -of her little brother, and under the supervision of the dispensary -doctor, who saw her daily. - -The house was quiet in the summer morning. The men who had work to do -had gone about it; the idlers were still in bed; the more respectable -among the women were occupied with their children or their housework. -Stobart met no one in the gloom of the rickety staircase, where the -rotten boards offered numerous pitfalls for the unwary. He was used to -ruin and decay in that water-side region, and trod carefully. The last -flight was little better than a ladder, at the top of which he saw the -garret door ajar, and heard a voice he knew speaking in tones so low -and gentle that speech seemed a caress. - -It was Antonia's voice. She was sitting by Sally Dormer's pillow, -in all the splendour of white and silver brocade, diamond tiara and -jewelled stomacher. Her right arm was round the sick woman, and Sally's -dishevelled head leant against her shoulder. - -"Great Heaven, what a change of scene!" he said, as he bent down and -took Sally's hand. "'Tis not many hours since I saw you at Ranelagh." - -"Were _you_ at Ranelagh?" - -"At the gate only. I do not enter such paradises. I went there last -night, after your door was shut in my face for the third time. It -seemed my only chance of seeing you; and the sight was worth a journey. -But what madness to come here alone in your finery, to flash jewels -worth a king's ransom before starving desperadoes! Sure 'twas wilfully -to provoke danger." - -"I am not afraid. My coach brought me to the end of the street, and my -chair is to fetch me presently. I shall be taken care of, sir, be sure. -This foolish Sally had set her heart on seeing me in my masquerade -finery, so I came straight from Ranelagh; and I have been telling Sally -about the ball and the beauties." - -"An edifying discourse, truly!" - -"Oh, you shall edify her to your heart's content when I am gone. I have -been trying to amuse her. I stole those sweetmeats for Harry from the -royal table"--smiling at the boy, who was sitting on the end of the -bed, with his mouth full of bonbons. "I smuggled them into my pocket -while the duke was talking to me." - -"I was at Ranelagh once, your ladyship," said Sally, touching the gems -on Antonia's stomacher one by one with her attenuated finger-tips, -as if she were counting them, and as if their brilliancy gave her -pleasure. "'Twas when I was young and lived like a lady. My first -sweetheart took me there. He was a gentleman then. 'Twas before he took -to the road. I dream of him often as he was in those days, seven years -ago. He is changed now, and so am I. Sometimes I can scarce believe we -are the same flesh and blood. 'Twas a handsome face, a dear face! I -see it in my dreams every night." - -"Sally, Sally, is this the spirit in which to remember your sins?" -exclaimed Stobart, reprovingly. "See, madam, what mischief your -mistaken kindness has done." - -"No, no, no! My poor Sally is no less a true penitent because her -thoughts turn for a few moments to the days that are gone. 'Tis a -fault in your religion, sir, that it is all gloom. Your Master took a -kinder view of life, and was indulgent to human affections as He was -pitiful to human pains. Sally has made her peace with God, and believes -in a happy world where her sins will be forgiven, and she will wear -the white robe of innocence, and hear the songs of angels round the -heavenly throne." - -"If thou hast indeed assurance of salvation, Sally, thou art happier -than the great ones of the earth, who wilfully refuse their portion in -Christ's atoning blood, who can neither realize their own iniquity, nor -the Redeemer's power to take away their sins," Stobart said gravely. - -"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,'" -murmured Sally, her fingers still wandering about Antonia's jewels, -touching necklace and tiara, and the raven hair that fell in heavy -curls about the full white throat. - -"How beautiful you are!" she murmured. "If the angels are like you, and -as kind, how dearly I shall love them! Poor hell-deserving me! _Will_ -they be kind, and never cast my sins in my face, nor draw their skirts -away from me, and quicken their steps, as I have seen modest women do -in the streets?" - -"We are told that God's angels are much kinder than modest women, -Sally," Antonia answered, smiling at her as she offered a cup of -cooling drink to the parched lips. - -She had been teaching the eleven-year-old Harry to make lemonade for -his sick sister. One of the ladies from the infant nursery came in -every day to make Sally's bed and clean her room, and for the rest the -precocious little brother, reared in muddle, idleness, and intermittent -starvation, was much more helpful than a happier child would have been. - -"Shall I read to you, Sally?" Stobart asked in his grave voice, seating -himself in an old rush-bottomed chair at the foot of the bed. - -"Oh, sir, pray with me, pray for me! I would rather hear your prayers -than the book. They do me more good." - -Antonia gently withdrew her arm from the sick woman's waist, and -arranged the pillows at her back--luxurious down pillows supplied from -the _trop-plein_ of St. James's Square--and rose from her seat by the -bed. - -"Good-bye, Sally," she said, putting on her black domino, which she had -thrown off at the invalid's request, to exhibit the splendours beneath. -"I shall come and see you soon again; and I leave you with a good -friend." - -"Oh, my lady, do stop for a bit. I love to have you by my bed; and, oh, -I want you to hear his prayers. I want you to be justified by faith, -you who have never sinned." - -"Hush, hush, Sally!" - -"Who know not sin--like mine. I want you to believe as I do. I want to -meet you in heaven among the happy souls washed white in the blood of -the Lamb. Stay and hear him pray." - -"I'll stay for a little to please you, Sally; but indeed I am out of -place here," Antonia said gravely, as she resumed her seat. - -Stobart was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his face bent upon his -clasped hands, and the women had been speaking in almost whispers, -Sally's voice being weak from illness, and Antonia's lowered in -sympathy. He looked up presently after a long silence and began his -prayer. He had been struggling against earthly thoughts, striving for -that detachment of mind and senses which he had found more and more -difficult of late, striving to concentrate all his forces of heart and -intellect upon the dying woman--the newly awakened soul hovering on -the threshold of eternity. Could there be a more enthralling theme, a -subject more removed from earthly desires and earthly temptations? - -Antonia looked at him with something of awe in her gaze. She had never -heard him pray. He had argued with her; he had striven his hardest to -make her think as he thought; but he had never prayed for her. Into -that holier region, that nearer approach to the God he worshipped, she -had never passed. The temple doors were shut against so obstinate an -unbeliever, so hardened a scorner. - -His face seemed the face of a stranger, transfigured by that rapture -of faith in the spirit world, made like to the angels in whose actual -and everlasting existence this man--this rational, educated Englishman, -of an over-civilized epoch--firmly believed. He believed, and was made -happy by his belief. This present life was of no more value to him than -the dull brown husk of the worm that knows it is to be a butterfly. -To the Voltairean this thing was wonderful. The very strangeness of -it fascinated her, and she listened with deepest interest to George -Stobart's prayer. - -His opening invocation had a formal tone. The words came slowly, and -for some minutes his prayer was woven out of those familiar and moving -texts he loved, while the thoughts and feelings of the man himself -rose slowly from the depths of a heart that seemed ice-bound; but the -man believed in Him to whom he prayed, and presently the ice melted, -and the fire came, and the speaker forgot all surrounding things--the -lovely eyes watching him in a grave wonder, the feelings and doubts and -apprehensions of last night. The earthly fetters fell away from his -liberated soul, and he was alone with his God, as much alone as Moses -on the mountain, as Christ in the garden. Then, and then only, the man -became eloquent. Moving words came from the heart so deeply moved, -burning words from the spirit on fire with an exalted faith. - -Sally Dormer sobbed upon Antonia's breast, the unbeliever looking down -upon her with a tender pity, glad that the slow and painful passage to -the grave should be soothed by beautiful fables, by dreams that took -the sting from death. - -Perhaps the thing that moved Antonia most was the unspeakable pity and -compassion, the love that this man felt for the castaway. She had been -told that the Oxford Methodists were a sanctimonious, pragmatical sect, -whose heaven was an exclusive freehold, and who delighted in consigning -their fellow-creatures to everlasting flames. But here she found -sympathy with the sinner stronger than abhorrence of the sin. And her -reason--that reason of which she was so proud--told her that with such -a sinner none but an enthusiast could have prevailed. It needed the -fiery speech of a Whitefield, the passionate appeal of an impassioned -orator, to awaken a soul so dead. - -"'Awake, thou that sleepest,'" cries the Church to the heathen; but if -the Church that calls is a formal, unloving, half-somnolent Church, -what chance of awakening? - -The great Revival had been the work of a handful of young men--men whom -the Church might have kept had her rulers been able to gauge their -power, but who had been sent into the fields to carry on their work of -conversion as their Master was sent before them. - -Antonia was no nearer belief in Stobart's creed than she had been -yesterday; but she was impressed by the sincerity of the man, the -vitality of an unquestioning faith. - -He was interrupted in the midst of an impassioned sentence by a -startling appearance. The lattice facing the river had been left open -to the balmy morning air. The casement rattled suddenly, and a pair of -hands appeared clutching the sill, followed almost instantly by the -vision of a ghastly face with starting eyeballs and panting mouth; and -then a slenderly built man scrambled through the opening, and dropped -head foremost into the room, breathless, and speechless for the moment. - -George Stobart started to his feet. - -"What are you doing here, fellow?" he exclaimed angrily. - -The man took no notice of the question, but flung himself on his -knees by the bed, and grasped Sally's hand. His clothes were torn and -mud-stained, one of his coat-sleeves was ripped from wrist to shoulder. -Great beads of sweat rolled down his ashen face. - -"Hide me, hide me, Sally," he gasped hoarsely. "If ever you loved me, -save me from the gallows. Hide me somewhere behind your bed--in your -closet--anywhere. The constables are after me. It's a hanging business." - -"Oh, Jack, I thought you was in Georgia--safe, and leading an honest -life." - -"I've come back. I'm one of them that can't be honest. They're after -me. I gave them the slip on the bridge--ran for my life--climbed the -old timbers. Hell, how slippery they are! They'll be round the corner -directly. They'll search every house in the street." - -He was looking about the room with strained eyes, searching for some -hole to hide in. There was a curious kind of closet in the slope of -the rafters, filling an acute angle. He was making for this, then -stopped and ran to the window facing the river. - -"Get out of this, fellow," said Stobart. "This woman has done with the -companions of sin. Go!" - -"No, no," cried Antonia; "you shall not give him over to those -bloodhounds." - -"What, madam, would you make yourself the abettor of crime--come -between a felon and the law which protects honest people from thieves -and murderers?" - -"I hate your laws--your inexorable judges, your murdering laws, which -will hang a child that never knew right from wrong for a stolen -sixpence." - -"They are round the corner; they are looking at the house," gasped the -fugitive, moving from the window and looking round the room in a wild -despair. - -He had been caught in that very house years before, when he and Sally -Dormer lodged there together, and when he was one of the luckiest -professionals on the Dover road, with a couple of good horses, and a -genius for getting clear off after a job. He had escaped by the skin of -his teeth on that occasion, the witnesses for identification breaking -down in the inquiry before the magistrate. He had saved his neck and -some of the profits from an audacious attack on the Dover mail, and -had gone to America in a shipload of mixed company, swearing to turn -honest and cheat Jack Ketch. But he could as easily have turned wild -Indian; and after a spirited career in Georgia he had got himself back -to London, and being in low water, without means to buy himself a good -horse, had sunk to the meaner status of foot-pad, and this morning had -been concerned with three others in an attempt to stop a great lady's -coach on the way from Ranelagh. - -A chosen few among the most dissipated of the company had kept the ball -going till seven o'clock, and had gone to breakfast and cards after -seven--and it was one of these great ladies whose chariot had been -stopped in the loneliest part of the road, between Chelsea and the Five -Fields. - -Antonia was looking out of the window that overhung the street. The -thief made a rush towards the same window, and stopped midway, staring -at this queen-like figure in mute surprise. Her beauty, her sumptuous -dress and jewels made him almost think this dazzling appearance the -hallucination of his own distraught brain. "Is it real?" he muttered, -and then went back to the other casement, and looked out again. - -"They are coming," he said in a dull voice. "'Tis no use to hide in -that rat-hole. They'd have me out in a trice. The game's up, Sally. I -shall dance upon nothing at Tyburn before the month is out." - -He looked to the priming of a pair of pistols which he carried in a -leather belt. They were ready for work. He took his stand behind the -garret door. The first man who entered that room would be accounted -for. They would not risk an ascent upon those slippery old beams which -he had climbed for sport many a time in his boyhood; they would make -their entrance from the street. Well, there was some hope of giving -them trouble on the top flight of stairs, almost as steep as a ladder, -and rotten enough to let them down headlong with a little extra impetus -from above. - -"They are not round yet," cried Antonia, snatching up her black -silk domino from the chair where it hung. "Put on this, sir. So, -so"--wrapping the voluminous cloak round the thief's thin frame. "Don't -cry, Sally; we'll save him if we can, for your sake; and he'll turn -honest for your sake. So; the cloak covers your feet. Why, I doubt I -am the taller. Now for the mask," adjusting the little loup, which -fastened with a spring, over the man's face, and the silk hood over his -head. - -"Come, Mr. Stobart, my chair is at the door," she said breathlessly. -"Take this poor wretch downstairs, bundle him into the chair, and bid -my servants carry him to my house, and hide him there. They can send a -hackney coach to fetch me. Quick, quick!" she cried, stamping her foot; -"quick, sir, if you would save a life." - -Stobart looked from the masked figure to Antonia irresolutely, and then -looked out of the river window. There was a mob hurrying along the -muddy shore at the heels of three Bow Street runners, who were nearing -the network of timbers below. There was no time for scruples. Five -minutes would give the pursuers time to come round to the front of the -house. - -A wailing voice came from the bed-- - -"Oh, sir, save him, for Christ's sake! He was my first sweetheart; and -he has always been kind to me. Give him this one chance." - -The fugitive had not waited, but had scrambled downstairs in his -strange disguise, stumbling every now and then when his feet caught in -the trailing domino. - -Antonia, watching from the window, saw him dash into the street, -open the door of the sedan--'twas not the first he had opened as -violently--and disappear inside it. - -The chairmen stood dumbfounded; and had not Stobart appeared on the -instant to give them their lady's orders, might have raised an alarm. -Drilled to obedience, however, the men took up their load in prompt and -orderly style, and the sedan, with two running footmen guarding it, -turned one corner of the street a minute before the constables came -round the other. - -It was an unspeakable mortification for these gentlemen when they found -their bird flown, how they knew not, or, indeed, whether he had ever -been in the house, which they searched from cellar to garret, giving as -much trouble as they could to all its inhabitants. It was in vain that -they questioned Sally Dormer, who swore it was years since she had set -eyes on her old friend Jack Parsons. It shocked Stobart to see that -this brand plucked from the burning could be so ready with a lie, and -that the two women rejoiced in the escape of Mr. Parsons almost as if -he had been a Christian martyr saved from the lions. - -"He is a man; and 'twas a life--a life like yours or mine--that we were -saving," Antonia said by-and-by, when he expressed surprise at her -conduct. "'Tis a thing a woman does instinctively. I think I would do -as much to save a sheep from the slaughter-house. 'Twas a happy thought -that brought the sedan to my mind. I remembered Lord Nithisdale's -escape in '15." - -"Lady Nithisdale was saving her husband's life by that stratagem." - -"And I was saving a thief whose face I had never seen till five minutes -before I fastened my mask upon it. But I saw a man trembling for his -life, like a bird in a net; and I remembered how savage our law is, and -how light judge and jury make of a fellow-creature's doom. I shall -pack the rascal off to America again, and dare him to do ill there -after his escape. You must help me to get him down the river this -night, Mr. Stobart, and stowed away upon the first ship that sails from -Gravesend." - -"I must, must I?" - -"If you refuse, I must employ Goodwin, and that might be dangerous." - -"I cannot refuse you. Can you doubt that I admire your kindness, your -generous sympathy with creatures that suffer? But I tremble at the -thought of a nature so impulsive, a heart so easily melted." - -"Oh, it can be hard on occasion," she said proudly, remembering the -lovers who had sighed at her feet and been sent away despairing, since -her reign in London had begun, her supremacy as a beauty and a fortune. - -Having consented to help in her work of mercy, Stobart performed his -task faithfully. He had allies among the vagabond classes whose honour -he could rely on, and with the help of two stalwart boatmen he conveyed -Jack Parsons to Erith, and saw him on board a trading vessel, carrying -a score or so of emigrants and a freight of miscellaneous merchandise -to Boston, which by good luck was to sail with the next favourable -wind. He provided the fugitive with proper clothing and necessaries for -the voyage, which might last months, and took pains to clothe him like -a small tradesman's son; and as such he was shipped, with his passage -paid, and the promise of a five-pound note, to be given him by the -captain before he landed in America, to maintain him till he got work. - -"If the lady who saved you from the gallows should hear of you -by-and-by as leading an honest life, I dare say she will help you to -better yourself out yonder; but if you fall back into sin you will -deserve the worst that can happen to a hardened reprobate;" and with -these words of counsel, a New Testament, and Charles Wesley's hymn -book, Mr. Stobart took leave of Antonia's _protege_, who sobbed out -broken words of gratitude to him and to the good lady, which sounded as -if they came from the heart. - -"I had my chance before, sir, and I threw it away--but God's curse -blight me if I forget what that woman did for me." - -Stobart wrote to Lady Kilrush, with an account of what he had done, but -it was some days before he saw her. He had to take up the thread of -his mission work, and had to wait upon Mr. Wesley more than once--to -discuss his philanthropic labours--at his house by the Foundery. He -saw Sally Dormer every day, and was touched by the poor creature's -adoration of Antonia, whom she now regarded as a heaven-sent angel. - -"Oh, sir, you told me once that her ladyship was an infidel; but, -indeed, sir, whatever she says, whatever she thinks, you cannot believe -that such a creature will be shut out from heaven. Sure, sir, heaven -must be full of women like her, and God must love them, because they -are good." - -"No, Sally, God cannot love those who deny Christ." - -"But indeed she does not. While you was away, when I was so ill, -I asked her to read the Bible to me, and she let me choose the -chapters--the Sermon on the Mount, and those chapters you love in St. -John's Gospel--and she told me she loved Jesus--loved His words of -kindness and mercy, His goodness to the sick and the poor, and to the -little children." - -"All that is no use, Sally, without faith in His atoning blood, without -the conviction of sin, or the belief in saving grace. Yet I can scarce -think that so good a woman as Lady Kilrush will be left for ever under -the dominion of Satan. Faith will come to her some day--with the coming -of sorrow." - -"Yes, yes, it will come; and she will shine like a star in heaven. God -cannot do without such angels round His throne." - -Stobart reproved her gently for words that went too near blasphemy. He -was melted by her affection for the generous friend who had done so -much to brighten her declining days. - -"She came to see me very often while you was away," Sally said; "and -she paid the nurse-keeper to come every day, and sent me soups and -jellies and all sorts of good things by a light-porter every morning. -And she talks to me as if I was an honest woman. She never reminds me -what a sinner I have been--or even that I'm not a lady." - - * * * * * - -It was more than a week after the scene in Sally Dormer's garret, and -the ship that carried Mr. John Parsons was beating round the Start -Point, when George Stobart called in St. James's Square early in the -afternoon. - -The dining-room door stood wide open as he crossed the hall, and he saw -a long table strewed with roses and covered with gold plate, and the -_debris_ of a fashionable breakfast, chocolate-pots, champagne-glasses, -carbonadoed hams, chickens and salads, jellies and junkets and creams. - -"Her ladyship has been entertaining company," he said, with a sense of -displeasure of which he felt ashamed, knowing how unreasonable it was. -Had she not a right to live her own life, she who had never professed -Christianity, least of all his kind of Christianity, which meant total -renunciation of all self-indulgence, purple and fine linen, banquets -and dances, splendid furniture and rich food? - -"Yes, sir, her ladyship has been giving a breakfast-party to the Duke -of Cumberland," replied the footman, swelling with pride. "Eight and -twenty sat down--mostly dukes and duchesses--and Mr. Handel played on -the 'arpsikon for an hour after breakfast. His royal 'ighness loves -music," added the lackey, condescendingly, as he ushered Mr. Stobart -into the library. - -"Was Lord Dunkeld among the company?" Stobart asked. - -"Yes, sir." - -Stobart had come there charged with a mission, a self-imposed -duty, which had been in his mind--paramount over all other -considerations--ever since that night at Ranelagh, when he had seen -Antonia and Lord Dunkeld together. Again and again he went over the -same chain of reasoning, with always the same result. He saw her in -the flower of youth, beautiful and impulsive, with a wild courage that -scorned consequences, ready to break the law if her heart prompted; -and he told himself that for such a woman marriage with a good man was -the only safeguard from the innumerable perils of a woman's life. In -her case marriage was inevitable. The worldlings would not cease from -striving for so rich a prize. If she did not marry Dunkeld, she would -marry some one else, his inferior, perhaps, in every virtue. It was his -duty--his, as her friend, her earnest well-wisher--to persuade her to -so suitable an alliance. - -Having marked out this duty to be done, he was in a fever of anxiety -to get his task accomplished. He was like a martyr, who knows death -inevitable, and is eager for the faggot and the stake. That poignant -eagerness was so strange a feeling--a fire of enthusiasm that was -almost agony. - -He walked up and down the library, agitated and impatient, his hands -clasped above his head. He was wondering how she would receive his -advice. She would be angry, perhaps; and would resent the impertinence -of unsought counsel. - -The windows were open, and the room was full of flowers and soft vernal -air. A Kirkman harpsichord stood near the fireplace, scattered with -loose sheets of music from the newest opera and oratorio. A guitar hung -by a broad blue ribbon across an armchair. Light and trivial romances -and modish magazines lay about the table; and another table was covered -with baskets of shells and a half-finished picture-frame in shell-work. -A white cockatoo cackled and screamed on his perch by a window. Nothing -was wanting to mark the lady of fashion. - -She came in, beaming with smiles, in the splendour of gala clothes, a -sky-blue poplin sacque, covered with Irish lace, over a primrose satin -petticoat powdered with silver shamrocks. Her hair was rolled back -from her forehead, a little cap like a gauze butterfly was perched on -the top of her head, and gauze lappets were crossed under her chin, -and pinned with a single brilliant. The little cap gave a piquancy -to her beauty, a dainty touch of the _soubrette_, which Boucher has -immortalized in his portrait of the Pompadour. - -"Well, sir," she cried gaily, making him a low curtsey, "we have broken -the law between us, and I thank you heartily for your share in the -offence against its majesty. Would to God that Admiral Byng could have -been saved as easily!" - -"You have a generous heart, madam--a heart too easily moved, perhaps, -by human miseries, and I tremble for its impulses, while I admire its -warmth and courage. You have never been absent from my thoughts since -that morning in Sally's garret. Indeed, what man living could forget a -scene so incongruous--yet--so beautiful?" - -His voice faltered towards the end, and he leant against the late -lord's tall armchair. - -"You have not been kind in keeping away from me so long, when I was -dying to give expression to my gratitude." - -"Be sure my recompense was having obliged you. 'Twas superfluous to -thank me. I have been very busy. I had arrears of work, and I knew all -_your_ hours were engaged." - -"Sure there must always be something to do in a town full of people." - -She was playing with the great white bird, smoothing his fluffy -topknot, ruffling the soft saffron feathers round his neck, tempting -him with the pink tips of taper fingers, flashing rose-coloured light -from her diamond rings, whose splendour covered the slender hoop of -gold with which Kilrush married her. - -"You have been entertaining the Duke of Cumberland, I hear." - -"Billy the Butcher! That's what my father and I used to call him, when -we concocted Jacobite paragraphs for _Lloyd's Evening Post_. Yes, Mr. -Stobart, I have been entertaining royalty for the first time in my -life. The honour was not my own seeking either, for his royal highness -challenged me to invite him." - -"He would not be so much out of the fashion as not to be among your -adorers." - -"That is too prettily said for an Oxford Methodist. 'Tis a reminiscence -of the soldier's manners. When the duke led me out for the second -dance at the Duchess of Norfolk's ball he was pleased to compliment -my housekeeping. 'I hear your ladyship's is the pleasantest house in -town,' he said, 'but am I never to know more of it than hearsay?' On -which I dropped my best curtsey, and told him that my house with all -it contained was at his feet, and I had not finished my chocolate next -morning before his royal highness's aide-de-camp was announced, who -came to tell me his master would accept any invitation I was civil -enough to send him." - -"And this trivial conquest made you happy?" - -"Sure it pleased me as any other toy would have done. 'Twas something -to think about--whom I should invite--how I should dress my table. I -strewed it from end to end with cut roses, brought up from Essex this -morning, with the dew on their petals. Their perfume had a flavour of -the East--some valley in Cashmere--till a succession of smoking roasts -polluted the atmosphere. I had a mind to imitate mediaeval feasts, and -give the prince a pie full of live singing birds, but one hardly knows -how the birds might behave when the pie was cut." - -"You had one sensible man among your guests, I doubt." - -"_Merci du compliment--pour les autres_. Pray who was this paragon?" - -"Lord Dunkeld." - -"You know Lord Dunkeld?" - -"He was my intimate friend some years ago." - -"Before you left off having any friends but Methodists?" - -"Before I knew that life was too serious a thing for trifling -friendships." - -"I am glad you approve of Dunkeld. Of all my modish friends he is the -one I like best." - -"Is it not something better than liking? Dear Lady Kilrush, accept the -counsel of a friend whose heart is tortured by the consciousness of -your unprotected position, the infinite perils that surround youth and -beauty in a world given over to folly--a world which the most appalling -convulsion of nature and the sudden death of thousands of unprepared -sinners could not awaken from its dream of pleasure. I see you in your -grace and loveliness, of a character too generous to suspect evil, -hemmed round with profligates, the companion of unfaithful wives and -damaged misses. And since I cannot win you for Christ, since you are -deaf and cold to the Saviour's voice, I would at least see you guarded -by a man of honour--a man who knows the world he lives in, and would -know how to protect an adored wife from its worst dangers." - -"I hardly follow the drift of this harangue, sir." - -"Marry Dunkeld. You could not choose a better man, and I know that he -adores you." - -"You are vastly kind, sir, to interest yourself in my matrimonial -projects. But there is more of the old woman--the spinster aunt--in -this unasked advice than I expected from so serious a person as Mr. -Stobart." - -"I fear you are offended." - -He had grown pale to the lips as he talked to her. His whole -countenance, and the thrilling note in his voice betrayed the intensity -of his feeling. - -"No, I am only amused. But I regret that you should have wasted trouble -on my affairs. It is true that Lord Dunkeld has honoured me with the -offer of his hand on more than one occasion, but he has had his answer; -and he is so sensible a man that in rejecting him as a lover I have not -lost him as a friend." - -"He will offer again, and you will accept him." - -"Never!" she exclaimed with sudden energy, dropping her light, -half-mocking tone, and looking at him with flashing eyes. "I shall -never take a second husband, sir. You may be sure of that." - -A crimson fire flashed across his pallid face, and slowly faded. He -drew a deep breath, and there was a silence of moments that seemed long. - -"You--you--must have some reason for such a strange resolve." - -"Yes, I have my reason." - -"May I know it?" he asked, trembling with emotion. - -"No, sir, neither you nor any one else. 'Tis my own secret. And now -let us talk of other matters. It was on your conscience to give me a -spinster aunt's advice. You have done your duty very prettily, and your -conscience can be at rest." - -He stood looking at her in a strange silence. The beautiful face -which had fired with a transient passion was now only pensive. She -seated herself in her favourite chair by the open window, took up -a tapestry-frame, and began to work in minute stitches that needed -exquisite precision of eye and hand. - -How much of his future life or earthly happiness he would have given -to fathom her thoughts! He had come there to persuade her to marry; he -had convinced himself that she ought to marry; and yet his heart was -beating with a wild gladness. He felt like a wretch who had escaped the -gallows. The rope had been round his neck when the reprieve came. - -"Tell me about your night-school," she said, without looking up from -her work. "Do the numbers go on increasing?" - -"I--I--can't talk of the school to-day," he said. "I have a world of -business on my hands. Good-bye." - -He left her on the instant without offering his hand, hurried through -the hall, and opened the great door before the porter, somnolent after -the morning's bustle, could struggle out of his leathern chair. - -"Never, never, never more must I cross that threshold," he told himself -as he walked away. - -He stopped on the other side of the road, and looked back at the great -handsome house, so dull externally, with its long rows of uniform -windows, its massive pediment and heavy iron railings, with the tall -extinguishers on each side of the door in a flourish of hammered iron. - -"If I ever enter that house again I shall deserve to perish -everlastingly," he thought. - -'Twas four o'clock, and the sun was blazing, a midsummer afternoon in -early May. He walked to his house in Lambeth like a man in a dream, -from which he seemed to wake with a startled air when his wife ran out -into the passage to welcome him. - -"How pale you look," she said. "Is it one of your old headaches?" - -"No, no; 'tis nothing but the sudden heat. You are pale enough -yourself, poor little woman! Come, Lucy, give me an early tea, and I'll -take you and the boy for a jaunt up the river." - -"Oh, George, how good you are! 'Tis near a year since you gave us a -treat, or yourself a holiday." - -"I have worked too hard, perhaps, and might have given you more -pleasure. 'Tis difficult not to be selfish, even in trying to do good." - -"I'll have tea ready in a jiffy, and Georgie dressed. I've been sitting -at the window watching the boats, and wishing ever so to be on the -river." - -"Thou shalt have thy wish for this once, love," he said gently. - -He was silent all through the simple meal, eating hardly anything, -though 'twas the first food he had tasted since a seven-o'clock -breakfast. He found himself wondering at the sunshine and the -brightness of things, like a man who has come away from a newly filled -grave--a grave where all his hopes and affections lie buried. - -Lucy and her boy sat opposite him, and in the gaiety of their own -prattle were unaware of his silence. The boy was three years old, and -of an inexhaustible loquacity, having been encouraged to babble in -Lucy's lonely hours. The sweet little voice ran on like a ripple of -music, his mother hushing him every now and then, while Stobart sat -with his head leaning on his hand, thinking, thinking, thinking. - -They went up the river to Putney in a skiff, Stobart rowing, and it was -one of the happiest evenings in Lucy's life. She had occupation enough -for all the way in pointing out the houses and churches and gardens to -Georgie, who asked incessant questions. She did not see the rower's -pallid brow, with its look of infinite pain. - -They landed at Fulham, moored the boat at the bottom of some wooden -steps, and sat on a green bank, while Georgie picked the flowers off -the blossoming sedges. Stobart sat with his elbows on his knees, gazing -at the opposite shore, the rustic street climbing up the hill, and -white cottages scattered far apart against a background of meadowland -golden with marsh marigolds. - -"Has rowing made your head worse, George?" his wife asked timidly. - -"No, dear, no! There is nothing the matter"--holding out his hand to -her. "Only I have been thinking--thinking of you and the boy, and of -your lives in that dull house by the river. It is dull, I'm afraid." - -"Never, when you are at home," she answered quickly. "You are very -studious, and you don't talk much; but I am happy, quite happy, when -you are sitting there. To have your company is all I desire." - -"I have been a neglectful husband of late, Lucy. Those poor wretches in -the Marsh have taken too much of my time and thought. Whatever a man's -work in the world may be, he ought to remember his home." - -"It is only when you are away--quite away, on those long journeys with -Mr. Wesley." - -"I will give up those journeys. Let the men who have neither wives nor -children carry on _that_ work. Would you like me to take Orders, Lucy?" - -"Take Orders?" - -"Enter the Church of England as an ordained priest. I might settle down -then, get a London living. I have friends who could help me. It would -not be to break with Wesley; he is a staunch Churchman." - -"Yes, yes, I should love to see you in a real pulpit in a handsome -black gown. I should love you to be a clergyman. All the town would -flock to hear you, and people would talk of you as they do of Mr. -Whitefield." - -"No, no. I have not the metal to forge his thunderbolts. But we can -think about it. I mean to be a kinder husband, Lucy. Yes, my poor girl, -a kinder husband. Sure ours was a love match, was it not?" - -"I loved you from the moment I heard your voice, that night at the -Foundery Chapel, when I woke out of a swoon and heard you speaking to -me. And in all those happy days at Clapham, when I used to tremble at -the sound of your footstep, and when you taught me to read good books, -an ignorant girl like me, and to behave like a lady. Oh, George, you -have always, always been good to me." - -The sun set, and the stars shone out of the deep serene as they went -home, and a profound peace fell upon George Stobart's melancholy soul. -To do his duty! That was the only thing that remained to be done. He -understood John Wesley's warning better now. His soul had been in peril -unspeakable. He loved her, he loved her, that queen among women--loved -her with a passion measured by her own perfections. As she outshone -every woman he had ever seen in loveliness, mental and physical, so his -love for her surpassed any love he had ever imagined. - -And to-day, when she had looked at him with so glorious a light in her -eyes, when she had declared she would never marry, and confessed that -she had a secret--a secret she would tell to none--he had trembled with -an exquisite joy, an overpowering fear, as the conviction that she -loved him flashed into his mind. - -Why not? 'Twas hardly strange that the flame which had kindled in -his breast had found a responsive warmth in hers. They had been so -much to each other, had lived in such harmony of desires and hopes, -each equally earnest in the endeavour to redress some of the manifold -wrongs of the world. She had flung herself heart and soul into his -philanthropic work, and here they had ever been at one. Her presence, -her voice, her sweetness and grace had become the first necessity -of his life, the one thing without which life was worthless. Was it -strange if he had become more to her than a common friend? Was it -strange if, after giving him her friendship, she had given him her -heart? - -But, oh, how deep a fall for the man who had set his hopes on high -things, who had put on the whole armour of faith, had called himself -a soldier and servant of Christ, who had looked back with loathing -at the folly and the impiety of his boyhood and youth, and had set -his face towards the City of the Saints, scorning earthly things! How -deep a fall for the man who had cried with St. Paul, "For me to live -is Christ, to die is gain"! How deep a fall to know himself the slave -of a forbidden love, possessed heart and brain and in every fibre of -his being by a passion stronger than any feeling of his unregenerate -youth! Well, he had to fight the good fight, and to conquer man's most -implacable enemy, sin. A year ago he had thought himself so safe, -so far advanced on the narrow path, having only to reproach himself -sometimes for a certain coldness in private prayer; successful in his -mission work; happy in a humble marriage; having surrendered all things -that worldlings care for in order to lead the Christian life, and -having found a passionless peace as his reward. - -Never more, of his free will, would he see this daughter of Babylon, -this enchanting heathen, who had cast her fatal spell around his life. -It might not be possible to avoid chance meetings in those miserable -abodes where it was her whim to play the angel of pity; but doubtless -that caprice of a fine lady would pass, and Lambeth Marsh would know -her no more. - -She wrote to him about a week after his last visit to St. James's -Square. - -"Why do you not come to take a dish of tea with me? My friends are -leaving for their country seats, and I have been alone several -afternoons, expecting you. Were you affronted with me for calling you a -spinster aunt? Sure our friendship, and my esteem for your goodness, -should excuse that careless impertinence. I enclose a bank bill which -I pray you to spend as quickly as possible in buying clothing and -shoes for the little ragged wretches I met coming out of your school -yesterday. Ah, when will there be such schools all over England, in -every city, in every village? Sure some day the country will take a -lesson from such men as you and Mr. Wesley, and the poor will be better -cared for than they are now." - -The easy assurance of her letter surprised him. Every line indicated -the woman of the world, the finished coquette. He replied coldly, -thanking her for her bounty, and giving his absorbing occupations as a -reason for not waiting upon her. - -They met a week later in Sally Dormer's garret; but Antonia was leaving -as he entered, and he did nothing to detain her. He had a brief vision -of her beauty, more simply dressed than usual, in a black silk mantle -and hood over a grey tabinet gown. He came upon her some days after in -a shed at the back of the Vauxhall Pottery, entertaining a large party -of pottery girls at supper, herself the merriest of the band. She had -her woman Sophy to help her, and Mrs. Patty Granger, and he had never -seen a more jovial feast. There was a long table upon trestles, loaded -with joints and poultry, pies and puddings, and great copper tankards -of small beer; at which feast two reluctant footmen, with disgusted -countenances, assisted in undress livery, while an old blind fiddler -sat in a corner playing the gayest tunes in his _repertoire_. - -Antonia begged Mr. Stobart to stay and keep them company, but he -declined. It was his class night, he told her, and he had his adult -scholars waiting for him hard by. He carried away the vision of her -radiant countenance, supremely happy in the happiness she had made for -others. Was it possible better to realize the lessons of the Divine -Altruist? And yet she was no more a Christian than the profligate -Bolingbroke or the cynic Voltaire. - -He was consistent and conscientious in his determination to avoid her, -so far as possible without incivility. The town was beginning to thin, -and he heard with relief that she was going on a visit to the Duchess -of Portland at Bulstrode, near Maidenhead. In the autumn she was to be -at Tunbridge Wells, to drink the waters, a business of six weeks. - -"My physician orders it, though I swear I have nothing the matter with -me," she told him, at one of their chance meetings in the Marsh. "'Tis -good for my nerves to waste six weeks in a place where there is a dance -every night, and where I shall spend every day in a crowd." - -In another of these casual meetings she upbraided him for having -deserted her. - -"I have been more than usually busy," he said. "My schools are growing, -and the dispensary is daily becoming a more serious business." - -"Everything with you is serious; but you cannot be so seriously busy as -not to have leisure for a dish of tea in St. James's Square once in a -fortnight. Sure you know my heart is with you in all your good works, -and that I like to hear about them." - -"Indeed, madam, I am eternally grateful for your sympathy and your -help; but of late I have had no leisure. My wife's spirits were -suffering from a close London house, and I devote every hour I can -steal from my work to giving her change of air." - -"I am glad to hear it. Yes, Mrs. Stobart must miss your pretty garden -at Sheen." - - * * * * * - -That month of May seemed to George Stobart to contain the longest -and weariest days and hours he had ever known. The weather was -close and oppressive, the rank odours of the Marsh were at their -worst; jail fever, small-pox, putrid throats, all the most dreaded -forms of infectious sickness hung heavy over the dwellers in that -poverty-stricken settlement--the pottery hands, the glass-polishers, -the lace-workers, the industrious and the idle, the honest and the -criminal classes whom fate had herded together, unwilling neighbours in -an equality of poverty. - -He worked among the sick and the dying with unflagging zeal; he gave -them the best of himself, all that he had of faith in God and Christ, -sustaining their spirits in the last awful hours of consciousness -by his own exaltation. He gave them inexhaustible pity and love, -the compassion that is only possible to a man of keen imagination -and quick sympathies. He understood their inarticulate sorrows, and -was able to lift their minds above the actual to the unseen, and to -convince them of an eternity of bliss that should pay them for a life -of misery--promise more easy to believe now that all life's miseries -belonged to the past, and the long agony of living was dwarfed by the -nearness of death. - -He followed Sally Dormer to her last resting-place in an obscure -graveyard, and he provided for her brother's maintenance in the family -of a hard-working carpenter, to whom the boy was to be apprenticed -in due time. He had a more personal interest in this little lad than -in his other scholars, remembering Antonia's interest in the dead -woman, her almost sisterly affection for that fallen sister. The boy -was intelligent, and took kindly to the simple tasks set him at Mr. -Stobart's school, where the teaching went no further than reading, -writing, and cyphering, and where the founder's sole ambition was to -rear a generation of believing Christians, steeped, from the very -dawn of intelligence, in the knowledge of Christ's life and example. -He relied on those gospel lessons of universal charity and brotherly -love, as an enduring influence over the minds and actions of his -pupils, and hoped that from his school-rooms--some of them no better -than an outhouse or a roomy garret, the humble predecessors of those -ragged schools which were to begin their blessed work half a century -later--the gospel light would radiate far and wide across the gloom of -outcast lives and homes now ruled by Satan. - -In his devotion to his mission work Mr. Stobart had not forgotten -his promise to make his wife's life happier. He spent all the finest -afternoons in rural airings with Lucy and little George; sometimes on -the river, sometimes taking a little journey by coach as far as Sutton, -or Ewell, or to Hampton Court; sometimes walking to Clapham Common, or -as far as Dulwich, through lanes where the hedgerow oaks and elms hung -a canopy of translucent green over the grassy path, and where they came -every now and then on a patch of copse or a little wood, in which it -was pleasant to sit and rest while the boy played about among the young -fern in a rapture of delight. - -He lavished kindness upon his wife and child. Never had there been -a more indulgent father or a more attentive husband. Lucy, whose -flower-like prettiness had faded a little in the smoke from the -potteries and the Vauxhall glass-works, recovered her rose-and-lily -tints in these excursions, and was full of grateful affection which -touched her husband's heart. There was something pathetic in her -accepting kindness as a favour which another woman would have claimed -by the divine right of a wife. It pleased him to see her happy; and his -conscience, which had been cruelly disturbed of late, was now at rest. -But even that inward peace could not cure the dull aching of his heart, -which ached he scarce knew why; or it might be that he stubbornly -refused to know. He would have told himself, if he could, that the pain -was physical, and that the weariness of life which followed him through -every scene, and most of all in this sweet summer _idlesse_, was a -question of bodily health, a lassitude for which a modish physician -would have ordered "the Bath" or "the Wells." - -Oh, the mental oppression of those May afternoons, the dull misery, -vague, undefined, but intolerable, in which every sound jarred, even -the silver-sweet of his child's joyous voice, in which every sight was -steeped in gloom, even the lovely river, rose-flushed and smiling in -the evening light! - -He was miserable, and he tried to find the cause of his misery in -things which lay remote from the one image he dared not contemplate. -He told himself that the burden under which he ached was only the -monotonous quiet of his days--the want of strong interests and active -efforts such as kept John Wesley's mind in the freshness of a perpetual -youth. _That_ was the true fountain of Jouvence--action, progress, -the consciousness of struggle and victory. He had tasted the joy of -successful effort in his itinerant preaching--the uncouth mob crowding -as to a show at a fair, the insulting assaults of semi-savages, the -triumph when he had subjugated those rough natures, when by the mere -force of his eloquence, by the magnetism of his own strong faith, he -compelled the railers to listen, and saw ribald jokes change to eager -interest, scorn give place to awe, and tears roll down the faces that -sin had stained and blemished. All this had been to him as the wine of -life; and this he had promised to renounce in order that he might do -his duty as that commonplace domestic animal, a kind husband. - -Sitting on the river bank in the summer quiet, in the rosy afterglow, -amidst tall sedges and wild flowers that love the river, with his child -prattling at his knee, playing with his watch-ribbon, asking questions -that were never answered, and his wife seated at his side supremely -content in having won him to give her so much of his company, George -Stobart meditated upon the great mistake of his life--his marriage! - -He remembered how lovely a creature the printer's daughter had seemed -to him in her ecstasy of faith, how divine a thing the soul newly -awakened to a sense of sin, and a desire for saving grace. His heart -had gone out to her in an overwhelming wave of enthusiasm, a feeling -so exalted, so different from any passion of his unregenerate years, -that he had welcomed it as the one pure and perfect love of his life. -He thought God had given him this friendless, ill-used girl to be his -helpmeet, the sharer of all his aspirations, his lifelong labours in -the service of Christ, as of that impassioned hour in Wesley's Chapel. - -Soon, too soon, he had discovered the shallow nature behind that -hysterical emotion, the tepid piety which alone remained after the -fervour of newly awakened feelings. Too soon he had found that petty -interests and trivial domestic cares and joys filled the measure of his -wife's mind; that she thought more of her tea-trays and her sofa-covers -than of thousands of Kingswood miners won from Satan to Christ; that -he must never look to her for sympathy with his highest aspirations, -hardly for interest in his everyday work among the poor. - -When he suggested that she should help in his day nurseries or his -infant schools, she refused with a shudder, lest she should bring home -small-pox or scarlet fever to little Georgie. That fear of pestilence -hung like a funeral pall over Lambeth Marsh; and all his efforts to -popularize inoculation could do very little against dense ignorance, -and terror of a preventive measure that seemed as bad as the disease. - -"If I've got to have the small-pox anyhow, I'd sooner leave it to -Providence," was the usual argument. - -His marriage, so gravely resolved, with such generous disdain of -worldly advantage, had not brought him happiness. The fellowship in -thought and feeling, which is the soul of marriage, was wanting in a -union that had yet every appearance of domestic affection, and which -sufficed for the wife's content. She was happy, looking no deeper than -the surface of things, and finding content in the calm prosperity of -her life, the absence of poverty and ill-usage. His marriage was a -mistake, and to the man who had taken upon himself, as he had done, -the service of Christ's poor, any marriage must needs be a mistake. -For the itinerant preacher, for the man with a suffering populace -depending on his care, home ties were fetters that needs must gall. He -could not serve two masters. He must be a half-hearted philanthropist -or a neglectful husband; only an occasional preacher or a deserter of -his home. He remembered the priests he had met and conversed with in -France, men who had no claims, no interests outside their Church and -their parish; and it seemed to him that he had bound himself with a -servitude that made his service of Christ a dead letter. - -His mission work must end if he was to do his duty at home. His career -as John Wesley's helper had been the most absorbing episode in his -life--a source of unbounded satisfaction to mind and conscience. He -had gloried in the result of his labours, never questioning, in his -own fervid faith, whether conversions so sudden would stand the test -of time. He had counted every convert as a gain for ever, every flood -of tears as a cleansing stream. But, precious though this work had -been to him, conscience urged him to renounce it. His first duty was -to make a home for the woman he had sworn to love and cherish. To this -end he would try to become a priest of the Established Church, strive -to obtain a London living, however small, and confine his service of -Christ within a narrow radius, till fortune should widen his area -of work. He had loved his freedom hitherto, the power to work for -his own hand; but for Lucy's sake he would bend his shoulders to the -Episcopal yoke, and enter on a phase of humble obedience to authority, -prepared at any hour to be called to account for his opinions, and to -be hampered and constrained in his gospel teaching. He would have -to suffer, as others of the Oxford Methodists and their disciples -had suffered, from the tyranny of ecclesiastical intolerance; but he -would face all difficulties, submit to many restrictions, to make a -home for his wife. And then there was always the hope that the Church -of England would be swept from the great dismal swamp of formalism on -the strong tide of the Great Revival, which ran higher and wider with -every year of Wesley's and Whitefield's life. The teaching begun by -Whitefield among the prisoners in Gloucester jail, by Wesley in the -humble meeting-house in Fetter Lane, had spread over England, Scotland, -and Ireland with an irresistible force, and must finally make its power -felt in the Established Church. - -From the market cross and the country side, from the colliers of -Bristol and the miners of Cornwall, from the wild fervour of services -and sermons under starlit skies, from congregations numbered by -thousands, George Stobart was prepared to restrict the scope of his -work to an obscure London pulpit or a poverty-stricken parish, content -if in so doing his conscience could be at rest. But the outlook was -dreary, and he began to measure the length of his earthly pilgrimage, -and foresaw the long progress of eventless years, some little good -done, perhaps, some souls gained for Christ, many small sorrows -alleviated, but all his work shut within a narrow space, controlled by -other people's opinions. - -One agony which other men of deep religious feeling have suffered -was spared to John Wesley's helper. His faith knew no shadow of -change. His absolute belief in his God and his Saviour remained to -him in the lowest depth of mental depression. He might feel himself -a creature of sinful impulses, an outcast from God, but he never -doubted the existence of that God, or the reality of that hereafter -the hope of which lies at the root of all religion. The paradise of -saints, the infinite joys of eternity, hung on the balance of good and -evil, a stupendous stake, which most men played for with such wild -recklessness, till the lights of this life began to fade, and the awful -possibilities of that other life beyond the veil flashed on their -troubled souls. - -He was startled from the automatic monotony of his life by a letter -whose superscription so agitated him that his shaking hand could -scarcely break the seal. Indeed, he did not break it for some -moments, but sat with the letter in his hand, staring at the familiar -writing--Antonia's writing, a strong and firm penmanship, every letter -definite and upright, somewhat resembling Joseph Addison's. Oh, how -embued with sin, how trapped and entangled in Satan's net, must his -soul be when only the sight of Antonia's writing could so move him! - -He was alone. The letter had been brought him by the little -maid-servant. His wife was upstairs, busy with her son, whose footsteps -might be heard running across the floor above. - -He broke the seal at last, and unfolded her letter. - - * * * * * - - "St. James's Square, Monday night. - - "DEAR SIR, - - "I believe it is near a month since you have honoured me - with a visit, nor was I so fortunate as to meet you on - Saturday afternoon, when I spent some hours among our poor - friends in the Marsh, and went to look at Sally's grave in - the Baptist burial-ground. I must impose on your goodness - to order a neat headstone, with the dear creature's name - and age, and one of those Scripture texts which so consoled - her last hours. I doubt, since the afternoon was so fine, - you were treating yourself to a rustic holiday with Mrs. - Stobart, to whom I beg you to present my affectionate - compliments. - - "Well, sir, since you are too busy to visit me, I must needs - thrust my company upon you, at the risk of being thought - troublesome. In one of my conversations with Sally Dormer - the poor soul entreated me, with tearful urgency, to hear - the famous preacher who converted her, believing that even - my stubborn mind must yield to his invincible arguments, - must be touched and melted by his heavenly eloquence. - To soothe her agitated spirits I promised to hear Mr. - Whitefield preach, a promise which I gave the more readily - as my curiosity had been aroused by the reports I had heard - of his genius. - - "I am told that he is to preach at Kennington Common - to-morrow night, to a vaster audience than his new - Tabernacle, large as it is, could contain, and I should like - better to hear him under the starry vault of a June evening - than in the sultry fustiness of a crowded meeting-house. - I have ever been interested in your description of those - open-air meetings where you yourself have been the preacher. - There is something romantic and heart-stirring in your - picture of the rugged heath, the throng of humanity huddled - together under a wild night sky, seeing not each other's - faces, but hearing the beating of each other's hearts, the - quickened breath of agitated feeling, and in the midst of - that listening silence the shrill cry of some overwrought - creature falling to the ground in a transport of agitation, - which you and Mr. Wesley take to be the visitation of a - Divine Power. - - "I have not courage to go alone to such a meeting, and I - do not care to ask any of my modish friends to go with me, - though there are several among my acquaintance who are - admirers of Mr. Whitefield, and occasional attendants at - Lady Huntingdon's pious assemblies. To them, did I express - this desire, I might seem a hypocrite. You who have sounded - the depths of my mind, and who know that although I am an - unbeliever I have never been a scoffer, will think more - indulgently of me. - - "The service is to begin at ten o'clock. I shall call at - your door at nine, and ask you to accompany me to Kennington - in my coach. - - "I remain, dear sir, with heartfelt respect, - - "Your very sincere and humble servant, - - "ANTONIA KILRUSH." - -"What has happened, George?" asked his wife, who had come into the room -unheard by him, while he was reading his letter. "You look as pleased -as if you had come into a fortune." - -He looked up at her with a bewildered air, and for the moment could not -answer. - -"What does she say, George? 'Tis from Lady Kilrush, I know, for her -footman is waiting in the passage." - -"Yes, 'tis from Lady Kilrush. She desires to hear Whitefield preach -to-morrow night, and asks me to accompany her." - -"What, is she coming round, after all? I doubt you will be monstrous -proud if you convert her." - -"I should be monstrous happy--but it will be God's work, not mine. -My words have been like the idle wind. Whitefield's influence might -do something; but, alas! I fear even he will fail to touch that proud -heart, that resolute mind, so strong in the sense of intellectual -power. Will you go with us to-morrow?" - -"Mr. Whitefield's sermons are so long, and the heat at the Tabernacle -always makes my head ache." - -"'Tis not at the Tabernacle, but at Kennington, in the open air." - -"And we may have to stand all the time. I think I'd rather stay at home -with Georgie." - -"Her ladyship will call for me at nine. The boy will be in bed and -asleep hours before." - -"I love to sit by his bed sewing. He wakes sometimes, and likes to find -me there; and sometimes he has bad dreams, and wakes in a fright." - -"And wants his mother's hand and voice to soothe his spirits. Happy -child, who knows not the burden of sin, and has but shadowy fears that -vanish at a word of comfort! Well, you must do as you please, Lucy; but -there will be room for you in her ladyship's coach." - -"Oh, she is always kind, and I should love the ride; but Mr. -Whitefield's sermons are so long." - -Stobart wrote briefly to assure Lady Kilrush of his pleasure in being -her escort to Kennington, with the customary formal conclusion, -protesting himself her ladyship's "most obliged and most devoted humble -servant." - -When his letter was despatched he went out to the Marsh, and walked -for an hour in that waste region outside the streets and alleys where -his work lay. His wife's parlour had grown too small for him. He felt -stifled within those four walls. - -He would see her again, spend some hours in her company, her trusted -friend and protector, permitted to guard her amidst that rabble throng -which was likely to assemble on the common. His heart beat with a -fierce rapture at the thought of those coming hours. Only to stand by -her side under the summer stars, hemmed round, half suffocated by the -crowd; only to see her, and to hear the adored music of her voice, the -voice which had so haunted him of late, that he had started up out -of sleep sometimes, hearing her call his name. Vain delusion, that -betrayed the drift of his dreams! - -Her coach was at his door five minutes before the hour. The night -was sultry, and the two parlour windows were wide open. He had been -leaning with folded arms upon the window-sill watching for her, while -Lucy sat at the table sewing by the light of two candles in tall brass -candlesticks. She had thought the pair of tallow candles a mark of -gentility in the beginning of her married life, when the remembrance -of the slum near Moorfields was fresh; but she knew better now, having -seen the splendours of St. James's Square, and wax candles reckoned by -the hundred. - -Her ladyship had four horses to her chariot, and a couple of -postillions. The lamps flamed through the summer darkness. - -"I may be late," Stobart said hurriedly. "Don't sit up for me, Lucy." - -He saw Antonia's face at the coach door, and the sight of it so moved -him that he could scarcely speak. - -His wife ran to bid him good-bye, with her customary childlike kiss, -standing on tip-toe to offer him her fresh young lips, but he waved her -aside. - -"We shall be late. Good-night." - -His heart was beating furiously. On the threshold of his door he had -half a mind to excuse himself to Antonia, and to go back. He felt as -if the devil was tugging him into some dark labyrinth of doom. This -man believed in the devil as firmly as he believed in God--believed in -an actual omnipresent Satan, ubiquitous, ever on the watch to decoy -sinners, ever eager to people hell with renegades from Christ. And -he felt, with a thrill of agony, that he was in the devil's clutch -to-night. Satan was spreading his choicest lure to catch the sinner's -soul--a woman's ineffable beauty. - -She was alone, and welcomed him with her sweetest smile. - -"I am turning my back on Handel's new oratorio to hear your Mr. -Whitefield," she said, as they shook hands; "but now the hour is -approaching I feel as eager as if I were going to see a new Romeo as -seducing as Spranger Barry." - -"Ah, madam, dared I hope that Whitefield's eloquence could change this -frivolous humour to a beginning of belief! Could your stubborn mind -once bend itself to understand the mysteries of God's redeeming grace -you would not long remain in darkness. Could but one ray of Divine -truth stream in upon your soul, like the shaft of sunshine through -Newton's shutter, you would soon be drowned in light, dazzled by the -prismatic glory of the Heavenly Sun." - -"And blinded, as I doubt you are, sir. I will not impose upon you. I do -not go to Kennington to be assured of free grace, or to be convinced -of sin; but first to keep a promise to the dead, and next to follow -the fashion, which is to hear and criticize Mr. Whitefield. Some of my -friends swear he is a finer orator than Mr. Pitt." - -After this they remained silent for the greater part of the way, -Antonia watching the road, where the houses were set back behind long -gardens, and where the countrified inns had ample space in front for a -horse-trough and rustic tables and benches, with here and there a row -of fine elms. That sense of space and air which is so sadly wanting -now in the mighty wilderness of brick and stone gave a rural charm to -the suburbs when George II. was king. Ten minutes' walk took a man -from town to country, from streets and alleys to meadow and cornfield, -hedgerow and thicket. The perfume of summer flowers was in the air -through which they drove, and the village that hemmed the fatal common, -so recently a scene of ignominious death, was as rustic as a hamlet in -Buckinghamshire. - -The crowd had gathered thickly, and had spread itself over the greater -part of the common when Lady Kilrush's chariot drew up on the outskirts -of the assembly. Stobart alighted and went to reconnoitre. A platform -had been erected about six feet from the ground, and on this there had -been placed a row of chairs, and a table for the preacher, with a brass -lantern standing on each side of the large quarto Bible. Whitefield was -there, with one of his helpers, a member of Parliament, his devoted -adherent, and two ladies, one of whom was the Countess of Yarmouth's -daughter, Lady Chesterfield, dowered with the blood of the Guelfs, and -a fine fortune from the royal coffers, Whitefield's most illustrious -convert, and a shining light in Lady Huntingdon's saintly circle. - -Stobart was on terms of friendship with the orator, and had no -difficulty in obtaining a seat for Lady Kilrush. Indeed, her ladyship's -name would have obtained the favour as easily had she sent it by her -footman, for George Whitefield loved to melt patrician hearts, and draw -tears from proud eyes. Enthusiast as he was, there is a something in -his familiar letters which suggests that aristocratic converts counted -double. They were the _ecarte_ kings, the trump-aces in the game he -played against Satan. - -Stobart brought Antonia through the crowd, and placed her in a chair at -the end of the platform, farthest from the preacher, lest the thunder -of his tremendous voice should sound too close to her ear. - -There was a chair to spare for himself, and he took his seat at her -side, in the silence of that vast audience, waiting for the giving out -of the hymn with which these open-air services usually began. - -Never before had Antonia seen so vast an assemblage hushed in a serious -expectancy, with faces all turned to one point, that central spot above -the heads of the crowd where the lanterns made an atmosphere of faint -yellow light around George Whitefield's black figure standing beside -the table, with one hand resting upon an open Bible, and the other -uplifted to command silence and attention. - -From the preacher's platform, almost to the edge of the common the -crowd extended, black and dense, a company gathered from all over -London, and compounded of classes so various that almost every -Metropolitan type might be found there, from the Churchman of highest -dignity, come to criticize and condemn, to the street-hawker, the -professional mendicant, come to taste an excitement scarcely inferior -to gin. - -Whitefield's helper gave out the number of the hymn, and recited the -first two lines in slow and distinct tones. Then, with a burst of sound -loud as the stormy breakers rolling over a rock-bound beach, there rose -the voices of a multitude that none could number, harsh and sweet, -loud and low, soprano and contralto, bass and tenor, mingled in one -vast chorus of praise. The effect was stupendous, and Antonia felt a -catching of her breath, that was almost a sob. Did those words mean -nothing, after all? Was that cry of a believing throng only empty air? - -A short extempore prayer followed from the helper. George Whitefield's -voice had not yet been heard. The influence of his presence was enough, -and it may have been that his dramatic instinct led him to keep -himself in reserve till that moment of hush and expectancy in which he -pronounced the first words of his text. - -He stood there, supreme in a force that is rare in the history of -mankind, the force that rules multitudes. 'Twas no commanding grace of -person that impressed this prodigious assembly. He stood there, the -central point in that tremendous throng, a very common figure, short, -fat, in a black gown with huge sleeves, and a ridiculous white wig, -features without beauty or grandeur, eyes with a decided squint; and -that vast concourse thrilled at his presence, as at a messenger from -the throne of God. This was the heaven-born orator, the man who at -two-and-twenty years of age had held assembled thousands spell-bound -by his eloquence, the man gifted with a voice of surpassing beauty, -and with a dramatic genius which enabled him to clothe abstract ideas -with flesh and blood, and make them live and move before his awestruck -hearers. - -It was this dramatic genius that made Whitefield supreme over the -masses. Those of his admirers who had leisure to read and weigh his -published sermons might discover that he had no message to deliver, -that those trumpet tones were but reverberations in the air, that of -all who flocked to hear the famous preacher, none ever carried home a -convincing and practicable scheme of religious life; yet none could -doubt the power of the man to stir the feelings, to excite, awaken and -alarm the ignorant and unenlightened, to melt and to startle even his -superiors in education and refinement. None could deny that the man -who began life as a pot-boy in a Gloucester tavern was the greatest -preacher of his time. - -Antonia watched and listened with a keen interest, enduring the heated -atmosphere of the crowd as best she might. She had thrown off her -mantle, and the starlight shone upon the marble of her throat and the -diamond heart that fastened her gauze kerchief. One large ruby set in -the midst of the diamonds enhanced their whiteness; and it seemed to -Stobart as he looked at her that the vivid crimson spot symbolized his -own heart's blood, always bleeding for her, drop by drop. Absorbed by -her interest in the preacher, she was unconscious of those eyes that -gazed at her with an unspeakable love, knew not that for this man it -was happiness only to sit by her side, to watch every change in the -lovely face, every grace of the perfect form, oblivious of the crowd, -the orator, of everything upon earth except her. - -To-night Whitefield was in one of his gloomy moods, the preacher -of unmitigated Calvinism. It may be that his late quarrel with the -Bishop of Bangor, and the persecution he had suffered at his West End -chapel had soured him, and that he was unconsciously influenced by the -hardness of a world in which a mighty hunter of souls was the mark for -narrow-minded opposition and vulgar ridicule. His purpose to-night -seemed rather to appal than to convince, to instil despair rather than -hope. - -His text from the Epistle of St. Jude was pronounced in solemn tones -that reached wide across that closely packed mass of humanity-- - -"For there are certain men crept in unawares, who were before of old -ordained to this condemnation, ungodly men, turning the grace of our -God into lasciviousness, and denying the only Lord God, and our Lord -Jesus Christ.... Clouds they are without water, carried about of winds; -trees whose fruit withereth, without fruit, twice dead, plucked up -by the roots; raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame; -wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness for -ever." - -In an oration that lasted nearly two hours the preacher rang the -changes on these tremendous words. Through every phase of sin, through -every stage of the downward journey, his imagination followed the -sinner, "of old ordained" to perish everlastingly. His vivid words -described a soul inevitably lost; and again and again the melancholy -music of those phrases, "raging waves of the sea, foaming out their -own shame; wandering stars; clouds without water," rang out over the -awe-stricken throng, moved by this picture of an imagined doom, with -an emotion scarcely less intense than the thrill of agony that ran -through the crowd at Tyburn when the doomed sinner swung into Eternity. - -It was with the picture of Judas, his final example of sin and death, -that the preacher closed his discourse. - -"Let those who tell you there is no such thing as predestination turn -their eyes upon Judas," he said, his voice falling to that grave note -which preluded terror. "Let them consider the arch-apostate, the son -of perdition. Oh, my brethren, had ever mortal man such opportunities -of salvation as Judas had? Have the angels who stand about the throne -of God, His worshippers and subordinates, half such privileges as -Judas had? To be the friend and companion of his Saviour, in daily -and familiar association with the Redeemer of souls; to walk by His -side through the fields of Palestine; to sit at meat with Him; to be -with Him in sadness and in joy, in prayer and praise; to journey over -the wild sea with Him, and behold His power to still the tempest; to -be His bosom friend; to live on an equality with God! Think of him, -oh, you sinners who have never seen your Saviour's face, think of -Judas! Think of those three years of sweet converse! Think of that -Divine condescension which received sinful man in the brotherhood of -friendship! Think of those journeys by the Lake of Gennesaret, those -pilgrimages of prayer and praise, the daily, the hourly companionship -with Divinity, the affectionate familiarity with Ineffable Wisdom! - -"And, O God, great God of sinners, to think what came of such -unutterable privileges! The disciple, the companion, bartered all that -glory and delight, flung away those inestimable joys for a handful of -silver. Which of you dare disbelieve in predestined damnation when -he contemplates this hideous fall, when he sees the chosen brother -of Jesus sink to the base huckstering of a Jonathan Wild, one of the -sacred twelve reduced to the level of informers and thief-catchers, -trucking his soul's salvation against thirty pieces of silver? - -"'Twas the inexorable destiny of the foredoomed sinner, the appointed -end to which those footsteps beside the lake, those footsteps -across the mountain, those footsteps through the temple, and in the -market-place, fast or slow, were always moving. God had sentenced this -man to the most awful doom the mind can conceive, created to betray, -the foredoomed destroyer of his Saviour. Who can question that he was -marked for hell? How else account for such a fall? I despise that -shallow reasoner who will tell you that the fall of Judas was a gradual -descent, beginning in avarice, ending in murder. I laugh at that fond -theorizer who will tell you that Judas was an ambitious dreamer, -longing to behold the Kingdom of Christ triumphant on earth, and -thinking to realize that dazzling dream by bringing about the conflict -between his Master and earthly authority. I laugh at him who tells me -that Judas expected to see the power of the Synagogue and the Forum -shrivel like a burning scroll before the face of the Messiah; and that -it was on the failure of that hope he rushed to the Field of Blood. - -"No, dear sinners, a thousand and a thousand times no! Over that guilty -head the fiat of the Eternal had gone forth, 'This is the son of -perdition, this is he who shall betray the Son of God.'" - -Then, after a long pause, sinking his mighty voice almost to a whisper, -the preacher asked-- - -"Is there any son of perdition here to-night? Is there one among you -whose stubborn heart answers not to his Saviour's call--a wretch in -love with vice, who would rather have sensual pleasures on earth than -everlasting bliss in heaven--a modern Judas who sells his Redeemer's -love for thirty pieces of the devil's money, thirty profligate -raptures, thirty vicious indulgences, thirty debauches in filthy -taverns, thirty nights of riot and wantonness among gamesters and loose -women? - -"If there be any such, cast him from you. However near, however -dear--father, brother, husband, son, flesh of your flesh and bone of -your bone. Cast him out; oh, you who value your eternal happiness! -You cannot mistake the mark of the lost soul. The son of perdition -bears a brand of sin that no eye can fail to recognize. 'Tis Satan's -broad-arrow, and stamps the wretch foredoomed to hell. You who would -taste the joys of heaven, hold no fellowship with such on earth." - -The great throng heard those concluding phrases in a profound silence. -The heavy stillness of a sultry night, the muffled roll of distant -thunder, the fitful lightning, now faint, now vivid, that flashed -across the scene, intensified the dramatic effect of the sermon, and -the crowds that had gathered noisily with much talk and some jeering, -dwindled and melted away subdued and thoughtful. - -Like many other of Whitefield's sermons which moved multitudes, there -was little left after the last resonance of the mighty voice had sunk -into silence. But the immediate effect of his oration was tremendous. -Garrick had said that he would give a hundred pounds if he could say -"Oh!" like Whitefield; and what Garrick could not do must have been -something of exceptional power. - -Antonia had given her whole mind to the preacher; yet for her his -sermon was but a dramatic effort, and she went back to her coach full -of wonder at that vast influence which a fine voice and a cultivated -elocution had exercised over the multitude in England and America. - -Upon George Stobart the preacher's influence was stronger. - -"The man makes me believe against my own reason," he said, "which has -ever striven against the idea of a fatal necessity. Come, Lady Kilrush, -confess that his eloquence moved you." - -"I confess as much with all my heart; and I am very glad to have -heard him. He is a finer actor--an unconscious actor, of course--than -Garrick; at least, he has a greater power to appal an ignorant crowd." - -"I see you are as stubborn as ever." - -"My mind is not a weather-cock, to be driven by changing winds. I -doubt Mr. Whitefield may do good by such a discourse as we have heard -to-night. He may scare feeble sinners, and teach them to believe that, -weak and wicked as they are, God has marked them for salvation. But -what of the sinner deeply sunk in guilt--will not he see only the -hopelessness of any struggle to escape from Satan? 'So be it,' he will -cry; 'if I am the son of perdition, let me drown my soul in sin, and -forget the injustice of God.'" - -George Stobart's only answer was a despairing sigh. "Let me drown my -soul in sin, and forget God." Those awful words too well depicted the -condition of his own mind to-night, sitting by her side in the roomy -chariot, apart from her, with his face turned to the open window, his -eyes looking into the summer stillness, unseeing, his heart beating -with the fierce throb of passion held in check. - -Was not Whitefield right, after all? Were there not men whose names -were written in the Book of Doom, wretches not born to be judged, but -judged before they were born? To-night that religion of despair seemed -to him the only possible creed. He had looked back and remembered the -sins of his youth--his life at Eton--his life in the Army. And he had -believed the stain of those sins washed away in one ineffable hour of -spiritual anguish and spiritual joy, the conviction of sin followed by -the assurance of free grace. He had believed his past life annihilated, -and himself made a new creature, pure as Adam before the fall. And in -the years that had followed that day of grace he had walked with head -erect, and eyes looking up to heaven, strong in his belief in Christ, -but strongest in his reliance upon his own good works. - -O God, what availed his labour in the service of humanity, his -sacrifice of worldly gain, his preaching, his prayers, his faithful -study of God's word? A wave of passion surged across his soul, and all -of good that there had been in him was swept away. The original man, -foredoomed to evil, appeared again. A soul drowned in sin! Her words, -so carelessly spoken, had denounced him. - -The silence lasted long, and they were nearing the lights of London -when Antonia spoke. - -"You are very silent, Mr. Stobart," she said; "I hope you have not any -trouble on your mind to-night." - -"No, no." - -"Then 'tis that hideous doctrine troubles you." - -"Perhaps. What if it be the only true key to God's mysteries? Yes, I -believe there are souls given over to Satan." - -"Oh, if you believe in Satan you can believe anything." - -"Can you look round the world you live in and doubt the Power of Evil?" - -"Of the evil within us, no. 'Tis in ourselves, in our own hearts and -minds the devil lives. We have to fight him there. Oh, I believe in -that devil, the devil of many names. Envy, hatred, malice, jealousy, -vanity, self-love, discontent. I know the fiend under most of his -aliases. But our part is to be stronger than our own evil inclinations. -I am not afraid of the devil." - -"He speaks for you in that arrogant speech, and his name is pride." - -"Well, perhaps I spoke with too much assurance; but I believe pride is -a virtue in women, as courage is in men. Or, perhaps, pride in women is -only courage by another name." - -He did not reply for some moments; and then an irrepressible impulse -made him touch on a perilous subject. - -"Have you changed your mind about Lord Dunkeld?" - -"As how, sir?" she asked, with a chilling air. - -"Have you resolved to accept him as a husband? Surely you could not be -for ever adamant against so noble a suitor." - -"You are vastly impertinent, to repeat a question that I answered some -time ago. No, sir, I shall never accept Lord Dunkeld, nor any other -suitor--had he the highest rank in the kingdom." - -"You must have some strong reason." - -"I have my reason, an all-sufficient reason; and now, sir, no more, I -beg you. Indeed, I wonder that you can distress me by renewing this -argument." - -"Oh, madam, if you but knew the motive of my impertinence, the anguish -of heart that speaks in those words! I would have you happily mated, -Antonia. I--_I_--who adore you. Yes, though my jealous soul could -scarce contemplate the image of your husband without the murderer's -impulse--though to think of you belonging to another would be a torment -worse than hell-fire. Could you know how I have wrestled with Satan; -how when I urged you to marry Dunkeld every word I spoke was like a -knife driven through my heart; how I longed to fling myself at your -feet, to tell you, as I tell you now, at the peril of my salvation, -that I love you, with all the strength of my soul, my soul drowned in -sin, the unpardonable sin of loving you, the sin for which I must lose -heaven and reckon with Satan, my darling sin, the sin unto death, never -to be repented of." - -He was on his knees, and his arms were about her, drawing her averted -face towards his own with a wild violence, till her brow touched his, -and his lips were pressed against her burning cheek. She felt the -passion of his kiss, and his tears upon her face, before she wrenched -herself from his arms, and dashed down the glass in front of her. - -"Stop!" she called out to the postillions. - -Startled at her authoritative cry, they pulled up their horses -suddenly, with a loud clattering on the stones, a hundred yards from -the bridge. - -"You devil!" she said to Stobart, between her set teeth. "You that I -took for a saint! I will not breathe the same air with you." - -The carriage had hardly stopped when she opened the door and sprang -out, not waiting for her footman to let down the steps. He had been -asleep in the rumble, and only alighted a moment before his mistress. - -She walked towards the bridge in a tumult of agitation, Stobart at -her side, while her carriage and horses stood still, and her servants -waited for orders, wondering at this strange caprice of their lady's. - -"Hypocrite! hypocrite!" she repeated. "You--the Christian, the preacher -who calls sinners to repentance; the man who sacrificed fortune to -marry the girl he loved." - -"I knew not what love meant." - -"You chose a simple girl for your wife, and tired of her; pretended -friendship for me, and under that mask of friendship nursed your -profligate dreams; and now you dare insult me with your unholy love." - -"I should not have so dared, madam--indeed, I believe I might have -conquered my passion--so far as to remain for ever silent--if--if your -own words----" - -"My words? When have I ever spoken a word that could warrant such an -affront?" - -"When I advised you to accept Dunkeld--you refused with such -impassioned vehemence--you confessed you had a reason." - -"And you thought 'twas because I loved another woman's husband--that -'twas your saintly self I cared for? No, sir, 'twas because I swore to -Kilrush on his death-bed that I would never belong to another, that -our union, of but one tragical hour, should be all I would ever know -of wedlock. I belong to him now as I belonged to him then. I love his -memory now as I loved him then. That, sir, was my reason. Are you not -ashamed of your fatuous self-esteem, which took it for a confession of -love? Love for you, the Methodist preacher, the man of God!" - -"Yes, I am ashamed--I am drinking the cup of shame." - -"You have tricked me, sir. You have deceived me very cruelly. I trusted -you--I thought that I had a friend--one man in the world who treated -me like a woman of sense--who dared to disapprove, where all the world -basely flattered me. And you are the worst of all--the snake in the -grass. But do you think I fear you? I had a better man than you at my -feet--the man I loved--my first love--a man with sovereign power over -the hearts of women. Do you think I fear you? No, sir, 'twas then the -tempter tried me. If there is a devil who assails women, I met him -then, and vanquished him." - -She trembled from head to foot in the excess of her feeling. She was -leaning against the balustrade in one of the semicircular recesses on -the bridge. He was sitting at the furthest end of the stone bench, his -elbows on his knees, his face hidden. - -"You have made me hate myself," he said. "'Tis useless to ask you to -forgive me; but you can forget that so base a worm crawls upon this -earth. _That_ will cost you but a slight effort." - -"Yes, I will try to forget you; and to forget how much I valued your -friendship, or the friendship of the honourable man I took you for." - -"I was that man, madam. Our friendship did not begin in treachery. I -was your true and honourable friend--till--till the devil saw me in my -foolish pride, my arrogant confidence in good works." - -"Well, sir, 'tis a dream ended," she said, in those grave contralto -tones that had ever been like music in his ear--the lower key to which -her voice dropped when she was deeply moved; "and from to-night be good -enough to remember that we are strangers." - -"I shall not forget, madam, nor shall my presence make the future -troublesome to you." - -Something in his words scared her. - -"You will do nothing violent--nothing desperately wicked?" - -"No, madam, whatever the tempter whispers, however sweetly the river -murmurs of rest and oblivion, I shall not kill myself. For me there is -the 'something after death'!" - -"Will you tell them to bring my coach?" - -He rose and obeyed without a word, and stood by bareheaded till she -drove away, not even offering to assist her as she stepped into the -carriage, attended by her footman. Stobart stood watching till the -chariot vanished in the darkness of the street beyond the bridge, then -flung himself on the bench in the recess, and sat with his arms folded -on the stone parapet, and his forehead leaning upon them, lost in -despairing thoughts. - -Judas, Judas, the companion of Christ, foredoomed to everlasting -misery--Judas, the son of perdition! And what of him who six years -ago gave himself to God--convinced of sin, sincerely repenting of the -errors of his youth, resolved to lead a new life, to live in Christ and -for Christ? How confident he had been, how happy in the assurance of -grace--all his thoughts, all his desires in subjection to the Divine -will, living not by the strict letter of Christ's law, but by every -counsel of perfection, deeming no sacrifice of self too severe, no -labour too exacting, in that heavenly service. And now, after that holy -apprenticeship, after all those years of duty and obedience, after -mounting so high upon the ladder of life, to find himself lying in the -mire at the foot of it, caught in the toils of Satan, and again the -slave of sin! - -The slave of sin--yes--for though he hated the sin, he went on sinning. -He loved her--he loved her with a passion that the Water of Life -could not quench. How vain were those supplications for grace, those -confessions of guilt which broke from his convulsed lips, while her -image filled his heart. How vain his cry to Christ for help, while -_her_ voice sounded in his ears, and the thought of her indignation, -her scorn, her icy indifference, reigned supreme in the fiery tumult of -his brain. - -Oh, how he loathed himself for his folly; how he writhed under a -proud man's agony of humiliation at the thought of his fatuous -self-delusion! Something in her look, something in her tone when -she protested against a second marriage, had thrilled him with the -conviction that his love had found its answer in her heart. When did -that fatal love begin? He knew not how the insidious poison stole -into his senses; but he could recall his first consciousness of that -blissful slavery, his first lapse from honour. He could remember the -hour and the moment, they two walking through the squalid street in the -winter twilight, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm, her eyes -looking up at him, sapphire-blue under the long dark lashes, her low -voice murmuring words of pity for the dying child that she had nursed -in her lap, for the broken-hearted mother they had just left, and in -his heart a wild rapture that was new and sweet. - -"I love her, I love her," he had told himself in that moment. "But she -will never know. It is as if I loved an angel. She is as far from me. -My conscience can suffer no stain from so pure, so distant a love." - -Self-deluded sinner! Hypocrite to himself! He knew now that this moment -marked the beginning of apostasy, the law of sin warring against the -inward light. He knew now that this woman--noble-minded, chaste, -charitable, a creature of kindly impulses and generous acts, for him -represented Antichrist, and that from the hour in which he proved her -stubborn in unbelief, he should have renounced her friendship. He had -paltered with truth, had tried to reconcile the kingdom of darkness -with the kingdom of light, had been satisfied with the vague hope of -a deferred conversion, and had made his bosom friend of the woman who -denied his Master. - -He loved her--with a love not to be repented of--a love that ran in his -veins and moved his heart, and seemed as much a part of his being as -the nerves and bones and flesh and blood that made him a man. He might -lie in dust and ashes at the foot of the cross, scourge himself to -death with the penitent's whip; but while the heart beat and the brain -could think the wicked love would be there; and he would die adoring -her, die and perish everlastingly, lost to salvation, cut off from -Christ's compassion, by that unhallowed love. - -There was the agony for him, the believer. To abhor sin, to believe -in everlasting punishment, and to feel the impossibility of a saving -repentance, to know himself a son of perdition; since what could avail -the pangs of remorse for the man who went on sinning, whose whole life -was coloured by a guilty passion? - -The Divine Teacher's stern denunciation of such sin rang in his ears, -as he crouched with folded arms on the stone parapet, alone in the -summer darkness, an outcast from God. - -"He that looketh upon a woman!" On his adulterous heart that sentence -burnt like vitriol upon tender flesh. Only by ceasing to love her could -he cease to sin; and, looking forward through the long vista of the -coming years, he saw no possibility of change in his guilty heart, no -hope of respite from yearning and regret. Six years of repentance for -the sins and follies of his youth; six years of faithful service; six -years of peace and self-approval; and now behold him thrust outside -the gate, a soul more lost than in those unregenerate days when the -consciousness of sin was first awakened in his mind, when remorse for a -youthful intrigue, in which he had been the victim and sport of a vile -woman, and for a duel that had ended fatally, first became intolerable. -For him, the earnest believer, to whom religion was a terrible reality, -the fall from a state of grace meant the loss of that great hope -which alone can make life worth living, that "hope of eternal life, -which God, that cannot lie, promised before the world began." For him -sin unrepented of meant everlasting despair, the pains of hell, the -companionship of devils. - -He left the bridge, and wandered along the river bank, past his own -house, past the Archbishop's Palace, to the dreary marshes between -Lambeth and Battersea--wandered like a man hunted by evil spirits; and -it was not till daylight that he turned his steps slowly homeward, -dejected and forlorn. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -"MY LADY AND MY LOVE." - - -Antonia was wounded to the quick by a revelation that lost her the one -friend whom she had counted as changeless amidst the fickle herd. She -knew of how airy a substance the friendship of the many is made; and, -pleasant as she found the polite world, she had as yet discovered no -kindred spirit, no woman of her own age, and tastes, and inclinations, -whom she could choose for her bosom friend. Lady Margaret Laroche was, -indeed, her only intimate friend amidst the multitude of her admiring -acquaintance. But in George Stobart, the man who dared to be uncivil, -who gave her vinegar and wormwood when she was satiated with the honey -and roses of modish society, she had found a closer sympathy, a quicker -appreciation of her ideas and aspirations, than in any one she had -known since those old days in Rupert Buildings, where she discussed -every thought and every dream with Kilrush. And stormily as that former -friendship had ended, she had never contemplated the possibility of -evil passions here, in that stern ascetic, the man who had renounced -the world, with all its pleasures, follies, and temptations. An -infidel herself, she had honoured Stobart for his steadfast faith, his -self-surrender. - -She was troubled, shocked, distressed by the discovery that her friend -was unworthy. His absence made a blank in her life, in spite of her -innumerable distractions. The memory of his sin haunted her. She tried -in vain to banish the offender's image from her mind, and the thought -of him came upon her at strange seasons, and sometimes kept her awake -at night, like the hot and cold fits of an Indian fever. - -She was not the woman to cherish weak sentimentalism, vain regrets -for an unworthy friend. She had lost him, and must endure her loss, -knowing that henceforward friendship was impossible. She could never -again admit him to her presence, never confide in him, never esteem -and honour him. The man she had trusted was dead to her for ever. It -was less than a week after the parting on Westminster Bridge when she -received a letter which removed all fear of any chance encounter with -the man who had offended her. - - - - "The George Inn, Portsmouth. - - "The wretch who writes these lines would scarce presume to - address you were it not to bid a farewell that is to be - eternal. I have gone back to my old trade of soldiering, and - am to sail from this place at the first favourable wind, to - serve in North America under General Amherst, with a company - of grenadiers, mostly volunteers like myself. 'Tis beginning - life again at the bottom of the ladder; but the lowest rank - in his Majesty's service is too high for the deserter from - Christ. The chances of savage warfare may bring me that - peace which I can never know in this world, and should I - fall I shall expire in the hope of salvation, trusting that - the Great Judge will be merciful to a sinner who dies in the - service of his King and country. - - "If you ever think of me, madam, let it be with kindness, as - of one tempted beyond his strength, and not a willing sinner. - - "GEORGE STOBART." - -She put the letter away in a secret drawer of her bureau, but she did -not read it a second time. The lines were engraved upon her memory. She -was angry with him. She was sorry for him. - -The friend was lost, but the world remained; and Lady Kilrush flung -herself with a new zest and eagerness into the modish whirlpool. - -London was empty, but Tunbridge Wells was at the zenith. She took -the handsomest lodging in the little town, a stone's throw from the -Pantiles, with drawing-room windows looking over the Common, and -commanding all the gaiety of the place. She invited Patty Granger and -her General to spend the season with her, having an idea that her -old friend's joyous trifling would help her to be light-hearted and -prevent her brooding upon the past. She had not omitted Mrs. Granger's -name last season when sending out cards for her drums and dances; but -this invitation to Tunbridge was a more intimate thing, and Patty was -overwhelmed by her kindness. In the cosmopolitan crowd at the Wells, in -a company where German princes and English dukes rubbed shoulders with -tradesmen's wives from Smock-alley, and pickpockets newly released from -the Counter, Antonia's beauty and reckless expenditure secured her a -numerous following, and made her conspicuous everywhere. She could not -saunter across the Common with Mrs. Granger or Sophy Potter without -attracting a crowd of acquaintance, who hung upon her steps like the -court about the old King or the Princess of Wales. - -Miss Potter declared that the Wells was like heaven. In London she saw -very little fine company, and only went abroad with her mistress when -her ladyship visited the poor, or drove on shopping expeditions to the -city. But manners were less formal at the Wells; and Sophy went to -picnics and frisked up and down the long perspective of country dances -hand in hand with persons of quality. - -Never had Sophy known her mistress so eager for amusement as during -this particular season. She was ready to join in every festivity, -however trivial, however foolish, and diversions that had a spice of -eccentricity, like Lady Caroline Petersham's minced-chicken supper at -Vauxhall, seemed to please her most. She entertained lavishly, gave -breakfasts, picnics, dances, suppers--had a crowd at her tea-table -every evening; and Mr. Pitt being at the Wells that year, she gave -several entertainments in his honour, notably an excursion to Bayham -Abbey, in a dozen coaches and four, and a picnic dinner among the -ruins, at which the great minister--who had but lately grasped the -sceptre of supreme power--flung off the burden of public care, forgot -his gout and the dark cloud of war in Europe and America, Frederick's -reverses, misfortunes in Canada, while he sunned himself in Antonia's -beauty, and absorbed her claret and champagne. - -"I could almost wish for another earthquake that would bury me under -these antique walls," he said gaily. "Sure, madam, to expire at your -feet were a death more illustrious than the Assyrian funeral pile." - -"Sardanapalus was a worthless sybarite, sir, and the world could spare -him. England without Mr. Pitt must cease to be a nation." - -"Nay, but think how glad Newcastle would be, and how the old King would -chuckle if a falling pillar despatched me. 'Twould be the one pleasing -episode in my history. His Majesty would order me a public funeral, in -his gratitude for my civility in dying. Death is a Prime Minister's ace -of trumps, and his reputation with posterity sometimes hangs on that -last card." - -The minister's visit to Tunbridge was shortened by the news of -the taking of Cape Breton and the siege of Louisbourg, the first -substantial victory that English arms had won in America since -Braddock's disastrous rout on the Monongahela. Amherst and his dragoons -had landed on that storm-beaten coast in the nick of time. The -aristocratic water-drinkers and the little shopkeepers at the Wells -rejoiced as one man. Bonfires blazed on the Common, every window was -illuminated, martial music was heard on every side, toasts were drunk, -glasses broken, and a general flutter of excitement pervaded the Wells, -while in London a train of French standards were being carried to -Westminster Abbey, to the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums, and the -wild huzzas of the populace. - -Antonia wondered whether George Stobart had fallen among the English -dragoons fighting in the trenches, of whose desperate courage old -General Granger talked so glibly. She heard of heavy losses on both -sides. She pictured him lying among the unconsidered dead, while the -cross of St. George waved above the shattered ramparts, and the guns -roared their triumphant thunder. She read the newspapers, half in hope, -half in fear of finding Stobart's name; but it was not till General -Amherst's despatches were made public some time later that her mind was -set at rest, and she knew that he lived and had done well. - -That little season at Tunbridge, where people had to stay six weeks -for a water-cure, was a crowning triumph for Antonia as a woman of -_ton_. Never till now had she so concentrated her thoughts upon the -futilities of pleasure, never so studied every bill of fare, or so -carefully planned every entertainment. Her originality and her lavish -outlay made her the cynosure of that smaller great world at the Wells. -Everybody applauded her taste, and anticipated her ruin. - -"The woman has a genius for spending, which is much rarer than a genius -for saving," said a distinguished gourmand, who dined twice a week -at Antonia's lodgings. "A fool can waste money; but to scatter gold -with both hands and make every guinea flash requires a great mind. I -doubt Lady Kilrush will die a pauper; but she will have squandered her -fortune like a gentlewoman." - -Lady Peggy Laroche was at the Wells, and spent most of her leisure with -Antonia. While approving her _protegee's_ taste she urged the necessity -of prudence. - -"Prythee, child, do not fancy your income inexhaustible. Remember, -there is a bottom to every well." - -"Dear Lady Peggy, Goodwin could tell you that I am a woman of business, -and have a head for figures. I am spending lavishly here, but when the -season is over I shall go to Kilrush with Sophy and a footman, and -mope through the winter with my books and my harpsichord; and if your -ladyship would condescend to share my solitude I should need no more -for happiness." - -"You are vastly kind, child, to offer to bury me before my time; but -I am too old to hibernate, and must make the most of my few remaining -winters in London or Paris." - -"If you knew the romance and wild grandeur of that granite coast." - -"Bond Street is romantic enough for me, _ma douce_. I depend upon -living faces, not granite rocks, for my amusement, and would rather -have the trumpery gossip of St. James's than the roar of the Atlantic." - -After having sparkled at the Wells and lived in a perpetual _va et -vient_ of modish company, Lady Kilrush found life on the shores of -the Atlantic somewhat monotonous. Her nearest neighbours were ten -miles off. Dean Delany's clever wife could find hourly diversions in a -country seat near Dublin, where she could give a dance or a big dinner -every week, and had all the Court people from the Castle running in -upon her; but at Kilrush the solitude was only broken by visits from -Irish squires and their wives, who had nothing in common with the -mistress of the house. Antonia could have endured an unbroken isolation -better than the strain of trying to please uninteresting acquaintance. -She devoted a good deal of her leisure to visiting the cottagers on her -own estate, and ministered to every case of distress that came within -her knowledge, whether on her own soil or an absentee neighbour's. She -took very kindly to the peasantry, accepted their redundant flattery -with a smile, and lavished gifts on old and young. To the old, the -_invalides du travail_, her heart went out with generous emotion. To -have laboured for a lifetime, patient as a horse in the shafts, and to -be satisfied with so little in the end; just the winter seat by the -smouldering turf, by courtesy a fire; just to lie in front of the hut -and bask in the summer sunshine; just not to die of starvation. - -The Gaffers and Gammers fared well while Antonia was at Kilrush; and -before leaving she arranged with her steward for tiny pensions to be -paid regularly until her return. - -"You are not to be worse off for my going to England," she told one of -her old men, when she bade him good-bye. - -"Sure, me lady, we should be the worse off for want of your beautiful -face, if you was to lave us the Bank of Ireland," replied Gaffer. - -She went back to London in December, in a Government yacht that -narrowly escaped calamity, after waiting at Waterford over a week for -favourable weather. But Antonia enjoyed the storm; it thrilled in every -nerve, and set her pulses beating, and gave her something to think of, -after the emptiness of a life too free from worldly cares. - -She could return to her house in St. James's Square without fear -of being troubled by the presence of the man who had made the word -friendship a sound that sickened her. That traitor was far away. - -Assured of his absence, she went back to the slums by Lambeth Marsh, -where she was received with rapture. Her pensioners had not been -forgotten while she was away, since she had provided for all the -most pressing cases; but her return was like the coming of April -warmth after a bitter winter. Everywhere she heard lamentations at -Mr. Stobart's departure, although Wesley had filled his place with -another of his helpers, an indefatigable worker, but a raw youth of -unsympathetic manners and uncompromising doctrine. He was barely civil -to Lady Kilrush when they happened to meet, having been told that -she was an unbeliever, and did all in his power to discourage her -ministrations among his people. - -"If your ladyship came to them with the Bible in your hand they might -be the better for your kindness," he said severely; "but the carnal -comforts of food and drink, which your generosity provides for them, -only serve to make them careless of everlasting bliss." - -"What, sir, would you starve them into piety? Do you think 'tis only -because they are miserable upon earth that Christians long for the joys -of heaven? That is to hold the everlasting kingdom mighty cheap. Your -great Exemplar had a broader philosophy, and did not disdain to feed as -well as to teach His followers." - -Antonia's heart was moved at the thought of the pretty young wife -deserted by her husband, and living in solitude, without the -distractions of fine company, or the delight in books and music which -filled the blank spaces in her own life. Impelled by this compassionate -feeling, she called on Mrs. Stobart one wintry afternoon, soon after -her return from Ireland, and was received with gratification which was -mainly due to the splendour of her coach, and the effect it would have -on the neighbours. - -"Your ladyship has doubtless heard that my husband has gone back to -the army?" said Lucy, when her visitor was seated in the prim front -parlour, where the mahogany furniture shone with an increased polish, -and where there prevailed that chilling primness which marks a room -that nobody uses. "It was a sad blow to me and to Mr. Wesley; but -George always hankered after his old profession, though he knew it was -Satan's choicest trade." - -"Nay, Mrs. Stobart, I cannot think that Satan has any part in the -calling of men who fight and die for their country. I doubt your -husband's life in America will be as unselfish as his life in Lambeth." - -"'He has taken his hand from the plough.' That is what Mr. Wesley said. -'He was the best of my helpers, and he has deserted me,' he said. And -Mr. Wesley was sorry for my trouble in being forsaken by my husband." - -She shed a few feeble tears as she dwelt upon her own dull life; but -she did not seem deeply impressed by the thought of her husband's -peril, or the chance that he might never come back to her. - -"It was a cruel disappointment for me," she complained. "He had -promised to join the Church of England, and then we might have had a -vicarage, and he would have stayed at home, and only preached in his -parish church. He had promised to be a kinder husband." - -"Kinder? Oh, Mrs. Stobart, was he ever unkind?" exclaimed Antonia, -kindling with the sense of injustice. She had noted his gentleness--his -supreme patience with the unsympathetic wife; so inferior to him in -mind and heart--a pink and white nullity. - -"It was unkind to leave me while he went about the country preaching; -it was unkind to go back to the army and leave me alone for years, more -like a widow than a wife. And father comes and teases me for money now -that George is away. He dursn't ask for more than his allowance while -George was here." - -"Your father is--a troublesome person?" inquired Antonia. - -"I should think he was indeed. He kept himself tolerably sober while -mother was alive. She used to spend every penny on drink, and he -used to beat her for it, and both of them used to beat me. It was -a miserable life. Mother died in the hospital three years ago; and -when she was gone the thought of his unkindness to her seemed to prey -upon father's mind, and he was always at the gin-shop, and lost his -situation in the printing-office where he had worked half his life; and -then he came to us with a pitiful story, and my husband gave him ten -shillings a week, which was more than he could afford, without denying -himself, only George never minded. I don't think he would have minded -if he had been obliged to live like John the Baptist in the wilderness." - -"And now Mr. Stobart is gone your father troubles you?" - -"Indeed he does, madam. He comes for his money on a Saturday, looking -such an object that I'm ashamed for the servant to see him; and then -he comes again on Tuesday or Wednesday, and tells me he's starving, -and sheds tears if I refuse to give him money. And I'm obliged to -refuse him, or he wouldn't leave me a sixpence to keep the house. And -then father goes down the steps abusing me, and using the wickedest -language, on purpose for the neighbours to hear him. And he comes again -and again, sometimes before the week is out." - -The idea of this sordid trouble oppressed Antonia like a nightmare. -She thought of her own father--so kind, so pleasant a comrade, yet -unprincipled and self-indulgent. It needed perhaps only the lower grade -to have made him as lost a creature. - -"Let me give you some money for him," she said eagerly. "It will be a -pleasure for me to help you." - -"Oh, no, no, madam. I know how generous you are; but George would never -forgive me if I took your ladyship's money. Besides, it would only do -father harm. He would spend it upon drink. There's no help for it. -Father is my cross, and I must just bear it. He has come to live in -the Marsh, on purpose to be near me; and he makes believe that he's -likely to get work as a book-keeper at the glass works. As if anybody -would employ a man that's never sober! And he's a clever man too, your -ladyship, and has read more books than most gentlemen. But he never -went to a place of worship, and he never believed in anything but his -own cleverness. And see where that has brought him! Sure I beg your -ladyship's pardon," concluded Lucy, hastily, "I forgot that you was of -father's way of thinking." - -"You have at least the consolation of your son's affection, Mrs. -Stobart, and it must be pleasant for you to watch the growth of his -intelligence. Is he as healthy and as handsome as when I saw him last?" - -"Handsomer, I think, your ladyship." - -"Will he be home from school presently? I should love to see him." - -"Nay, madam, that's impossible, for he is living at the Bath with his -grandmother, Lady Lanigan. Mr. Stobart wrote to her before he left -Portsmouth, a farewell letter that melted her hard heart. 'Twas after -the news of the taking of Louisburg, when her ladyship came here in a -terrible fantig, and almost swooned when she saw the boy, and swore he -was the image of his father at the same age." - -"And she carried him away with her on a visit?" - -"Yes, madam. She begged so hard that I could not deny her. For you -see, madam, he is her only grandson; and there's a fortune going -begging, as you may say. His father was too proud to try and bring her -round; but if Georgie behaves prettily, who knows but she may send him -to Eton--where his father was bred--and leave him the whole of her -fortune?" - -"True, madam. No doubt you have done best for your boy. But I fear you -must feel lonely without him." - -"Oh, I missed him sadly for the first week or two, madam; but a child -in a house, where there's but one servant, is a constant trouble. In -and out, in and out with muddy shoes, morning, noon, and night. 'Tis -clean, clean, clean after them all day long, and it makes one's girl -cross and impudent. He has his grandma's own woman to wash and dress -him, and a footman to change his shoes when he comes in from the -street." - -"Is the visit to last long?" - -"That depends upon his behaviour, and if her ladyship cottons to him." - -"Well, so long as you can do without him, of course 'tis best," said -Antonia, in a dull voice. - -Her mind was wandering to that exile whose name she would not -pronounce. To have sacrificed station and fortune for such a wife as -this--for a woman without heart or brains, who had not enough natural -feeling to tremble for a husband in danger, or to grieve at the absence -of an only child! - - * * * * * - -After a few visits to her Lambeth pensioners, Lady Kilrush wearied of -the work, and allowed herself to be charitable by deputy. She hated -the starched prig who had taken Stobart's place in the parish. She -missed the quick sympathy, the strength and earnestness of the man who -had helped her to understand the world's outcasts; and as her social -engagements were more numerous than last winter, she abandoned the -attempt to combine philanthropy with fashion, and made Sophy her deputy -in the Marsh. - -Sophy had a tender heart, and loved to distribute her ladyship's -bounty. She liked the priggish Wesleyan, Mr. Samson Barker, who -lectured and domineered over her, but who was a conscientious youth, -and innocent of all evil, the outcome of nonconformist ancestors, -a feeble specimen of humanity, with a high narrow forehead, pale -protuberant eyes, and a receding chin. Impressed by his mental and -moral superiority, Sophy, who began by ridiculing him, soon thought him -beautiful, and held it one of her highest privileges to sit under his -favourite preacher, Mr. William Romaine, at St. Olave's, Southwark, -and to be allowed to invite Mr. Barker to Antonia's tea-table now and -then, where his appearance was a source of amusement to the rest of -the company, who declared that her ladyship was at heart a Methodist, -though she read Tindal and Toland, and affected liberal ideas. - -"Before next season we shall hear of you among the Lady Bettys and -Lady Fannys who throng Lady Huntingdon's drawing-room, and intoxicate -their senses with Whitefield's raving," said one of her adorers; "and -then there will be no more dinners and suppers, no more dances and -drums--only gruel and flannel petticoats for old women." - -Lady Kilrush drained the cup of London pleasures that winter, and was -a leader in every aristocratic dissipation, shining like a star in all -the choicest assemblies, but so erratic in her movements as to win for -herself the sobriquet of "the Comet." - -"The last spot of earth where 'twould seem reasonable to expect you is -the place where one is most likely to find you," Mr. Walpole told her -one night, at a dinner of hard-drinking and hard-playing politicians, -where Antonia, Lady Coventry, and a couple of duchesses were the only -women in a party of twenty. - -She had adorers of every age, from octogenarian peers, and generals -who had fought under Marlborough, to beardless boys just of age and -squandering their twenty thousands a year at White's and the Cocoa -Tree. The fact that she kept every admirer at the same distance made -her irresistible. To be adamant where other women were wax; to receive -the flatteries of trifling fops, the ardent worship of souls of flame, -with the same goddess air, smiling at her victims, kind to all, but -particular to none! That deliberate and stately North Briton, Lord -Dunkeld, hung upon her footsteps with an untiring devotion that was the -despair of a score of young women of quality, who wanted to marry him, -and thought they had pretensions for the place. - -'Twas a season of unusual gaiety, as if the thirst for pleasure were -intensified by the news of the war, and the consciousness of fellow -countrymen starving, perishing, massacred, scalped, or burnt alive, in -the pathless forests across the Atlantic. The taking of Louisburg had -set all England in a tumult of pride and delight, to the forgetfulness -of the catastrophe at Ticonderoga, where there had been terrible losses -under Abercromby, and of the death of Lord Howe, the young, the ardent, -the born leader of men, slain by the enemy's first volley. - -George Stobart's name figured in Amherst's despatches. He had fought -in the trenches with his old regiment; he had been with Wolfe in the -storming of Gallows Hill; and had been recommended for a commission on -account of his gallant behaviour. People complimented Antonia about her -"pious friend." - -The King was near dying at the beginning of the winter, and the lion at -the Tower happening to expire of old age, while his Majesty lay ill, -the royal beast's dissolution was taken as a fatal augury, and his -master was given over by the gossips. But King George recovered, and -Sunday parties, drums and masquerades, auctions, ridottos, oratorios, -operas, plays, and little suppers, went on again merrily all through -the cold weather. - -In the summer of 1759 Lady Kilrush carried out a long-cherished design -of revisiting Italy. When last in that country her father's critical -state of health had been a drag upon her movements. She would go there -now a free agent, with ample leisure to explore the region in which -she was most keenly interested, those romantic hills above the Lake of -Como, where her mother's birthplace was to be found. - -She took Sophy, her French maid, Rodolphine, and her first footman, who -was an Italian, and travelled by Ostend and the Hague and the Rhine -to Basle, then by Lucerne and Fluellen, to the rugged steeps of the -St. Gothard, loitering on the road, and seeing all the churches and -picture-galleries that were worth looking at, her travelling carriage -half full of books, and her maid and footman following in a post-chaise -with the luggage, which was a lighter load of trunks and imperials than -a woman of _ton_ might have been supposed to require, her ladyship's -travelling toilette being of a severe simplicity. - -When George II. was king there was a luxury of travelling, which made -amends for the want of the _train de luxe_ and the _wagon-lit_. It was -the luxury of slowness; the delicious leisure of long days in the midst -of exquisite scenery--by lake, and river, and mountain pass--that had -time to grow into the mind and memory of the traveller; journeys in -which there were long oases of rest; perfumed summer nights in quiet -places, where the church bell was the only sound; mornings in obscure -galleries where one picture in a catalogue of a hundred was a gem to -be remembered ever after; glimpses of humble lives, saunterings in -market-places, adventures, perils perhaps, an alarm of brigands, ears -listening for a sudden shot ringing sharp among snow-clad hills--all -the terrors, joys, chances, surprises of a difficult road; and at one's -inn a warmth of welcome and a deferential service that in some wise -atoned for bad cooking and ill-furnished rooms. - -To Antonia that Italian journey offered a delicious repose from the -fever of London pleasures. After George Stobart's departure for America -there had been a jarring note in the harmony of life--a note that had -to be drowned somehow; and hence had come that craving for excitement, -that hastening from one trivial pleasure to another, which had made her -so conspicuous a figure in the London of last winter. - -In the solemn silence of everlasting hills, in a solitude that to Sophy -seemed a thing of horror, Antonia thought of her last season; the -crowded rooms, reeking with odours of pulvilio and melting wax, the -painted faces, the atmosphere of heat and hair-powder, the diamonds; -the haggard looks and burning eyes, round the tables where play ran -high; the hatred and malice; the jests that wounded like daggers; the -smiles that murdered reputations. - -"Shall I ever go back to it all, and think a London season life's -supreme felicity?" she wondered, standing in front of the Capuchins' -Hospice, among the granite peaks of the St. Gothard, in the chill -mountain air, while the mules were being saddled for the descent into -Italy. They had ridden yesterday morning through the Urnerloch--that -wonderful passage of two hundred feet through the solid rock, which -had been made early in the century--by the green meadows of Andermatt, -and across the Ursern valley; they had wound slowly upward through a -wild and barren region to the friendly hospice where there was always -welcome and shelter. - -Lady Kilrush had left her English travelling carriage at Lucerne, -and the journey from Airolo to Como would be made in an Italian -post-chaise. Her footman was a native of Bellinzona, and was able to -arrange all the details of their route. - -At Como she hired one of the country boats, new from the builders, -and engaged four stalwart Italian boatmen, who were to be in her -service while she made a leisurely tour of the lake, stopping wherever -the scene pleased her fancy, and putting up with the most primitive -accommodation, provided the inn were clean, and the prospect beautiful. - -That year of 1759, remarkable for the success of British arms in -Europe, Hindostan, and America, the "great year," as Horace Walpole -calls it, was also a year of golden weather, a summer of sunshine and -cloudless skies, and Antonia revelled in the warmth and light of that -lovely scene. It seemed as if every drop of blood in her veins rejoiced -in the glory of her mother's birthplace. Here, in what spot she knew -not, but somewhere along these sunlit hills that sloped gently to the -lake, her mother's early years had been spent. She would have given -much to find the spot; and in her long rambles with Sophy, or alone, -she rarely passed a church without entering it, and if she could find -the village priest rarely left him till he had searched the register -of marriages for her father's name. But no such name appeared in those -humble records; and she thought that her father might have carried his -fugitive bride to Milan, or even into Switzerland, before the marriage -ceremony was possible; the girl being under age, and the bridegroom a -heretic. She looked with interest at every villa that sheltered a noble -family, and questioned the peasants, and the people of the inn, about -all the important inhabitants of their neighbourhood, hoping to hear in -such or such a patrician family of a runaway marriage with a wandering -Englishman. But the old people to whom she chiefly addressed herself -had no memory of such an event. - -It was the beginning of September, and the scene and atmosphere -had lost nothing of their charm by familiarity, so having made the -tour of the lake villages, and being somewhat tired of rough fare, -ill-furnished rooms, and most of all of Sophy's repinings for the -comforts of St. James's Square, Lady Kilrush hired a villa near the -quaint little town of Bellagio, a villa perched almost at the point -of the wooded promontory, with a garden that sloped to the water's -edge. The villa belonged to one of Antonia's fashionable friends--a -certain Lady Despard, a banker's widow, who gave herself more airs -than an empress, and preferred Rome or Florence to London, because -of the superior consequence her wealth gave her in cities where the -measure of her rank was not too precisely known. This lady--after -trying to imitate Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and live among a peasant -population--had wearied of her villa and the little town at her -gates, the church bells, the voices of the fishermen, the feasts and -processions, and lack of modish company; and her house was to be let -furnished with all its amenities. - -Antonia engaged the villa for a month, at a liberal rent, and -established herself, with Giuseppe, the Italian footman, as her -major-domo, and a modest household of his selection; not a household of -much polish or experience, but of willing hands, smiling faces, eyes -that sparkled and danced with the golden light of Italy. Antonia was at -home and happy among these people, who served her as it were upon their -knees, and whose voices had a note that was like a caress. - -"I can understand how my mother loved her garden of roses, her chestnut -woods, and long terraces where the vines make a roof of shade, and how -she must have pined in a dull English village--a Lincolnshire village, -dismal flats without a tree, straight roads, and church steeples, with -the lead-coloured sea making a level line in the distance, that seems -like the end of the world. Alas, to her eyes, accustomed to this -golden land, these mountains climbing up to heaven, how heart-breaking -it must all have been!" - -Summer in Italy, summer on the Lake of Como. Never till now had Antonia -known what summer means--that perfect glory of sunlight, that magical -atmosphere, half golden light and half azure haze, in which earthly -things put on the glory of a dream. Never before had she enjoyed the -restfulness of a land where the atmosphere and the light are enough for -happiness, a sensuous happiness, perhaps, but leaving the spirit wings -free for flight. After the stress and tumult of a London winter, the -strife of paltry ambitions, the malevolence that called itself wit, -the aching sense of loneliness in a crowd, what bliss to loll at ease -in the spacious country boat, under the arched awning, while the oars -dipped, and the water rippled, and life went by like a sleep! She had -almost left off remembering the days of the week, the passage of time. -She only knew that the moon was waning. That great golden disk which -had bathed the hills in light and tempted her to loiter on the lake -till midnight, was no more. There was only a ragged crescent that rose -in the dead of night and filled her with melancholy. She stood at her -open window, in the dark hour before dawn, drinking the cool sweet air, -and full of sorrowful thoughts. - -Where was George Stobart under that dwindling moon? In what grim and -frowning wilderness, amidst what desolate waste of mountains, in what -wild scene of savage warfare, hemmed round by painted foes, deafened by -war cries more hideous than the howling of the wolves in the midnight -woods, done to death by the ingenious cruelties of human fiends, or -dying of famine and neglected wounds, crawling on bleeding feet till -the wearied body dropped across the narrow track that the tramp of -soldiers had worn through the wilderness, dying forsaken and alone, -perhaps, in the pitilessness of a panic flight. - -Her heart ached as she thought of him. Alas, why had he been false -to his own convictions, to his own faith? She knew that he had once -been sincere, had once been strong in a hope that she could not share. -When first she knew him he had been a good man. She looked back, and -recalled the domestic picture--the rustic lawn basking in the June -sunshine, the warm air perfumed with pinks and southernwood, and the -husband seated in his garden reading to his wife. She had looked -down at him from the proud height of her philosophy, had scorned his -unquestioning belief in things unseen; but she had respected him for -his renunciation of all the luxuries and pleasures the common herd love. - -Of the progress of the American campaign since the victory at Cape -Breton she knew very little. The posts between Italy and England were -of a hopeless irregularity, and the newspapers which she had ordered -to be sent her were more than half of them lost or stopped on the way, -while an occasional gossiping letter from a fashionable friend told her -more of the new clothes at the Birthday than the triumphs or reverses -of British arms. The London papers were at this time more concerned -about Prince Ferdinand's victory over the French at Minden, and Lord -George Sackville's strange backwardness in following up the Prince's -success, than about the fortunes of Amherst or Forbes, and the wild -warfare of the West. - -It was perhaps from the desire to be better informed that Antonia was -glad to see Lord Dunkeld, who surprised her by alighting from a boat at -the landing stage of her villa, in the first week of her residence. He -found her sitting in her garden, dreaming over a book. He had arrived -at Varenna on the previous evening, he told her, and meant to stop some -time at the inn, which commanded a fine view of the two lakes, and had -better accommodation than was usual in out-of-the-way places. - -"May one ask what brings your lordship to Italy, when most of the fine -gentlemen I know are shooting partridges in Norfolk?" Antonia asked, -when they were seated on a marble bench in front of the lake. - -There was a fountain on the lawn near them, and oleanders white and -red, masses of blossom and delicate lance-shaped leaves, made a screen -against wind and sun, and there were red roses trailing all along the -marble balustrade above the lake, and poppies pink, and red, and white, -and pale pink cyclamen, filled a circular bed at the base of a statue -of Flora, and all the garden seemed alive with colour and light. A -double flight of steps, broad and shallow, went down to the water, and -Dunkeld's boat was moored there, with his two boatmen lounging under -the awning, idle and contented. It is a stiff pull from Varenna to the -point, when the wind is blowing from Lecco. - -"Will your ladyship scorn me if I confess that I love better to sit -in an Italian garden than to tramp over a Norfolk stubble? There is a -delicate freshness in the scent of a turnip field at early morning; but -I prefer roses, and the company of one woman in the world." - -"Oh, my lord, keep your compliments for St. James's. They are out of -harmony with my life here." - -"Am I to have no license to say foolish things, after having crossed -the Alps to see you?" - -"Oh, sir, I am very credulous, but I cannot believe you have been so -simple as to travel over a thousand miles for a pleasure that you could -enjoy next month in London." - -"I should have died of that other month. I bore your absence as long -as I could, and questioned all your friends and your hall-porter to -discover any hope of your return. But no one would satisfy me, and my -heart sickened of uncertainty. So ten days ago I ordered my chaise for -Dover, and have scarce drawn rein till last night at Varenna, where -I heard of your ladyship. Nay, spare me that vexed look. I come as a -friend, not as an importunate suitor. Do you suppose I forget that I am -forbid all ecstatic hopes?" - -She gave a troubled sigh, and rose from the bench, with an agitated air. - -"Lady Kilrush, cannot you believe in friendship?" he asked, following -her. - -"Hardly. I have believed, and have had my confidence betrayed." - -"When you told me that I could never be your husband, that a life's -devotion, the adoration of the Indian for his God, could not move your -heart to love me, I swore to school myself to indifference, thought -it was possible to live contentedly without you. I have not learnt -that lesson, madam; but I have taught myself to think of your merits, -your perfections, as I might of a sister's; and I ask you to give me -something of a sister's regard. You need not fear me, madam. Youth and -the ardour of youth have gone by. I doubt you know that I was unhappy -in an early attachment, and that the exquisite creature who was to -have been my wife died in my arms in her father's park, struck by -lightning. She was but eighteen, and I less than three years older. -The stroke that should have taken us both, and sealed our love for -eternity, left me to mourn her, and to doubt God's goodness, till time -chastened my rebellious thoughts." - -"I have heard that sad story, my lord, and have understood why you were -more serious than other men of your age and circumstances. You have -been happy in finding the consolations of religion." - -"Alas, madam, to be without a fixed hope in a better world is to live -in the midst of chaos. A Christian's faith is like a lamp burning -at the end of a long dark passage. No matter if it seem but an -infinitesimal point of light in the distance, 'twill serve to guide his -footsteps through the gloom." - -"Would not duty, honour, conscience do as much for him?" - -"Perhaps, madam, since conscience is but another name for the fear -of God. Be sure the time will come when a mind so superior as yours -will be awakened to the truth; but I doubt the Christian religion -has suffered in your esteem by your acquaintance with Mr. Stobart. -The conversation of a fanatical Methodist, the jargon of Wesley and -Whitefield, their unctuous cant repeated parrot-wise by a tyro, could -but move your disgust." - -"Indeed, my lord, you wrong my cousin, George Stobart," Antonia -answered eagerly. "He is no canter--no parrot-echo of another man's -words. His sacrifice of fortune and station should vouch for his -sincerity." - -"Oh, we will say he is of the stuff that makes martyrs, if your -ladyship pleases; but 'tis a pity that a gentleman of birth and -breeding--a soldier--should have taken up with the Methodist crew. -Some one told me he has the gift of preaching. I doubt he expounds -the doctrine of irresistible grace in Lady Huntingdon's kitchen, -for the vulgar, while Whitefield thumps a cushion in her ladyship's -drawing-room." - -"My cousin has left off preaching for these two years last past, sir, -and is fighting for his king in North America." - -"Gad's life! Then he is a better man than I took him for, when his -puritan countenance and grey suit passed me in your ladyship's hall. -The American campaign is no child's play. Even our sturdy Highlanders -have been panic-struck at the cruelties of those Indian fiends, whose -war-whoops surpass the Scottish yell as a tiger outroars an ox." - -"Can your lordship tell me the latest news of the war?" - -"'Tis a tale of barren victories and heavy losses. Englishmen and -colonials have fought like heroes, and endured like martyrs; but I -doubt the end of the campaign is still far off. The effect of last -year's victory at Louisburg, at which we in England made such an -uproar, was weakened by Abercromby's defeat at Ticonderoga, and by -Amherst's refusal to risk an immediate attack upon Quebec. Had he taken -Wolfe's advice Canada would have been ours before now; but Amherst ever -erred on the side of caution. He is all for forts and block-houses, -deliberation and defence--Wolfe all for the glorious hazards of attack." - -"Then I doubt my cousin, Mr. Stobart, would sooner be with Wolfe than -with Amherst." - -"Is the gentleman such a fire-eater?" - -"I believe he loves war, and would hate shilly-shally no less than Mr. -Wolfe," Antonia answered, with a deep blush, and a sudden embarrassment. - -The desperate mood in which Stobart left England had been in her mind -as she spoke. - -"Well, if he is with Amherst he has not seen much fighting since he -left Cape Breton. Does he not write to you occasionally?" - -"No, he writes only to his wife, and not often to her." - -"'Tis not easy for a soldier on the march through a wilderness to -despatch a letter--or even to write one," said Lord Dunkeld. - -After this his lordship's boat was moored by the villa landing-stage in -some hour of every day. His society was not unpleasant to Antonia in -her Italian solitude. He had sworn to be her friend; and she thought -she had at last discovered a man capable of friendship. She had no fear -of being taken off her guard, shocked and insulted, as she had been by -George Stobart. Here was no slumbering volcano, no snake in the grass, -only a grave and dignified gentleman, of unimpeachable honour, and an -old-fashioned piety, fully impressed by his own importance, who would -fain have won her for his wife, but who, disappointed in that desire, -wished to keep her for his friend. - -He was six-and-thirty years of age, and that tragedy of his youth had -exercised a sobering influence over all his after-life. He was a fine -classical scholar, and had read much, and travelled much, but showed -himself a true Briton by his ignorance of every living language except -his own. A courier and a French valet saved him all communication -with innkeepers and their kind, and a smile or a stately wave of the -hand sufficed to make his wishes known to his Varenna boatmen. He -loved Italy as a picture, without wanting to get any nearer the living -figures in the foreground. - -There was a festa at Bellagio on the Sunday after his arrival--a festa -of thanksgiving for the fruits of the year, and he attended Antonia and -Sophy to the church, where there was to be a solemn service, and the -priestly benediction upon gifts provided by the faithful, which were -afterwards to be sold by auction for the benefit of church and poor. - -The piazza in front of the church was dazzling in the fierce afternoon -sunshine when Antonia and Sophy climbed the steep street, and found -themselves among the populace standing about the square, the women -with babies in their arms, and little children at their knees, and the -maimed and halt and blind and deaf and dumb, who seem to make up half -the population of an Italian town on a Sunday afternoon. - -The natives gazed in admiring wonder at the beautiful face under the -broad Leghorn hat, with white ostrich feathers and diamond buckle, -the tall figure in the straight simplicity of white muslin and a long -blue sash, that almost touched the points of the blue kid shoes, the -beautiful throat and pearl necklace showing above the modest muslin -kerchief. Sophy was in white muslin also, but Sophy being low in -figure, must needs affect a triple frilled skirt and a frilled muslin -cape, which gave her the shape of a penwiper. - -"Did I not know you superior to all petty arts I might say you dressed -your waiting-woman to be a foil to your beauty," Lord Dunkeld told -Antonia, when Sophy was out of earshot. - -"Miss Potter chooses her own clothes, and I can never persuade her to -wear anything but the latest fashion. She has but to see the picture -of a new mode in the _Ladies' Magazine_, and she is miserable till she -tries it on her own person." - -They went into the church, where the hot sunlight was intensified by -the pervading decoration, and the high altar glowed like a furnace. -The marble pillars were covered with crimson brocade, and long crimson -curtains hung from the roof, making a tent of warm rich red, the -scarlet vestments of the acolytes striking a harsher note against the -crimson glow. - -Three priests in richly embroidered copes officiated at the altar, -and between the rolling thunder of the organ came the sound of loud -strident voices chanting without accompaniment, while children's treble -pipes shrilled out alternate versicles. The congregation consisted -mostly of women, wearing veils, white or black. - -Antonia stood by a pillar near the door, enduring the heated atmosphere -as long as she could, but she had to leave the church before the end -of the service, followed by Sophy. Lord Dunkeld found them seated -in the piazza, where they could wait for the procession, and watch -the tributes of the pious being carried into the church by a side -door--huge cakes, castles and temples in ornamental pastry, baskets of -fruit, a dead hare, live fowls, birds in a cage, a fir tree with grapes -and peaches tied to the branches, a family of white kittens mewing and -struggling in a basket. - -The train of priests and acolytes came pouring out into the sunshine, -gorgeous in gold and brocade, the band playing a triumphal march. After -the officiating priests came a procession of men in monkish robes, -some struggling under the weight of massive crosses, the rest carrying -tapers that burnt pale in the vivid light; some with upright form and -raven hair, others the veterans of toil, with silvery locks and dark -olive faces, strong and rugged features, withered hands seamed with -the scars of labour; and following these came women of every age, from -fifteen to ninety, their heads draped with white or black veils, but -their faces uncovered. - -Lord Dunkeld surveyed them with a critical eye. "Upon my soul, I did -not think Italy could show so much ugliness," he said. - -"Oh, but most of the girls are pretty." - -"The girls, yes--but the women! They grow out of their good looks -before they are thirty, and are hags and witches when an Englishwoman's -mature charms are at the zenith. Stay, there is a pretty roguish -face--and--look, look, madam, the girl next her--the tall girl--great -Heaven, what a likeness!" - -He ran forward a few paces to get a second look at a face that had -startled him out of his Scottish phlegm--a face that was like Antonia's -in feature and expression, though the colouring was darker and less -delicate. - -"Did you see that tall girl with the blue bead necklace?" Dunkeld asked -Antonia, excitedly. - -"I could not help seeing her, when you made such a fuss." - -"She is your living image--she ought to be your younger sister." - -"I have no sisters." - -"Oh, 'tis a chance likeness, no doubt. Such resemblances are often -stronger than any you can find in a gallery of family portraits." - -Antonia turned to a little group of women close by, whom she had -already questioned about the people in the procession. Did they know -the girl in the blue necklace? - -Yes, she was Francesca Bari. She lived with her grandfather, who had a -little vineyard on the hill yonder, about a mile from the piazza where -they were standing. The signorina had noticed her? She was accounted -the prettiest girl in the district, and she was as good as she was -pretty. Her mother and father were dead, and she worked hard to keep -her grandfather's house in order, and to bring up her brother and -sisters. - -Dunkeld's interest in the girl began and ended in her likeness to the -woman he loved; but Antonia was keenly interested, and early next -morning was on her way to the hill above the Lecco lake, alone and -on foot, to search for the dwelling of the Baris. She was ever on -the alert to discover any trace of her mother's kindred; and it was -possible that some branch of her race had sunk to the peasant class, -and that the type which sometimes marks a long line of ancestry might -be repeated here. Antonia was not going to shut her eyes to such a -possibility, however humiliating it might be. Offshoots of the greatest -families may be found in humble circumstances. - -She passed a few scattered houses along the crest of the hill, and -some women picking grapes in a vineyard close to the road told her the -way to Bari's house. His vineyard was on the slope of the hill facing -Lierna. - -Less than half an hour's walk by steep and rugged paths, up and down -hill, brought her to a house with bright ochre walls and dilapidated -blue shutters, standing in a patch of garden, where great golden -pumpkins sprawled between rows of cabbages and celery, under fig-trees -covered with purple fruit, and apple and pear trees bent with age and -the weight of their rosy and russet crop. A straggling hedge of roses -and oleander divided the garden from the narrow lane, while beyond, -the vines joined hands in green alleys along the terraced slope of the -hill, sheltered by a little olive wood. - -The girl with the blue necklace was digging in the garden. Antonia -could see her across the red roses where the hedge was lowest. A child -of three or four years old was sitting on a basket close by, and two -older children were on their knees, weeding a cabbage bed. They were -poorly clad, but they looked clean, healthy, and happy. - -The girl heard the flutter of Antonia's muslin gown, and looked up, -with her foot upon her spade. She wiped the perspiration from her -forehead with a gaudy cotton handkerchief. - -"May I take one of your roses?" Antonia asked, smiling at her across -the gap in the hedge. - -"Si, si," cried Francesca, "as many as the signorina likes. There are -plenty of them." - -She ran to the hedge and began to pluck the roses, in an eager -hospitality. She was dazzled by the vision of the beautiful face, the -yellow hat and snowy plumes, the diamond buckle flashing in the sun, -and something in the smile that puzzled her. Without being conscious of -the likeness between the stranger's face and that one she saw every -morning unflatteringly reflected in the dusky little glass under her -bedroom window, she had a feeling of familiarity with the violet eyes, -the sunny smile. - -Antonia thanked her for her roses, admired her garden, questioned her -about her brother and sisters, and was at once on easy terms with her. -Yes, they were motherless, and she had taken care of them ever since -Etta, the baby, was a fortnight old. Yes, she worked hard every day; -but she loved work, and when the vintage was good they were all happy. -Grandfather had not been able to work for over a year; he was very -old--"_vecchio vecchio_"--and very weak. - -"I hope you have relations who help you," said Antonia, "distant -relations, perhaps, who are richer than your grandfather?" - -"No, there is no one. We had an aunt, but she is dead. She died before -I was born. Grandfather says I am like her. It makes him cry sometimes -to look at me, and to remember that he will never see her again! She -was his favourite daughter." - -"And was your grandfather always poor--always living here, on this -little vineyard and garden?" Antonia asked, pale, and with an intent -look in her eyes. - -Had she found them, the kindred for whom she had been looking, in these -simple peasants, these sons and daughters of toil, so humbly born, -without a history, the very off-scouring of the earth? Was this the end -of her father's fairy tale, this the lowly birthplace of the Italian -bride, the daughter of a noble house, who had fled with the English -tutor, who had stooped from her high estate to make a love match? - -She remembered her father's reluctance to take her to her mother's -home, or even to tell her the locality. She remembered how he had -shuffled and prevaricated, and put off the subject, and she thought -with bitter shame of his falsehoods, his sophistications. Alas, why had -he feared to tell her the truth? Would she have thought less lovingly -of her dead mother because of her humble lineage? Surely not! But she -had been fooled by lies, had thought of herself as the daughter of a -patrician race, and had cherished romantic dreams of a line of soldiers -and statesmen, whose ambitions and aspirations, whose courage and -genius, were in her blood. - -The dilapidated walls yonder, the painted shutters rotten with age, -the gaudy daub of Virgin and Child on the plastered facade, the garden -of cabbages and pumpkins, and the patch of tall Indian corn! What a -disillusion! How sorry an end of her dreams! - -"Sicuro!" the girl answered, wondering at the fine lady's keen look. -She had been questioned often about herself, often noticed by people of -quality, on account of her beauty; but this lady had such an earnest -air. "Si, si, signorina," she said; "grandfather has always lived here. -He was born in our cottage. His father was gardener to the Marchese" -(the grand seigneur of the district, name understood). "And he bought -the vineyard with his savings when he was an old man. He was a very -good gardener." - -"May I see your grandfather?" - -"Sicuro! He will be pleased to see the signorina," the girl answered -readily, accustomed to be patronized by wandering strangers, and to -receive little gifts from them. - -Antonia followed her into the cottage. An old man was sitting in an -armchair by the hearth, where an iron pot hung over a few smouldering -sticks and a heap of grey ashes. He looked up at Antonia with eyes that -saw all things dimly. The sunshine streamed into the room from the -open door and window; but her face was in shadow as she went towards -him with outstretched hand, Francesca explaining that the English lady -wished to see him. - -The patriarch tried to rise from his chair, but Antonia stopped him, -seating herself by his side. - -"I saw your grand-daughter at the festa," she said, "and I wanted to -see more of her, if I could. Can you guess why I was anxious about her, -and anxious to be her friend?" - -She took off her hat, while the old man looked at her with a slow -wonder, his worn-out eyes gradually realizing the lines in the splendid -face. - -"I have been told that your Francesca is like me," she said. "Can you -see any resemblance?" - -"_Santo e santissimo!_ Si, si, the signorina is like Francesca, as two -peaches side by side on the wall yonder; and she is like my daughter, -my Tonia, my beloved, who died more than twenty years ago. But she is -not dead to me--no, not to me. I see her face in my dreams. I hear her -voice sometimes as I wake out of sleep, and then I look round, and call -her, and she is not there; and I remember that I am an old man, and -that she left me many, many years ago." - -"You had a daughter called Antonia?" - -"_Si, signorina_. It was her mother's name also. I called her Tonia. -She was the handsomest girl between the two lakes. Everybody praised -her, a good girl, as industrious as she was virtuous. A good and -dutiful daughter till the Englishman stole her from us." - -"Your Antonia married an Englishman?" - -"Si, signorina! 'Twas thought a fine marriage for her. He wore a -velvet coat, and he called himself a gentleman; but he was only a -schoolmaster, and he came to Varenna in a coach and six with a young -English milord." - -"What was the tutor's name?" - -"_Non posso pronunziar' il suo nome._ Tonton, Tonton, Guilliamo." - -"Thornton! William Thornton?" - -"_Ecco!_" cried the old man, nodding assent. "We had a dairy then, my -wife and I," he continued, "and the young lord and his governor used -to leave their boat and walk up the hill to get a drink of milk. They -paid us handsomely, and we got to look for them every day, and they -would stop and talk and laugh with my two girls. The governor could -speak Italian almost like one of us; and the young milord was trying to -learn; and they used all of them to laugh at his mistakes, and make a -fool of him. Well, well, 'twas a merry time for us all." - -"Did you consent to your daughter's marriage?" - -"_Chi lo sa? Forse! Non diceva ne si ne no._ He was a gentleman, and -I was proud that she should marry above her station. But he told me a -bundle of lies. He pretended to be a rich man, and promised that he -would bring her to Italy once a year. And then he took her away, in -milord's coach, and they were married at Chiavenna, where he lied to -the priest, as he had lied to me, and swore he was a good Catholic. He -sent me the certificate of their marriage, so that I might know my -daughter was an honest woman; but he never let me see her again." - -He paused in a tearful mood. - -"Perhaps it was not his own fault that he did not keep his promise," -Antonia pleaded. "He may have been too poor to make such a journey." - -"Yes, he was as poor as Job. Tonia wrote to me sometimes, and she told -me they were very poor, and that she hated her English home, and pined -for the garden and the vineyard, and the hills and lakes. She was -afraid she would die without ever seeing us again. Her letters were -full of sorrow. I could see her tears upon the page. And then there -came a letter from him, with a great black seal. She was dead--_Ma non -si muove foglia che Iddio non voglia_. 'Tis not for me to complain!" - -The feeble frame was shaken by the old man's sobs. Antonia knelt on the -brick floor by his chair, and soothed him with gentle touches and soft -words. She was full of tender pity; but there was the feeling that she -was stooping from her natural level to comfort a creature of a lower -race, another order of being, with whom she could have no sympathy. - -And he was her grandfather. His blood was in her veins. From him she -inherited some of the qualities of her heart and brain: not from -statesmen or heroes, but from a peasant, whose hands were gnarled and -roughened by a lifetime's drudgery, whose thoughts and desires had -never travelled beyond his vineyard and patch of Indian corn. - -Her grandfather, living in this tumble-down old house, where the rotten -shutters offered so poor a defence against foul weather, the floods -and winds of autumn and winter, where the crumbling brick floor had -sunk below the level of the soil outside: living as peasants live, -and suffering all the deprivations and hardships of extreme poverty, -while she, his own flesh and blood, had squandered thousands upon the -caprices of a woman of fashion. And she found him worn out with toil, -old and weak, on the brink of the grave perhaps. Her wealth could do -but little for him. - -She had no doubt of his identity. The story of his daughter's marriage -was her mother's story. - -There was no room for doubt, yet she shrank with a curious restraint -from revealing the tie that bound her to him. She was full of generous -pity for a long life that had known so few of this world's joys; but -the feeling of caste was stronger than love or pity. She was ashamed -of herself for feeling such bitter mortification, such a cruel -disappointment. Oh, foolish pride which she had taken for an instinct -of good birth! Because she was beautiful and admired, high-spirited and -courageous, she must needs believe that she sprang from a noble line, -and could claim all the honour due to race. Her father had lied to her, -and she had believed the flattering fable. She could not reconcile -herself to the humiliating truth so far as to claim her new-found -kindred. But she was bent upon showing them all possible kindness -short of that revelation. They were so poor, so humble, that she might -safely play the part of benefactress. They had no pride to be crushed -by her favours. She questioned the old man about his health, while -the girl stood by the doorway listening, and the children's silvery -voices sounded in the garden outside. Had he been ill long; did he -suffer much; had he a doctor? He had been ailing a long time, but as -for suffering, well, he had pains in his limbs, the house was damp -in winter, but there was more weakness than suffering. "Also the ass -when he is tired lies down in the middle of the road, and can go no -farther," he said resignedly. As for a doctor; no, he had no need of -one. The doctor would only bleed him; and he had too little blood as -it was. One of his neighbours--an old woman that some folks counted a -witch, but a good Catholic for all that--had given him medicine of her -own making that had done him good. - -"I think a doctor would do you more good, if you would see one. There -is a doctor at Bellagio who came to see my woman the other day when she -had a touch of fever. He seemed a clever man." - -"_Si signorina, ma senza denari non si canta messa._ Clever men want to -be paid. Your doctor would cost me the eyes of the head." - -"You shall have as much money as ever you want," answered Antonia, -pulling a long netted purse from her pocket. - -The gold showed through the silken meshes, and the old man's eyes -glittered with greed as he looked at it. She filled his tremulous hands -with guineas, emptying both ends of the purse into his hollowed palms. -He had never seen so much gold. The strangers who came to sit under his -_pergola_, and drink great bowls of new milk from the fawn-coloured -cows that were his best source of income, thought themselves generous -if they gave him a _scudo_ at parting: but here was a visitor from -fairyland raining gold into his hands. - -"They are English guineas, and you will gain by the exchange," she -said, "so you can have the physician to see you every day. He will not -want to bleed you when he sees how weak you are." - -The old man shook his head doubtfully. They were so ready with the -lancet, those doctors! His eyes were fixed on the guineas, as he tried -to reckon them. The coins lay in too close a heap to be counted easily. - -He broke into a rapture of gratitude, invoking every saint in the -calendar, and Antonia shivered with pain at the exaggeration of his -acknowledgments. He thanked her as a wayside beggar would have done. -His benedictions were the same as the professional mendicants, the -maimed and halt and blind, gave her when she dropped a coin into a -basket or a hat. He belonged to the race which is accustomed to taking -favours from strangers. He belonged to the sons of bondage, poverty's -hereditary slaves. - -She appealed to Francesca. - -"Would it not be better for your grandfather if he lived at Bellagio, -where he would have a comfortable house in a street, and plenty of -neighbours?" she asked. - -"I don't think he would like to leave the vineyard, Signorina; though -it would be very pleasant to live in the town," answered Francesca. - -Her dark eyes sparkled at the thought. It was lonely on the hill, -where she had only the children to talk to, and her grandfather, whose -conversation was one long lamentation. - -The old man looked up with a scared expression. - -"_Ohime! Non posso!_" he exclaimed, "I could not leave the villino. I -shall die as I have lived, in the villino!" - -"Well, you must do what is best pleasing to yourself," Antonia said. -"All I desire is that you should be happy, and enjoy every comfort that -money can buy." - -She bent down and kissed the sunburnt forehead, so wrinkled and -weather-beaten after the long life of toil. She asked Francesca to walk -a little way with her; and they went out into the lane together. - -"Your house looks comfortless even in sunshine," Antonia said. "It must -be worse in winter!" - -"_Si, signorina._ It is very cold in bad weather, but grandfather loves -the villino." - -"You might get a carpenter to mend the windows and put new hinges on -the shutters. They look as if they would hardly shut." - -"Indeed, signorina, 'tis long since our shutters have been shut. -Grandfather is too poor to pay a carpenter. Nothing in the house has -been mended since I can remember." - -"But you have your cows and your vineyard. How is it that he is so -poor?" - -The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew nothing. - -"Is it you who keeps the purse?" - -"No, no, _signorina, non so niente_. Grandfather gives me money to pay -the baker----" - -"And the butcher?" - -"We do not buy meat. I kill a fowl sometimes, or a rabbit; but for the -most part we have cabbage soup and polenta." - -"Well, you will have plenty of money in future. I shall see to that; -and you must take care that your grandfather has good food every day, -and a doctor when he is ailing, and warm blankets for winter. I want -you both to be happy and well cared for. And you must get a man to dig -in the garden and carry water for you. I don't like to see a girl work -as you do." - -Francesca stared at the beautiful lady in open wonder. She was -doubtless mad as a March hare, la Poverina; but what a delightful form -her madness had taken. It might be that the Blessed Virgin had inspired -this madness, and sent this lovely lunatic wandering from house to -house among the deserving poor, scattering gold wherever she found want -and piety. It was almost a miracle. Indeed, who could be sure that -this benign lady was not the Blessed One herself, who could appear in -any manner she pleased, even arrayed in the latest fashion of plumed -hats and India muslin _negligees?_ - -Antonia left the girl a little way from the villino, and walked slowly -down the hill to Bellagio, deep in thought. Alas, alas, to have found -her mother's kindred, and to feel no thrill of love, no yearning to -take them to her heart, only the same kind of pity she had felt for -those poor wretches in Lambeth Marsh, only an eager desire to make -their lot happier, to give them all good things that money can buy. - -"Should I grow to love that old man if I knew him better?" she -wondered. "Is there some dormant affection in my heart, some hereditary -love that needs but to be warmed into life by time and custom? God -knows what I am made of. I do not feel as if I could ever care for that -poor old man as grandfathers are cared for. My mother's father, and he -loved her dearly! It is base ingratitude in me not to love him." - -She recalled the greedy look that came into the withered old face -at sight of the gold. A painter need have asked no better model for -Harpagon. She would have given much not to have seen that look. - -She would visit them often, she thought, and would win him to softer -moods. She would question him about her mother's girlhood, beguile him -into fond memories of the long-lost daughter, memories of his younger -days, before grinding poverty had made him so eager for gold. She would -make herself familiar with Bari and his granddaughter, find out all -their wants, all their desires, and provide for the welfare of the old -life that was waning, and the young life with a long future before it. -She would make age and youth happy, if it were possible. But she would -not tell them of the relationship that made it her duty to care for -them. She would let them remember her as the eccentric stranger, who -had found them in poverty, and left them in easy circumstances; the -benefactress dropped from the clouds. - -To what end should she tell them of kinship if she could not give -them a kinswoman's love? And she could not. The girl was a beautiful -creature, kindly, gentle, caressing; but she was a peasant, a peasant -whose thoughts had never travelled beyond the narrow circle of her -hills, whose rough knuckles and thick fingers told of years of toil, -who had not one feeling in common with the cousin bred upon books, -and plunged in the morning of youth into the most enlightened society -in Christendom, the London of Walpoles and Herveys, Carterets and St. -Johns, Pitts and Foxes. - -She would not tell them. She could not imagine her lips framing the -words. She could not say to Francesca, "We are first cousins, the next -thing to sisters." But she could make them happy. That was possible. -She could take all needful measures to provide them with a substantial -income; a competence which should enable them to rebuild the rotten old -villa, and spend the rest of their days in ease and plenty. - -Lord Dunkeld called on her in the evening, and took a dish of tea with -the two ladies in their garden betwixt sunset and moonrise. He found -Antonia looking pale and tired. - -"She started on one of her solitary rambles early this morning," Sophy -said; "as if any one ought to walk in this climate, and she was as -white as her muslin gown when she came home. She had much better have -idled with me in the boat." - -"I did not go far," Antonia said, "but I found some interesting -people--only peasants. The girl your lordship noticed yesterday in the -procession." - -"The girl who is so like you?" exclaimed Dunkeld. "I thought your -ladyship was a stranger to at least one of the deadly sins, and knew no -touch of vanity. But I find you are mortal, and that you had a fancy to -see a face like your own." - -"Yes, I had a fancy to see the girl. And now I want to help her, if I -can. She is desperately poor." - -"Is anybody poor in Italy? I have always thought that Italian peasants -live upon sunshine and a few ripe figs, and have no use for money." - -"They are very poor. The grandfather is old, and ailing. Can you find -me an honest lawyer here, or at Varenna?" - -"For your ladyship I would attempt miracles. I will do my best." - -"And as quickly as you can, my lord, for I want to go back to England." - -"Grant me the felicity of escorting you when you go, and make me your -slave in the mean time; though, as I am always that, madam, 'tis a -one-sided bargain." - -"Oh, pray come in our coach with us, my lord," cried Sophy. "I was in a -panic all the way here, on account of the brigands." - -"Heavens! Was your coach attacked?" - -"No, no, sir," said Antonia, laughing. "The brigands came no nearer -than a vague rumour that some of their calling had been heard of above -Andermatt." - -"But who knows what may happen when we are going home, now that the -days are so much shorter?" protested Sophy. - -"If one strong arm and a pair of pistols can help you, Miss Potter----" - -"Oh, I shall feel ever so much safer with your lordship in our coach. I -know if those wretches came--with black masks, perhaps--Giuseppe would -run away." - -Giuseppe was the Italian footman, whom Sophy suspected of being a -poor-spirited creature, in spite of a figure which would have delighted -the late King of Prussia. - -Antonia went to the villino on the following afternoon, and being -unable to shake off Lord Dunkeld, allowed him to accompany her. She -liked his conversation, which diverted her thoughts from brooding -upon the past, and on George Stobart's peril in the wild world across -the Atlantic. He filled the place of that brilliant society which had -been her anodyne for every grief; and she was grateful to him for a -steadfastness in friendship which promised to last for a lifetime. His -colder temperament had allowed him to put off the lover and assume the -friend. He had been strong as a granite pillar where George Stobart had -proved a broken reed. - -They found the girl tying up the vine branches in a long berceau, and -the old man sitting by the smouldering ashes as he had sat yesterday, -in a monotony of idleness. The windows had not been mended, and the -shutters still hung forlornly upon broken hinges. - -Antonia asked the girl if she had not been able to find a carpenter to -do the work. - -"Grandfather would not let a carpenter come. He is afraid of the noise." - -"And when bad weather comes the rain will come in." - -"_Si, signorina;_ the rain always comes in." - -"And your broken shutters cannot keep out the cold winds." - -"No, signorina; the wind almost blows grandfather out of his chair -sometimes." - -"Then he really ought to let a carpenter come." - -The old man was listening intently, and Dunkeld was watching his face. - -"They are brigands, those carpenters," he said. "'Tis a waste of money -to employ them. I don't mind the wind, signorina. Francia can hang up a -curtain." - -"Oh, grandfather, the curtain is an old rag! And the signorina gave you -money to pay the carpenter." - -"_Andiamo adagio, carissima._ I am not going to waste the signorina's -money on idlers and cheats, nor yet upon doctors. I hate doctors! They -are knaves, bloodthirsty rogues that want to be paid for sticking a -knife into a man as if he were a pig!" - -Antonia did not argue the point, and left the old man after a few -kindly words. She was disgusted at his obstinacy, which made it so hard -a matter to improve his circumstances. She walked some way in silence, -Dunkeld at her side. - -"I fear your new _protege_ is a troublesome subject," he said, "and -that you will find a difficulty in helping him." - -"I cannot understand his objection to having that wretched old barn -made wind and weather tight." - -"I can. The man is a miser. You have given him money, and he wants to -keep it, to hide it under his mattress, perhaps, and gloat over it in -the dead of the night. The miser has a keener joy in the touch of a -guinea than in any indulgence of meat or drink, warmth and comfort, -that money can buy." - -"I fear your lordship has guessed the riddle," Antonia answered, -wounded to the quick. "I gave him all the gold in my purse yesterday. -'Twas at least twenty guineas. Well, I must take other means. I will -send a carpenter to do all the work that is wanted, and take the -Bellagio doctor to the villino to-morrow morning." - -"Will your ladyship be offended if I presume to advise?" - -"Offended! I shall think you vastly kind." - -"Leave these people alone. The old man is unworthy of your protection. -The girl is happy in her present condition. Your bounty will but -administer to her grandfather's avarice, and will not better her life." - -"But I must help them--I must, I must," Antonia protested. "It is my -duty. I cannot let them suffer the ills of poverty while I am rich. I -must find some way to make their lives easy." - -Dunkeld wondered at her vehemence, and pursued the argument no further. -This passion of charity was but an instinct of her generous nature, the -desire to share fortune's gifts with the unfortunate. - -She returned from this second visit dispirited and unhappy. Was she -doomed never to be able to esteem those whom she was bound to love? -She had loved her father fondly, though she had known him unprincipled -and shifty; but what affection could she feel for this old man against -whom her class instinct revolted, unless she could find in him humble -virtues that could atone for humble birth? And she found him sordid, -untruthful, avaricious. - -She called on the local doctor next morning, and went with him to the -villino, where he diagnosed the old man's ailments as only old age, the -weakness induced by poor food, and the rheumatic symptoms that were the -natural result of living in a draughty house. He recommended warmth and -a generous diet, and promised to call once a week through the coming -winter, his fee for each visit being something less than an English -shilling. - -After he had gone Antonia sat in the garden with Baptisto Bari and -his granddaughter for an hour. She had his chair carried into the -sunshine, and out of the way of the noise, while a couple of workmen -mended the windows and shutters. She had found a builder in Bellagio, -and had instructed him to do all that could be done to make the house -comfortable before winter. He was to get the work done with the least -possible inconvenience to the family. - -Sitting in the quiet garden, while Francesca gathered beans for the -soup, and while the children sprawled in the sun, playing with some -toys Antonia had brought them, Bari was easily lured into talking -of the past, and of the daughter he had loved. All that was best in -his nature revealed itself when he talked of his sorrow; and Antonia -thought that the miser's despicable passion had only grown upon him -after the loss that had, perhaps, blighted his life. And then, when he -was an old man, death had taken his remaining daughter; and he had been -left, lonely and heart-broken, with his orphan grandchildren. He had -begun to scrape and pinch for their support, most likely; and then the -miser's insane love of money had grown upon him, like some insidious -disease. - -Antonia tried to interest him, and to make excuses for him, and she -spoke to him very plainly upon the money question. She appealed even to -his selfishness. - -"When I give you money, it is that you may have all the good things -that money can buy," she said; "good wine and strengthening food, -warm clothes, a comfortable bed. What is the use of a few guineas in -a cracked teacup, or hidden in a corner of your mattress?"--Baptisto -almost jumped out of his chair, and she knew she had hit upon the place -of his treasure. "What is the use of hoarding money that other people -will spend and waste, perhaps, when you are dead?" - -"No, no, she will not waste it. _Che Diavolo!_ She will give me a -handsome funeral, and spend all the rest on masses for the good of my -soul. That is what she will have to do." - -"You need not save money for that. If you live comfortably your life -will be prolonged, most likely; and I promise that you shall have a -handsome funeral, and the--the masses." - -She went again next day, and on the day after, always alone; and the -old man became more and more at his ease with her; but all that she did -was done for duty's sake, and she found it harder work to talk to him -than it had been to talk with poor dying Sally Dormer, by whose bedside -she had spent many quiet hours. The abyss between them was wider. But -she felt more affectionately towards Francesca, who adored her almost -as if she were indeed the celestial lady whose miraculous presence -every good Catholic is prepared to meet at any solemn crisis of life. - -Antonia did not rest till, with the assistance of a banker and lawyer -at Varenna, she had settled an income of three hundred pounds a year -upon Baptisto, with reversion to his grandchildren, she herself acting -as trustee in conjunction with the banker, who was partner in an -old-established banking house at Milan, of which the Varenna bank--in a -pavilion in an angle of a garden wall--was a branch. - -This done, her mind was at ease, and she prepared for her journey to -England. She would return, as she had come, by the Low Countries, -avoiding France on account of the war. - -Lord Dunkeld had advised and assisted her in making the settlement on -the Baris, but she knew that he thought her foolish and quixotic in her -determination to provide for this particular family. - -"I could find you a score of claimants for your bounty, far more -pathetic cases than Baptisto, if you are so set upon playing the good -angel," he said. "'Tis a mercy you do not want to provide for the whole -pauper population upon the same magnificent scale. Three hundred a -year for an Italian peasant! But a woman's charity is ever a romantic -impulse; and one can but admire her tenderness, though one may question -her discretion." - -"I may have a reason you cannot fathom," Antonia said gravely. - -"Oh, 'tis the heart moves you to this act, not the reason! This world -would be happier if all women were as unreasonable." - -She despised herself for suppressing the motive of her bounty. To be -praised for generosity, while she was ashamed to acknowledge her own -kindred, ashamed of her own lowly origin! What could be meaner or more -degrading? But she thought of Dunkeld's thousand years' pedigree, the -pride of birth, the instinct of race, which he had so often revealed -unconsciously in their familiar talk; and it was difficult to sink her -own pride before so proud a man. - -The last day came, and he insisted on accompanying her in her farewell -visit. She had given him the privileges of a trusted friend, and had -no excuse for refusing his company. - -She told Baptisto Bari what she had done for him. - -"You will have seventy-five pounds paid you every quarter," she -said; "and all you have to do is to spend your money freely, and let -Francesca buy everything that is wanted for you, and the children, and -herself. I shall come back next year, and I shall be very sorry and -very angry if I do not find you living in comfort, and the villino -looking as handsome as a nobleman's villa." - -The old man protested his gratitude, with tears. Yes, he would spend -his money. He had been spending it. See, there was the magnificent new -curtain; and he had a pillow for his bed; and a barrel of oil for the -lamp. They had the lamp lighted every night. And he had coffee--a dish -of coffee on Sunday--and they had been drinking their milk, and making -butter for themselves, instead of selling all the milk to the _negozio_ -in Bellagio. Indeed, he had discovered that money was a very useful -thing when one spent it; though it was also useful to keep it against -the day of misfortune or death. - -"True, m'amico; but it is bad economy to keep your money under your -pillow, and let your house fall over your ears for want of mending," -answered Antonia; and then she bade him good-bye--good-bye till -next year, and bent down to kiss the withered forehead, above white -pent-house eyebrows. - -The keen old eyes clouded over with tears as her lips touched him, and -the tremulous old hands were joined in prayer that God and the Saints -might reward her piety. - -She opened her arms to Francesca, who fell upon her breast, sobbing. - -"Ah, sweetest lady, had the poor ever such a friend, ever such a -benefactor? Heaven sent you to us. We pray for you night and day, for -your happiness on earth, for your soul's bliss in heaven," cried the -girl, in her melodious Italian. - -Antonia could scarcely drag herself away from the clinging arms, the -tears and benedictions; but she left Francesca at the garden gate, -and amid all those tears and kisses had not revealed herself to her -kindred. - -She crossed the hill in silence, Dunkeld at her side, watching her -thoughtful countenance, and perplexed by its almost tragic gloom. - -"You are a wonderful woman," he said lightly, by-and-by, to break the -spell of silence. "You take these Italian peasants to your heart as if -they were your own flesh and blood. Is it the Italian blood in your -veins that opens your heart to beings of so different a race?" - -"Perhaps." - -"I could understand your letting the girl hug you--a creature so -lovely, and in the bloom and freshness of youth. But that wrinkled old -miser! Well, 'twas a divine charity that moved you to squander a kiss -upon that parchment brow." - -Antonia turned to him in a sudden tumult of feeling, remorse, shame, -self-disparagement. - -"Oh, stop, stop!" she cried. "Your words scald me like molten lead. -Divine charity! Why, I am the most despicable of women. I hate myself -for my paltry pride. I can bear the shame of it no longer. 'Twill be -your lordship's turn to scorn me as I scorn myself. That old man is -my mother's father. I came to Italy to hunt for her kindred, to find -in what palace she was reared, from what princely race I inherited my -haughty spirit. And a chance, the chance likeness between Francesca -and me, resulted in the discovery that I came of a long line of -peasants, servants, the tillers of the ground, the race that lives by -submissive toil, that has never known independence. And I was ashamed -of them--bitterly ashamed. It was anguish to me to know that I sprang -from that humble stock, most of all when I thought of you, your -warriors, and statesmen, bishops, judges--all the long line of rulers -and master minds, stretching back into the dark night of history, part -of yourself; for if they had never lived you could not be what you are." - -"Oh, madam, you own a more noble lineage than Scottish Thanes can boast -of. The seaborn Venus had no ancestors, but was queen of the earth by -the divine right of beauty. You are a daughter of the gods, and may -easily dispense with a parchment pedigree." - -"Oh, pray, sir, no idle compliments! I would rather suffer your -contempt than your mocking praise. I can scarcely be more despicable in -your esteem than I am in my own." - -"I could never think ill of you, my sweet friend; never doubt the -nobility of your heart and mind. The test has been a severe one; for to -a woman the death of a romantic dream means much; but the gold rings -true. You had a right to keep this secret from me if you pleased." - -"And from them?" - -"That is a nicer question. I doubt it is your duty to make them happier -by the knowledge that they have a legitimate claim to your bounty. I -think you would do well to disclose your relationship to them before -you leave Italy. The old man may not live till your return; and the -thought that pride had come between you and one so near in blood might -be a lasting regret." - -"Yes, yes, your lordship is right. I will see them again this evening. -I will tell my grandfather who and what I am. Yes, it was odious of me -to play the Lady Bountiful, to let him praise me for generosity--me, -his daughter's child. Sure I am glad I made my confession to you, for -now I know that you are my true friend." - -"I will never advise you ill, if I can help it, madam," he said, -stooping to kiss her hand. "And doubt not that you can trust me with -every secret of your heart and mind, for there can exist no feeling or -thought in either that is not common to generous natures." - - * * * * * - -Lady Kilrush spent the sunset hour with her kindred, and was touched -by the old man's delight when he clasped to his heart the child of -that daughter he had loved and mourned. She knelt beside him with -uncovered head as she told him the story of her childhood, her love -for the mother she had lost before memory began. He turned her face to -the sunset glow, and gazed at her with eyes drowned in tears. He was -no longer the money-grubber, keenly expectant of a stranger's bounty. -The whole nature of the man seemed changed by the awakening of an -unforgotten love. - -"Yes, it is Tonia's face," he cried. "I knew you were beautiful; I knew -you were like her; but not how like. Your brow has the same lines, your -lips have the same curves. Yes, now, as you smile at me, I see my -beloved one again." - -There was nothing sordid or vulgar in the peasant now. His countenance -shone with the pure light of love, and Antonia's heart went out to him -with some touch of filial affection. - -Before they parted he gave her a letter--the ink dim with age--her -mother's last letter, written from the Lincolnshire homestead where she -died; and Antonia read of the love that had hung over her cradle, that -tender maternal love she had been fated never to know. - -She deferred her journey for a few days, at her grandfather's entreaty, -and spent many hours at the villino. She encouraged Baptisto and -Francesca to talk to her of all the details of their lives. She drew -nearer to them in thought and feeling, and made new plans for their -happiness, promising to come to Bellagio every autumn, and offering to -build them a new house next year at the other end of their garden where -the view was finer. But the old man protested that the villino would -last his time, and that he would never like any house as well. - -"Then the new house must be built for Francesca when she marries," -Antonia told him gaily. "We will wait till she has a suitor she loves." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -DEATH AND VICTORY. - - -It was late in October when Lady Kilrush arrived at her house in St. -James's Square. What a gloomy splendour, what an unromantic luxury the -spacious mansion presented after the lake and mountains, the chestnut -woods and rose gardens of Lombardy. Yet this old English comfort -within doors, while the grey mists of autumn brooded over the square -where the oil lamps made spots of quivering golden light amidst the -deepening gloom, had a certain charm, and Antonia was not ill pleased -to find herself taking a dish of tea by the fire in the library with -her old friend Patty Granger, who brought her the news of the town, the -weddings and elopements, the duels and law-suits, the beauties who had -lost their looks, and the prodigals who had anticipated their majority -and ruined an estate by a single cast at hazard. - -"And so Lord Dunkeld travelled all the way from Como with you and Mrs. -Potter?" said Patty, when she had emptied her budget. "You must have -been vastly tired of him by the time you got home, after being boxed in -a travelling chariot for over a se'nnight." - -"There are people of whose company one does not easily tire, Patty." - -"Then my old General ain't one of 'em; for I yawn till my jaws ache -whenever we spend an evening together, and he sits and proses over -Marlborough's wars and the two chargers he had shot under him at -Malplaquet. Sure I knew all his stories by heart long before we were -married; and 'tain't likely I'll listen to 'em now. But if you can -relish Lord Dunkeld's conversation for a week in a chaise, perhaps -you'll be able to endure it from year's end to year's end when you're -his wife." - -"What are you thinking of, child? I am not going to marry Lord Dunkeld, -or any other man living." - -"Then I think you ought to have put the poor wretch out of his pain a -year ago, and not let him dance attendance on you half over Europe." - -"His lordship has known my mind for a long time, and is pleased to -honour me with his friendship." - -"Ah, you have a knack of turning lovers into friends. You was friends -with Mr. Stobart till you quarrelled with him and sent him off to the -wars. And I doubt he's killed by this time, if he was with Wolfe; for -the General tells me our soldiers haven't a chance against the French." - -"Does the General say that, Patty?" Antonia asked anxiously. - -She had read all the newspapers on her home-coming. There was no fresh -news from America; but the tone about the war was despondent. Wolfe's -army before Quebec was but nine thousand, the enemy's force nearly -double. Amherst was at a distance, winter approaching, the outlook of a -universal blackness. - -"The General has hardly any hopes," said Patty. "He has seen Wolfe's -last letter, such a down-hearted letter; and the poor man is fitter -to lie a-bed in a hospital than to storm a city. He has always been a -sickly wretch; never could abide the sea, and suffers more on a voyage -than a delicate young woman." - - * * * * * - -Antonia lay awake half that night, despondent and uneasy, and in her -troubled morning sleep dreamt of George Stobart, in a grenadier's -uniform, with an ashen countenance, the blood streaming from a sabre -cut on his forehead. He looked at her with fading eyes, and reproached -her for her cruelty. 'Twas her unkindness had sent him to his doom. - -She woke out of this nightmare vision to hear news-boys yelling in the -square. "Taking of Quebec. A glorious victory. Death of General Wolfe. -Death of General Montcalm." She sprang from her bed, threw up a window, -and looked down into the square. It was hardly light. The news-boys -were bawling as if they were mad, and street doors and area gates were -opening, and eager hands were stretched out to snatch the papers. A -ragamuffin crowd was following the news-boys, the crowd that is afoot -at all hours, and comes from nowhere. "Great English victory--Slaughter -of the enemy. Death of General Wolfe on the field of battle. Death of -General Montcalm. Destruction of the French. Quebec taken." - -Mr. Pitt had received the news late last night, and this morning 'twas -in all the papers. The shouting of the news-vendors made a confusion -of harsh noises, each trying to bawl louder than his fellows. And then -came the sound of trumpet and drum in Pall Mall, as the guard marched -to the Palace, and anon loud hurrahs from the excited crowd in the -square, in Pall Mall, everywhere, filling the air with vociferous -exultation. - -Death and victory! The words reached Antonia's ear together. Victory -purchased at what cost of blood, what sacrifice of lives that were -dear? She had met old General Wolfe and his handsome wife, now a widow, -the hero's proud mother; and it was sad to think of that lady's agony -to-day, while all England was rejoicing, all who had not lost their -dearest as she had. - -Both generals slain! And how many of those they led to battle? Were -George Stobart's bones lying on the heights of Abraham, the prey of -eagles and wolves, or buried hastily by some friendly hand, hidden for -ever under that far-off soil, which the winter snow would soon cover? -Her heart ached at the thought that she would see him no more, she who -had desired, or thought she desired, never to look upon his face. - -She sent her woman for the newspapers, and turned them over with -trembling hands, standing by the open window in the chill autumnal air, -too much discomposed even to sit down. The _Daily Advertiser_ had a -letter with a description of the siege; all the wonder of it; the boats -creeping up the river under the midnight stars; the ascent of that grim -height through the darkness, the soldiers clambering with uncertain -foothold, clutching at bushes, struggling through trees, their muskets -slung at their backs, the _qui vive?_ of the French sentinel above, the -courage, the address, the presence of mind of leaders and men. There -had been great losses; but there was no list of the killed; and Stobart -might be among them. - -She ordered her coach to be at the door in an hour, and waited only to -dress and take a cup of chocolate before she went to see Mrs. Stobart, -who, if her husband had survived the siege, might have had a letter by -the ship that brought England the news from Quebec. - -A stranger opened the door at Crown Place. Instead of Mrs. Stobart's -handmaiden, in white apron and mob cap, Antonia saw an old woman, -of dejected aspect, who stared at the footman and coach as at some -appalling vision. - -Yes, Mrs. Stobart was at home, but she was very ill, the woman said, -and it might be dangerous for the lady to see her. - -The lady, who had alighted at the opening of the door, took no heed of -this warning. The wife was ill, struck down perhaps by the shock of -fatal news. Antonia instantly associated Lucy's illness with the fate -of her husband. - -"Where is she?" she asked, and ran upstairs without waiting to be -answered. In an eight-roomed house it was not difficult to find the -mistress's chamber. She opened the door of the front room softly, and -found herself in darkness, an obscurity made horrible by the stifling -heat of the room, where the red cinders of what had been a fierce fire -made a lurid glow behind the high brass fender. The dimity curtains -were closed round the bed. Antonia drew one of them aside and looked -at the sick woman. She was asleep, and breathing heavily, her forehead -bound with a linen cloth, and the hand lying on the coverlet burnt like -a hot coal under Antonia's touch. - -The old woman came panting up the stairs, and after stopping to recover -her normal breathing power, which was but feeble, she addressed the -visitor in a voice of alarm. - -"Oh, madam, you had best come away from the bed. 'Tis the small-pox, a -bad case, and if you have never had the disease----" - -"I have been inoculated. I am not afraid," Antonia answered quickly, -thinking only of the patient. Alas, poor soul, to be seized with that -hateful sickness, which she so feared. "How did she come by this -horrible malady, ma'am?" - -"She caught it from an old gentleman, my lady--I believe he was a -relation--who died in the house. She was taken ill the night after -his funeral, a fortnight ago. 'Tis the worst kind of small-pox. She -was quite sensible two days ago, and then the fever came back, the -secondary fever, the doctor calls it. Even if she gets over it she -will be disfigured for life, poor lady, and may lose her eyesight. -'Tis as bad a case as I ever nursed, and if your honour hadn't been -inoculated----" - -"But I have, woman, and I have no fear. Pray tell me where is this -lady's son? Was he in the house when she was taken ill?" - -"No, my lady. The little master is living with his gran'ma, the servant -girl told me." - -"That is fortunate. Are you Mrs. Stobart's only nurse?" - -"Yes, my lady." - -"And at night when you are asleep, who attends upon her?" - -"I am a very light sleeper, ma'am. I mostly hears her when she calls -me, if she calls loud enough." - -"She must have two nurses. I will get another woman to help you, and I -shall come every day to see that she is attended properly. Pray, who is -her doctor?" - -The woman named a humble apothecary in Lambeth, called Morton, whom -Antonia had often met in her visits to the poor, a meek elderly man in -whose skill and kindness she had confidence, in spite of his rusty coat -and breeches, coarse cotton stockings and grubby hands. - -"I will send a physician to see her. Tell Mr. Morton that I shall send -Dr. Heberden, who will confer with him. Do you know if Mrs. Stobart has -had any trouble on her mind lately, any anxiety?" - -"Only about her house, my lady. Her slut of a maid ran away directly -she heard 'twas small-pox." - -The apothecary came in while Antonia was standing by the bed, and was -aghast at the spectacle. - -"Does your ladyship know what risk you run here? Oh, madam, for God's -sake, leave this infected air." - -"I am not afraid. I did not take the disease when the doctors tried to -inoculate me. I doubt I am proof against the poison." - -"Nay, madam, you must not count on that. I implore you to leave this -room instantly, and never to re-enter it. 'Tis a bad case of confluent -small-pox, and I fear 'twill be fatal." - -"And this poor lady is alone, her husband fighting in America, killed -in the late battle, perhaps. At whatever risk I shall do all I can for -her. And I hope we may save her, sir, with care and good nursing." - -"Your ladyship may be sure I will do my best," said Morton. - -"I will go out into the air while you see to your patient. This room is -stifling. You will find me below, waiting to talk to you." - -She walked on the footpath by the river till the apothecary came to -her, and then gave him her instructions. Dr. Heberden was to see the -patient that afternoon, if possible. Antonia would wait upon him and -persuade him to do so. And Mr. Morton was to be at hand to receive his -instructions. And a nurse was to be found, more serviceable than the -old woman on the premises, who seemed civil and obliging, and could be -kept to help her. - -"And I shall see the patient every day," concluded Antonia. - -"I must warn your ladyship once more, that you will do so at the peril -of your life." - -"My good Mr. Morton, there are situations in which that hazard hardly -counts. This poor lady's husband, for instance, has he not risked his -life a hundred times in America? Risked and lost it, perhaps!" - -There was a catch in her voice like a stifled sob, as she spoke the -last sentence. - -"That is a vastly different matter, your ladyship," said Morton -gravely; but he ventured no farther remonstrance. - - * * * * * - -Antonia saw the physician, and obtained his promise to see Mrs. Stobart -that afternoon. She drove through streets that were in a tumult of -rejoicing at the success of British arms. No one thought of the -general who had fallen, the soldiers who had died. Victory was on every -lip, exultation in every mind. 'Twas all the coachman could do to steer -horses and chariot through the crowd. - -Arrived at home safely, Lady Kilrush told the hall porter to deny her -to all visitors, which would not be difficult, since her arrival in -London had not been recorded in the newspapers, and Lord Dunkeld was -on the road to Scotland, to shoot grouse on his own moors. She ordered -her chair for six o'clock, and in the meanwhile shut herself in her -dressing-room, where Sophy found her, to whom she related her morning's -work. - -"If you are frightened don't come near me," she said. - -"I am frightened for you, madam, not for myself. I suppose after having -had such a bout when I was inoculated I am safe to escape the small-pox -for the rest of my life. Sure I carry the marks on my face and neck, -though they mayn't be so bad as to make me hideous." - -"Then if you are not afraid, you can keep me company in this room of an -evening, till Mrs. Stobart is well enough to be sent into the country; -and you can drive and walk with me. I will admit no visitors, for I -must see her every day if I would be sure that her nurses do their -duty. Poor soul, she is alone, and in great danger." - -Sophy implored her mistress to run no such hazard, besought her with -tears, and with the importunity of a warm affection. In her ladyship's -case inoculation had been a failure. She would be mad to re-enter that -infected house. Sophy would herself visit Mrs. Stobart, and see that -she was properly nursed. - -"No, child, no, it is I who must go. It is my duty." - -"Why, I never knew you was so fond of her--a pretty simpleton, with -scarce a word to say for herself." - -"Don't argue with me, Sophy. It is useless. If there is any risk, I -have run it," Antonia answered. - -She shivered as she recalled that darkened chamber, the tainted -atmosphere, the oppressive heat of a fire that had been burning day and -night through the mild October weather. She knew that there was poison -in that pestilential air, and that she had inhaled it, knew and did not -care. - -Her eyes were shining with a feverish light. Her heart ached with -remorseful pity for the deserted wife, deserted by the man who had fled -from his country, flung himself into a service of danger, flung away -his life perhaps. It was because she had been unwise, had encouraged a -close friendship that was but a mask for love, that yonder poor woman -was lying on her sick bed deserted by her natural protector. He had -sacrificed every tie, renounced every duty, on account of that guilty -love. She hated herself when she thought that she had lured him from -his home, had made him her friend and counsellor, at the expense of his -young wife. Every hour he had spent with her in St. James's Square had -been stolen from Lucy and her boy. It was the wife who had a right to -his thoughts, his counsels, his leisure; and she had filched them from -her. He had lingered by the fireside in her library, reluctant to leave -her, when he should have been brightening Lucy's monotonous existence, -elevating her mind by his conversation, continuing that education of -heart and intellect in which he had been engaged before he lost himself -in a fatal friendship. She had driven him from her with anger and -contempt, driven him into exile and danger; but had she not as much -need to be angry with herself, remembering her pleasure in his company, -her forgetfulness of his wife's claims? - -This one thing remained for her to do, to watch over the lonely wife -in her day of peril, to win her back to life and health if it were -possible. This atoning act would ease her conscience, perhaps, and -bring her peace of mind. If George Stobart lived to come back to -England he would know that she had done her duty, and, although not a -Christian, had fulfilled the Christian's mission of mercy and love. - -And if that ghastly distemper struck her down--a possible result, -though she did not apprehend it--what then? She had no keen love of -life, and would not much regret to lay down the load of days that had -lost their savour. She had tasted all the pleasures that the world, -the flesh, and the devil can offer a beautiful woman, all the luxuries -that gold can buy, all the homage that rank can claim, the adulation of -high-born profligates, the envy of rival beauties, and every trivial -diversion that Satan can put into the minds of the idle rich. She had -struck every note in the gamut of elegant pleasures; and had arrived at -that period of satiety in which some women take to vice as the natural -crescendo in the scale of emotion. What sacrifice would it be to die -for her who feared no hereafter, had no account to render? - -She visited Mrs. Stobart every day, questioned nurses and doctors, -and took infinite trouble to secure the patient's comfort. She sat by -the sick-bed, endured the fetid atmosphere of a room carefully shut -against the air of heaven, she listened to Lucy's delirious ravings, -her frantic appeals to her husband to come back to her. She, who in -her right senses had seemed to grieve so little at his absence, in her -wanderings was for ever recalling the happy hours of their courtship, -acting over again that simple story of a girl's first love for a -sweetheart of superior station. - -Antonia listened with an aching heart. The love was there then; the -woman was not the pink-and-white automaton she had once thought her. -And she had come between George Stobart and this idyllic affection, had -spoiled two lives, unwittingly, but not without guilt. She had absorbed -him, suffered him to squander all his leisure upon her company, sought -his counsel, invited his sympathy, made herself a part of his life, as -no woman has the right to do with another woman's husband. - -And now, sitting by what might be the bed of death, she could not -forgive herself for that friendship which she had cherished without -thought of the cost. She had courted his company, and reproached him -when he absented himself. He had been her most cherished companion; -those days had been blank on which they had not met. All the feverish -pleasures of the great world had not been enough to make up for one -lost hour of his society. Their talk beside the firelit hearth, in the -darkening twilight, their meetings in poverty-stricken garrets and -loathsome alleys, had been more to her than all the rest of her life. - -"If she should die before he comes back to her it will be on my -conscience for ever that I was the wretch who parted them," she thought. - -The doctors were not hopeful of Mrs. Stobart's recovery. She had very -little strength, they told Lady Kilrush, very little power to fight -against the disease, which had attacked her in its most virulent form. -Should she recover, she would be disfigured for life, and possibly -blind. - -Oh, the horror of it! If he came home to find the pretty childish face, -the lily and rose complexion, so cruelly transformed! Was not death -almost better for the victim than such a resurrection? - -Heaven was kinder to this weak soul than to spare her for such a cruel -fate. After Antonia had been visiting her for over a week, in which -time there had been no improvement in the symptoms, there came a rally -with some hours of consciousness; but this was only the prelude of -approaching death. - -Lucy recognized Antonia, spoke of her husband and her son in a sage and -matter-of-fact tone which was quite unlike her talk in delirium, was -glad that the boy was safely out of the way when she was seized with -the malady. - -"My father came here one night, in a raging fever," she told Antonia. -"I was frightened; but I hadn't the heart to drive him out of the -house. He looked like a dying man. It was the small-pox. He had sent -the disease inward by getting up from his bed and going out into the -streets in the rain. He lay ill over a week, and I got an old woman to -nurse him. I never went near him after I knew. But the infection was -in the house, I suppose. I remember the night of his funeral, and my -aching bones, and my burning head. I knew I was going to be ill. And -then I remember nothing more--nothing more. Was it last night--the -funeral?" - -She spoke in a weak voice, in broken sentences, with long pauses -between, Antonia holding her hand as she talked. The poor wasted hand -was icy cold now; the fever was gone--gone with the life of the patient. - -"You'll give Mr. Stobart my love," she said, "and please tell him I was -very unhappy after he went to America. It was very kind of you to come -to me; but then you like visiting sick people. I don't. Mr. Stobart -used to tell me I was no Dorcas." - -She lingered for a day and a night after this return of consciousness; -but her last hours were passed in a stupor, and she died in her sleep, -so quietly that the nurse who kept watch by her bed knew not the moment -of her last sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -SWORD AND BIBLE. - - -Lady Kilrush wrote to Lady Lanigan at the Circus, Bath, to inform her -of her daughter-in-law's death. She had written some days before to -acquaint that lady with poor Lucy's sad condition; but there had been -as yet no reply to the first letter, and there was no time to wait -for an answer to the second, so she made all arrangements for the -funeral, and chose Lucy's last resting-place in the rural churchyard -at Mortlake, not very far from the cottage where she had first seen -the Methodist and his young wife. She was suffering from a chill and a -touch of fever on the morning of the funeral, but bore up long enough -to see George Stobart's wife laid in earth, since there was no one else -but the doctor and the nurse to perform that last office. She engaged -the old woman whom she had found on the premises to remain in the house -as caretaker, till Mr. Stobart's return. - -She had hardly strength to drag her aching limbs upstairs when her -task was over; and, as the evening wore on, her illness increased, and -although she made light of her symptoms to Sophy, she could hardly -doubt their dire significance. - -She stood in front of her glass for some minutes before she took to -her bed. Her head ached, and her throat was parched and swollen, but -she was in full beauty still. A hectic crimson burned on her cheeks, -and her eyes were bright with fever. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell -in natural curls over the marble whiteness of a throat and bust that -had been sung by a score of modish rhymesters, and declared to excel -the charms of every Venus in the Vatican. Would she ever see that -face again, she wondered, after she lay down on yonder bed? Would some -strange disfigured image look at her from that familiar glass--the -long cheval glass before which she had stood so often in her trivial -moods to study the set of a mantua, the hang of a petticoat, a dazzling -figure in a splendour of gold and silver, and colour that mocked the -glory of an autumn sunset, or for a whim, perhaps, in back velvet, -sable from head to foot, a sombre background for her tiara and riviere -of diamonds, and her famous pearl necklace. - -She burst into a wild laugh as she thought of those gems. Would she -ever again wear pearls or diamonds on her neck? Disfigured--blind, -perhaps, a creature upon whose hideous form fine clothes and flashing -jewels would seem more appalling than a shroud! - -"Good-bye, beautiful Lady Kilrush," she said, making a low curtsey to -the figure in the glass; and then all grew dim, and she could only -totter to the bell-pull and ring for help. - -Sophy came to her. The French maid had been banished after her -mistress's first visit to Mrs. Stobart, Antonia having taken pains to -lessen the risk of contagion for her household. Sophy had waited upon -her, and had been her only means of communication with the servants. - -Dr. Heberden saw her next morning, and recognized the tokens of a -disease not much less terrible than the plague. He was careful not -to alarm the patient, but gave his instructions to Miss Potter, and -promised to send a capable nurse. - -"If I am going to be ill let me have the little Lambeth apothecary to -attend me," Antonia said to the physician. "I have seen him by the -sick-beds of the poor, and I know what a kind soul it is." - -"Let it be so, dear lady. He will make a good watch-dog. I shall see -you every day till you are well." - -"That will not be for a long time, sir. I know what I have to expect," -she answered calmly. "But if I am likely to be hideous, for pity's -sake, don't try to save my life." - -"I protest, your ladyship takes alarm too soon. Your sickness may be no -more than a chill, with a touch of fever." - -"Oh, I know, I know," she answered, her eyes searching his countenance. -"You cannot deceive me, sir. I was prepared for this. I did not think -it would come. I thought I was too strong. I hardly feared it; but I -knew it was possible. I did what I had to do without counting the cost." - -She was in a high fever, but still in her right senses. She lay in a -half stupor for the rest of the day, and her nurses, a comfortable -looking middle-aged woman sent by Dr. Heberden, and Sophy Potter, had -nothing to do but watch her and give her a cooling drink from time to -time. - -It was growing dusk, and Sophy and Mrs. Ball, the nurse, were taking -tea in the dressing-room, when the door was opened and a lady appeared, -struggling with a sheet steeped in vinegar that had been hung over the -door by Mr. Morton's order. The intruder was Mrs. Granger, modishly -dressed in a chintz silk tucked up over a black satin petticoat. - -"Drat your vinegar," she cried. "I'll wager my new silk is done for." - -"Oh, madam, you oughtn't to have come here," cried Sophy, starting up -in a fright. "Her ladyship is taken with----" - -"Yes, I know. I've had it, Miss Potter--had it rather bad when I was -a child. You might have seen some marks on my forehead and chin if -you'd ever looked close at me. I should have been marked much worse, -and I should never have been Mrs. General Granger, if mother hadn't -sat by the bed and held my hands day and night to stop me doing myself -a mischief. And I'm going to keep watch over Antonia, and save her -beauty, if it's in human power to do it." - -"I am the nurse engaged for the case," said Mrs. Ball, rising from the -tea-board with a stately air, "and your ladyship's services will not be -required." - -"That's for my ladyship to judge, not you. Lady Kilrush and me was -close friends before we married; and I'm not going to leave her at the -mercy of any nurse in London, not if she was nurse to the Princess of -Wales." - -"I think Dr. Heberden's favourite nurse may be trusted, madam," said -Mrs. Ball, with growing indignation. - -Sophy had gone back to the sick-room. - -"I wonder her ladyship's hall porter should have let you come upstairs, -madam, when he had positive orders to admit nobody," continued Mrs. -Ball. - -"I didn't wait for his permission when I had got the truth out of him. -Lions and tigers wouldn't have kept me from my friend, much less hired -nurses and hall porters." - -She took off her hat and flung it on the sofa, and went into the next -room with so resolute an air that Mrs. Ball could only stand staring at -her. - -Antonia looked up as she approached the bed, and held out her hand to -her. - -"Oh, Patty, how glad I am to see you. Your face always brings back my -youth. But no, no, no, don't come near me. Tell her, Sophy--tell her! -Oh, what a racking headache." - -Her head fell back upon the pillow. It was impossible to hold it up -with that insufferable pain. - -Patty reminded her friend of the pock marks on her temple and chin, and -that she ran no risk in being with her; and from that moment till the -peril was past, through a fortnight of keen anxiety, General Granger's -wife remained at Antonia's bedside, watching over her with a devotion -that never wearied. It was useless for Mrs. Ball to protest, or for -Sophy Potter to show signs of jealousy. - -"I'm going to save her beautiful face for her," Patty declared. "She -shan't get up from her sick-bed to find herself a fright. She's the -handsomest woman in London, and beauty like hers is worth fighting for." - -Dr. Heberden heard her, and approved. He had seen her clever -management, her tender care of Antonia, when the fever was raging, and -the delirious sufferer would have done herself mischief in an agony -of irritation. The famous doctor was vastly polite to this volunteer -nurse, and complimented her on her skill and courage. - -"As for my courage, sir, 'tis nothing to boast of," Patty answered -frankly. "Poor as my face is, I wouldn't have risked spoiling it, and -shouldn't be here if I had not had the distemper when I was a child." - - * * * * * - -Lady Kilrush passed safely through the malady that had been fatal to -Lucy Stobart; but her convalescence was very slow, and she suffered -a depression of spirits from which neither her devoted Sophy Potter -nor her lively friend Patty could rouse her. She came back to life -unwillingly, and felt as if she had nothing to live for. - -On the very first day that she was able to leave her bed for an hour or -two, Patty led her to the great cheval glass. - -"There!" she cried, "look at yourself as close as you please. You are -not pitted as much as I am even. Why, Lord bless the woman! Aren't you -pleased with yourself, Tonia? You stare as if you saw a ghost." - -"'Tis a ghost I am looking at, Patty, the ghost of my old self. Oh, -you have been an angel of goodness, dear; and it is a mercy not to be -loathsome; but the past is past, and I shall never be the beautiful -Lady Kilrush again. I hope I was not too proud of my kingdom while I -had it. 'Tis gone from me for ever." - -"Why, you simpleton! All this fuss because you are hollow-cheeked and -pale--and your beautiful hair has been cut off." - -"A wreck, Patty! A haggard ghost! Don't think I am going to weep for -the loss of a complexion. I had grown tired of the world before I fell -ill. It will give me little pain to leave it altogether--only there is -nothing else--nothing left but to sit by the fire with a book, and wait -for the slow years to roll by. And the years are so slow. It seems a -century since I came into this house for the first time, and found the -man I loved lying on his death-bed." - -"Oh, how foolish this sadness is! If I was a peeress, with such jewels -as yours, a young widow, my own mistress, free to do what I liked for -the rest of my days, or to pick and choose a new tyrant if I liked--I -should jump for joy. You will be as handsome as ever you was after six -weeks at the Wells. And you ought to marry a duke, like your friend -Miss Gunning that was, who would never have been thought your equal for -looks if there had not been two of her." - -"Dear Patty, I have done with vanities. But never doubt my gratitude -for the kindness that saved me from being a hideous spectacle." - -"Nay, 'tis but the lion and the mouse over again. You took me in hand -and made a lady of me, and how could I do less than jump at the first -chance of making a return? I used to be a little bit envious of your -handsome face once, Tonia, when you used to come to my lodgings in the -piazza, in your shabby clothes, so careless and so lovely." - - * * * * * - -Lady Kilrush would see no one after her illness, putting off all -visitors with polite little notes of apology, protesting that she was -not yet in health to receive visits, and must defer the pleasures of -friendship till she was stronger. On this the rumour went about that -the disease had disfigured her beyond recognition, and all the envious -women of her acquaintance were loud in their compassion. - -"'Tis vastly sad to think she is too ugly to let anybody see her," said -one. "I'm told she wears a thick veil even in her own house, for fear -of frightening her footmen." - -"They say she offered a thousand pounds to any one who would invent a -wash that would hide the spots," said another. - -"Spots, my dear! 'Tis vastly fine to talk of spots. The poor wretch has -holes in her face as deep as your thimble." - -"And is as blind as Samson Agonistes," said a fourth. - -"And oh, dear, we are all so sorry for her," said the chorus, with -sighs and uplifted hands; and then the fiddles began a country dance, -and everybody was curtseying and simpering and setting to partners, -down the long perspective of fine clothes and powdered heads, and Lady -Kilrush was forgotten. - -Not by Lord Dunkeld, who started post-haste for London directly he -heard of her illness, and being informed that she was out of danger, -and sitting up in her dressing-room every afternoon, pleaded hard to be -admitted, but was resolutely refused. - -Sophy wrote to him at her mistress's dictation, assuring him of her -lady's unchanging esteem, but adding that she was too much out of -spirits to see even her most valued friends. - -"Most valued! I wonder what value she sets upon me?" questioned -Dunkeld, cruelly disappointed. "'Tis the parson-soldier, or the -soldier-parson she values. Perhaps the loss of her beauty moves her -most because she will be less fair in his eyes. I doubt that it is -always of one man only that a woman thinks, when she rejoices in her -beauty. It is for _his_ sake; to please _his_ eye! The fellow may be -a Caliban, perhaps, and yet he is the shrine at which she offers her -charms." - -He tried to picture that glorious beauty changed to ugliness, tried -and could not; for he could not banish her image as he had seen her in -Italy. Her beauty sparkled and shone before him; and imagination could -not conjure up the tragic transformation. - -"There is no change that could lessen my love," he thought. "She has -grown into my heart, and is a part of my life. I may be appalled when -I see her, may suffer tortures at a sight so piteous; but she will be -dearer to me in her ruined beauty than the handsomest woman in London." - -He thought of one of the handsomest, the exquisite Lady Coventry, the -younger of the Gunning sisters, whose brief reign was hastening towards -its melancholy close: a butterfly creature, inferior to Antonia in all -mental qualities, but with much grace and sparkle, and an Irishwoman's -high spirits. The Ring in Hyde Park, the Rotunda at Ranelagh, the Opera -House and the Pantheon, would be poorer for the loss of that brilliant -figure. - -"And if Antonia appears there no more 'twill be two stars dropped out -of our firmament," thought Dunkeld. - - * * * * * - -It was in vain that Patty urged her friend to try the waters of Bath or -Bristol, as Dr. Heberden had advised, seeing that his patient was slow -to recover her strength. Antonia refused to leave St. James's Square. - -"If I went to drink the waters I should have a host of trivial -acquaintances buzzing round me," she told Patty. "And I have taken a -hatred of all company, but yours and Sophy's. Indeed, I think I hate -the world. Here I am as safe as in a prison; for my fine friends will -think the house infected, and will be afraid to trust their beauty in -it." - -"Sure there has been pains enough taken to drive away the contagion," -said Sophy, who had suffered some inconvenience from the stringent -measures Lady Kilrush had insisted upon after her recovery. - -"But my friends do not know that, and till they forget my illness this -house is my castle." - -Mrs. Granger dropped in at teatime two or three times a week, and -brought the gossip of the town, and exercised all her wit to enliven -her friend; but Antonia seemed sunk in a hopeless languor and -melancholy, and only affected an interest in the outside world to -please her visitor. - -"I'll swear you are not listening, and have scarce heard a word of it," -Patty would exclaim, stopping midway in her account of the last event -that had startled the town. A rich old Mrs. Somebody who was going to -marry a boy; or a high-born Iphigenia sacrificed to an octogenarian -bridegroom. - -Antonia had left off caring what people did, or what became of them. - -Even the doings of her duchesses had ceased to interest. They had -sent affectionate notes and messages, and she had responded civilly. -The Duke of Cumberland had sent an equerry with his card, and tender -inquiries. The Princess had sent one of her ladies. And all that -Antonia desired in her present mood was to be forgotten. She was -glad that Lady Margaret Laroche, whom she liked best of all of her -fashionable friends, was spending the winter in Paris; since she could -hardly have denied herself where she was under so many obligations. - -She read the papers every day, wondering whether she would ever come -upon George Stobart's name in the news from America; but the name had -not appeared, nor had Mr. Stobart been heard of at his own house at the -beginning of the year, when she sent a servant to inquire of the woman -in charge there. It was a bitter cold winter; but London was full of -movement and gaiety while Antonia sat alone in the library at the back -of the great solemn house, where the shutting of one of the massive -doors reverberated from cellar to roof-tree in the silence. Never -had there been a gayer season. It seemed as if the noise of all the -crackers and squibs that had been burnt after the news from Quebec was -still in the air. The cold weather killed a good many old people, and -there were the usual number of putrid sore throats and typhus fevers in -the fine West End mansions; but the herd went on their way rejoicing -and illuminating, and praising God for the triumph of English arms -on land and sea, since the victories of the great year '59 were being -briskly followed up in the year that had just begun--the thirty-third -of his Majesty's illustrious reign. His Majesty was waxing old and -feeble, and the hero of Dettingen was soon to follow that other old -lion in the Tower; and most people's eyes were turned to the mild -effulgence of the rising star, the young Prince of Wales, or to the -Prince's mother, and his guardian, my Lord Bute, who might be supposed -to direct that youthful mind. Soon, very soon, the great bell would be -tolling, the muffled drums beating, and the pomp of a royal funeral -would fill the night with torches and solemn music. - - * * * * * - -That bitter winter was over, and the river was running gaily under -April skies, when George Stobart came up the Thames to the Pool of -London. What an insignificant river it seemed after the St. Lawrence! -what a poor little flat world lay all around him, as his eyes looked -out upon his native land--melancholy eyes, that found no joy in -anything, no pleasure in that aspect of familiar scenes which delights -most wanderers in their home-coming. Duty brought him home, while -inclination would have kept him in Georgia, whither he had made his way -by a difficult and perilous journey, from the snow-fields and frozen -rivers of Canada to the orange groves and sunny sea of the South, -after a weary time in the hospital at Quebec. There had been much -for him to see in the little colony established by the philanthropic -Oglethorpe five-and-twenty years before, a refuge and a home for poor -debtors from the English prisons. He had preached several times in -one of the school-rooms at Savannah; and the fire and fervour of his -exhortations had won him a numerous following, black and white. He had -gone among Whitefield's slaves; but although he found them for the most -part well-used and contented, he loathed a condition which Whitefield -justified, and against which Wesley had never lifted up his voice. To -Stobart this buying and selling of humanity was intolerable. True that -in these pious communities the African was better off than many a slave -of toil in Spitalfields or Whitechapel; but he lived under the fear of -the lash, and he knew not when it might suit his owner's convenience -to sell him into a worse bondage. - -It was with a willing heart that the soldier-priest laid down the sword -and took up the Bible. In his hours of despair, in all the longing and -regret of a hopeless love, his faith had remained unshaken. There was -still the terror, and there was still the hope: the fear of everlasting -condemnation, the hope of life eternal. Among the ignorant throng whom -the great evangelist awakened to a sense of sin and a yearning for -pardon, there were numerous backsliders; but the men of education and -enlightenment who followed John Wesley seldom fell away. To them the -things unseen, the promise and the hope, were more real than the bustle -and strife of the world that hemmed them round. They walked the streets -of the city with their eyes looking afar off, their thoughts full of -that heavenly kingdom where life would put on a loveliness unthinkable -here below. Sickening at the horrors of a world in which there were -such things as the gallows at Tyburn, with its batch of victims ten -or a dozen at a time--men, women, boys and girls, children almost; -the Fleet prison; Bedlam, with its manacles and scourges, and Sunday -promenades for the idle curious; Bridewell, Newgate. Sickening at such -a world as this, the Methodist turned his ecstatic gaze towards that -Kingdom of Christ the Lord, where there should be no more tears, no -more war, no more oppression, no more grinding poverty or foul disease, -and where all the redeemed should be equals in one brotherhood of -heavenly love. - -George Stobart went back to his mission work as faithful a believer as -in the day of his conversion. He had not been an idle servant while he -was with his regiment. He had preached the gospel wherever he could -find hearers, had been instant in season and out of season; but his -persistence had not been of a noisy kind, and although his superior -officers were disposed to docket him as a religious monomaniac, after -the manner of Methodists, they had never found him troublesome or -insubordinate. - -"Mr. Stobart is a gentleman," said the major. "And if expounding the -Scriptures to a parcel of unbelieving rascals can console him for -short rations, and keep him warm in a temperature ten degrees below -zero--why, who the deuce would deny him that luxury? If he's a saint -at his prayers, he's a devil in a _melee_; and he saved my scalp from -the redskins when we were fighting in the dark in the marshes before -Louisburg." - -Stobart landed at the docks, had his luggage put on a hackney coach, -and drove to his house at Lambeth, without a shadow of doubt that he -would find all things as he had left them more than two years ago. -Lucy's last letter had been written in a cheerful spirit. She was -elated at Georgie's good luck in pleasing his grandmamma, and she -prophesied that he would inherit Lady Lanigan's fortune and become -a person of importance. Her father's drunken habits and persecuting -visits were her only trouble. Her health was good, and her last -maidservant was the best she had found since she began housekeeping. -True that this letter had been written more than half a year ago; but -the idea of change or misfortune in the quiet life at home hardly -entered into the mind of the man who had so lately passed through all -the perils of the siege of Quebec, from the first disastrous attack -on the heights of the Montmorenci to the daring escalade and the -battle on the Plains of Abraham, to say nothing of minor dangers and -adventures which had made his life of the last two years a series of -hairbreadth escapes. He counted on his wife's smiling welcome; and in -the tediousness of the voyage he had been schooling himself to his duty -as a husband, to give love for love with liberal measure, to make his -wife's future years happy. - -"Poor Wesley's only mistake in life is to have made an unfortunate -marriage, and not to be able to make the best of a bad bargain," he -thought. "But my Lucy is no such termagant as Mrs. John; and I must -be a wretch if I cannot live contentedly with her. She was fair, and -gentle, and loving; and I chose her for the companion of my life. I -must stand by my choice." - -In long, wakeful nights, when the ship was rolling in a stormy sea, -he had ample leisure to travel again and again over the same ground, -to make the same resolutions, to repeat the same prayers for strength -within and guidance from above. - -There was one name he never breathed to himself, one face he tried to -shut out of his memory; but such names and such faces have the sleeper -at their mercy; and his dreams were often haunted by an image that his -waking thoughts ever strove to banish. - -The spring afternoon was grey and cheerless; a fine rain was falling; -and the narrow streets, muddy gutters, and smoky atmosphere of London -were not attractive after the clear air and bright white light of -Georgia. - -He felt in worse spirits than before he left the ship--his prison of -near six weeks--and the journey seemed interminable; but the coach -rolled over Westminster Bridge at last, and drew up in front of his -house. The outside shutters were closed over the parlour windows, -though it was only five o'clock and broad daylight. Lucy must be -away from home; with his mother, perhaps, who, having melted to the -grandson, might have made a further concession and extended her -kindness to the daughter-in-law--her meek _protegee_ of days gone -by. The suggestion seemed reasonable; but the aspect of those closed -shutters chilled him. - -He knocked loudly at first; and knocked a second time before the door -was opened by a decent old woman in clean white cap and apron. - -"Is your mistress away from home?" - -The explanation was slow, disjointed, on the woman's part. His -questioning was quick, impassioned, horror-stricken; but the story -was told at last, the woman sparing him no ghastly particulars: the -patient's sufferings; the disfiguring malady which had afterwards -seized Lady Kilrush, who had come through it worse than Mrs. Stobart, -and was said to be a terrible "objick." Poor Lady Kilrush! who had -been so kind, and had visited Mrs. Stobart at the risk of her life, -although the doctors had warned her of her danger times and often. And -now she was shut up in her house and would see no one, not even her own -servants, without the black velvet mask which she wore day and night. - -Stobart had gone into the parlour while they were talking. The grey day -came in through the holes in the shutters, and made a twilight in the -familiar room. Everything was the same as when his wife used to dust -and polish the furniture with indefatigable care, and place every chair -and table with a prim correctness of line that had often irritated -him. There was the bureau at which he used to write; and the little -Pembroke table was in its own place between the windows, with the big -Bible laid upon a patchwork mat. - -And she for whom he had made the home was lying yonder in Mortlake -churchyard, the place of rustic graves through which he had passed so -often, crossing the meadows between Sheen and the church, on his way to -the river. She was gone! and all his schemes for making her life happy, -all his remorseful thoughts of her, had been in vain. She was gone! His -last irrevocable act had been an act of unkindness. He had left her to -die alone. - -For his sins against God he might atone, and might feel the assurance -of pardon; but for his sin against this weak mortal who had loved him, -and whom he had sworn to cherish, there was no possibility of atonement. - -"Not to _her_, not to _her_," he thought. "I may repent in sackcloth -and ashes--I may rip the flesh from my bones with the penitent's -scourge, like Henry Plantagenet. But could he make amends to the martyr -Becket? Can I make amends to her? 'O God! O God! that it were possible -to undo things done; to call back yesterday!'" he thought, recalling a -passage in an old play that had burnt itself into his brain, by many a -pang of regret for acts ill done or duties neglected. - -He wandered from room to room in the familiar house which seemed so -strange in its blank emptiness, looking at everything with brooding -gaze--the parlour where he had spent so many solitary hours in study -and in prayer. His books were on the shelves as he had left them--the -old Puritan writers he loved--Baxter, Charnock, Howe, Bunyan. He had -taken only three books on his voyage: his Bible, a pocket Milton, -and Charles Wesley's Hymns. His study looked as if he had left it -yesterday. The trees and shrubs were budding in the long slip of -garden, where he had paced the narrow pathway so often in troubled -thought. - -He went upstairs, and stood beside the bed where his wife had -lain in her last sleep. The curtains had been stripped from the -tent-bedstead, the carpet taken up, and every scrap of drapery removed -from the windows when the house was disinfected. The room looked -poverty-stricken and grim. - -The caretaker followed him from room to room, praising herself for the -cleanliness of the house, and keeping up a continuous stream of talk -to which he gave the scantiest attention. In the bedchamber she was -reminded of Lady Kilrush and her goodness, and began to dilate upon -that theme. - -Was there ever such a noble lady? She had thought of everything. He -might make himself quite happy about his poor dear lady. Never had a -patient been better nursed. Her ladyship never missed a day, and saw -with her own eyes that everything was being done. And she was with his -lady a long time on that last day when the fever left her and she was -able to talk sensibly. And his lady was quite happy at the last--oh, -so happy! And the old woman clasped her hands in a kind of ecstasy. -"Quite blind," she said, "and with a handkerchief bound over her poor -eyes--but oh, so happy!" - - * * * * * - -He left the house, heavy-hearted, and walked across the bridge and by -Whitehall to St. James's Square. He could not exist in uncertainty -about Antonia's fate. He must discover if there were any truth in what -the woman had told him, if that resplendent beauty, Nature's choicest -dower given to one woman among thousands, had indeed been sacrificed. -So great a sacrifice made by an Infidel! a woman who had no hope in an -everlasting reward for the renunciation of happiness here. He recalled -the exquisite face that had lured him to sin, and pictured it scarred -and blemished--as he had seen so many faces,--changed by that fatal -disease which leaves ruin where it spares life. He shuddered and -sickened at the vision his imagination evoked. Would he honour her -less, adore her less, so disfigured? He had told himself sometimes in -his guilty reveries, when Satan had got the better of him, that he -would love her if she were a leper; that it was the soul, the noble, -the daring, the generous nature of the woman that he idolized; that he -was scarcely a sinner for loving the most perfect creature God had ever -made. - -If she hid her blemished face from the world, would she consent to see -him? Or would he find his sin still unpardoned? Would she hold him at -a distance for ever because of one fatal hour in his life? She could -scarcely forget their last parting, when she had prayed never to look -upon his face again; but time might have mitigated her wrath, and she -might have forgiven him. - -Her ladyship saw no visitors, the porter told him, and was about to -shut the door in his face; but Mr. Stobart pushed his way in, and -scribbled a note at a writing-table in the hall. - -"Pray be so kind as to see me. I want to thank you for your goodness to -my wife. I landed in London two hours ago on my arrival from America." - -He walked up and down the hall while a footman carried the note to his -mistress. His heart beat heavily, tortured with the anticipation of -horror; to look upon the altered face; to have to tell himself that -_this_ was Antonia. - -The man came back, solemn and slow, in his rich livery and powdered -head. Her ladyship would see Mr. Stobart. - -She was sitting in a large armchair by the fire, her face showing dimly -in the twilight. He could distinguish nothing but her pallor and the -difference in the style of her hair. The flowing curls that he had -admired were gone. He felt thankful for the darkness which spared him -the immediate sight of her changed aspect. - -"I am glad you are back in England, Mr. Stobart, and have escaped the -perils of that dreadful war," she said, in a low, grave voice. "But you -have had a sorrowful welcome home." - -"Yes, it was a heavy blow." - -"I hope you had received Lady Lanigan's letter, and that the blow was -softened by foreknowledge." - -"No, I had no letter; I came home expecting to find all things as I -left them. My mind was full of schemes for making my wife happier -than I had made her in the past. But I doubt sins of omission are -irrevocable. A man may sometimes undo what he has done, but he cannot -make amends for what he has left undone." - -There was a silence. The shadows deepened. The wood fire burnt low and -gave no light. - -"I have no words to thank you for your goodness to my wife," he said. -"That you should go to her in her loneliness, that you should so brave -all perils, be so compassionate, so self-sacrificing! What can I say -to you? There is nothing nobler in the lives of the saints. There was -never Christian living more worthy to be called Christ's disciple." - -"Oh, sir, there needed no Gospel light to show me so plain a course. -Your wife was alone, while you were fighting for your country. I -promised years ago to be her friend. Could there be any question as to -my duty?" - -"'Twill need all my future life to prove my gratitude." - -"You have left the army?" - -"Yes. I resigned my commission after Quebec." - -"You were at the taking of Quebec, then? I thought you were with -Amherst when he recovered Ticonderoga." - -"So I was, madam. But after we took the fort I was entrusted to carry -a letter for General Wolfe conveying General Amherst's plans. 'Twas a -difficult journey, by a circuitous route, and I was more than a month -on the way; but I was in time to be in the escalade and the battle. -It was glorious--a glorious tragedy. England and France lost two of -the finest leaders that ever soldier followed--Montcalm and Wolfe. -Alas! shall I ever forget James Wolfe's spectral face in the grey of -that fatal morning? He was fitter to be lying on a sick-bed than to be -commanding an army. He looked a ghost, and fought like the god of war." - -"Shall you go back to your work with Mr. Wesley?" - -"If he will have me--and, indeed, I think he will, for he needs -helpers. 'Tis in his army--the evangelical army--I shall fight -henceforward. I stand alone in the world now, for my son's welfare -could scarce be better assured than with his grandmother, who offers -to provide his education, and is likely to make him her heir. My -experience in Georgia renewed my self-confidence, and I doubt I may yet -be of some use to my fellow-creatures." - -"You could scarce fail in that," she answered gently. "I remember how -those poor wretches at Lambeth loved you." - -Her voice was unaltered. It had all that grave music he remembered of -old, when she spoke of serious things. It soothed him to sit in the -darkness and hear her talk, and he dreaded the coming of light that -would break the spell. - -Did he love her as he had loved her before those slow years of -severance? Yes. Her lightest word thrilled him. He thought of the -change in her with unspeakable dread; but he knew that it would not -change his heart. Lovely or unlovely she would still be Antonia, the -woman he adored. A footman came in to light the candles. - -"This half darkness is very pleasant, madam," Stobart said hurriedly. -"Do you desire more light?" - -"I am expecting a friend to take tea with me, and I can hardly receive -her in the dark. You may light the candles, Robert." - -There were six candles in each of two bronze candelabra on the -mantelpiece, and two more in tall silver candlesticks on the -writing-table. Stobart sat looking down at the fading embers, and did -not lift his eyes till the servant had left the room. Then, as the -door shut, he looked up and saw Antonia watching him in the bright -candlelight. - -He gave a sudden cry, in uncontrollable emotion, and burst into tears. -"You--you are not changed!" he cried, as soon as he could control his -speech. "Oh, madam, I beseech you not to despise me for these unmanly -tears! but--but I was told----" - -"You were told that the disease had used me very cruelly; that I should -be better dead than such a horrid spectacle," she said. "I know that -has been the talk of the town--and I let them talk. I have done with -the town." - -"Thank God!" he exclaimed, starting up from his chair and walking about -the room in a tumult of emotion. "Thank God, it was a lie that old -woman told me. It would have broken my heart to know that your divine -charity had cost you the loss of your beauty." - -His eyes shone with wonder and delight as he looked at her. She was -greatly changed, but in his sight not less lovely. Her bloom was gone. -She could no longer dazzle the mob in Hyde Park by her vivid beauty. -She was very pale, and her cheeks were hollow and thin. Her eyes looked -unnaturally large, and her hair, once so luxuriant, was clustered in -short curls under a little lace cap. - -"Oh, so far as that goes, sir, I renounce any claim I ever had to rank -among beauties," she said, amused at his surprise. "Through the devoted -care of a friend I was spared the worst kind of disfigurement; but as I -have lost my complexion, my figure, and my hair, I can no longer hope -to take any place among the Waldegraves and Hamiltons. And I have done -with the great world and its vanities." - -"Then you will give yourself to that better world--the world of the -true believer; you will be among the saved?" - -"Alas, sir, I am no nearer the heavenly kingdom than I was before I -sickened of the earthly one. I am very tired of the pomps and vanities, -but I cannot entertain the hope of finding an alternative pleasure -in sermons and long prayers, or the pious company Lady Huntingdon -assembles every Thursday evening." - -"If you have renounced the world of pleasure--the rest will follow." - -"You think a woman must live in some kind of fever? I own that Lady -Fanny Shirley seems always as busy and full of engagements as if she -were at the top of the _ton_. She flies from one end of London to the -other to hear a new preacher, and makes more fuss about the opening of -some poor little chapel in the suburbs, than the Duchess of Buccleuch -makes about an _al fresco_ ball that costs thousands. There is the -chairman's knock. Perhaps you will scarce care to meet my lively -friend, Mrs. Granger, in your sad circumstances." - -"Not for the world. Adieu, madam. I shall go to Mortlake to-morrow to -look at my poor Lucy's resting-place, and shall start the next day for -Bath to see my son; and thence to Bristol, where I hope to find Mr. -Wesley." - -He bent down to kiss her hand, so thin and so alabaster white, and said -in a low voice, with his head still bent-- - -"Dare I hope that my madness of the past is pardoned?" - -"The past is past," she answered coldly. "The world has changed for -both of us. Adieu." - -He left her, passing Mrs. Granger in the hall. - -"You have admitted a sneaking Methodist," cried Patty, "after denying -yourself to all the people of fashion in London." - - * * * * * - -Mr. Wesley received the returning prodigal with kindness. In that vast -enterprise of one who said "My parish is the world," loyal adherents -were of unspeakable value. The few churchmen who served under his -banner were but a sprinkling compared with his lay itinerants; and -Stobart was among the best of these. He was too manly a man to think -the worse of his helper for having changed gown for sword during a -troubled interval of his life; for he divined that Stobart must have -been in some bitter strait before he went back to the soldier's trade. - -He listened with interest to Stobart's American adventures, and -congratulated him upon having been with Wolfe at Quebec. - -"'Twas a glorious victory," he said; "but I doubt the French may yet -prove too strong for us in Canada, and that we are still far from a -peaceful settlement." - -"They are strong in numbers, sir, but weak in leaders. Levis is a poor -substitute for Montcalm, and, if the Governor Vaudreuil harasses him -and ties his hands, as he harassed the late marquis, whom he hated, his -work will be difficult. I should not have left the regiment while there -was a chance of more fighting, if I had not been disabled by my wounds." - -"You were badly wounded?" - -"I had a bullet through my ribs that looked like making an end of me; -and I walk lame still from a ball in my left hip. I spent eight weeks -in the general hospital at Quebec, where the nuns tended me with an -angelic kindness; and I was still but a feeble specimen of humanity -when I set out on the journey to Georgia, through a country beset by -Indians." - -"I honour those good women for their charity, Stobart; but I hope you -did not let them instil their pernicious doctrine into your mind while -it was enfeebled by sickness." - -"No, sir. Yet there was one pious enthusiast whom I could not silence; -and be not offended if I say that her fervent discourse about spiritual -things reminded me of your own teaching." - -"Surely that's not possible!" - -"Extremes meet, sir; and, I doubt, had you not been a high-church -Methodist you would have been a Roman Catholic of the most exalted -type." - - * * * * * - -Stobart accompanied Mr. Wesley from Bristol to St. Ives, then back -to Bristol by a different route, taking the south coast of Cornwall -and Devonshire. From Bristol they crossed to Ireland; and returned -by Milford Haven through Wales to London, a tour that lasted till the -first days of October. - -Wesley was then fifty-seven years of age, in the zenith of his renown -as the founder of a sect that had spread itself abroad with amazing -power since the day when a handful of young men at Oxford, poor, -obscure, unpretending, had met together in each other's rooms to pray -and expound the Scriptures, and by their orderly habits, and the method -with which they conducted all their spiritual exercises, had won for -themselves the name of "methodists." From those quiet rooms at Oxford -had arisen a power that had shaken the Church of England, and which -might have reinforced and strengthened that Church with an infinite -access of vigour, enthusiasm, and piety, had English churchmen so -willed. But the Methodists had been driven from the fold and cast upon -their own resources. They were shut out of the churches; but, as one of -the society protested, the fields were open to them, and they had the -hills for their pulpit, the heavens for their sounding board. - -George Stobart flung himself heart and soul into his work as an -itinerant preacher, riding through the country with Mr. Wesley, -preaching at any of the smaller towns and outlying villages to -which his leader sent him, and confronting the malice of "baptized -barbarians" with a courage as imperturbable as Wesley's. To be welcomed -with pious enthusiasm, or to be assailed with the vilest abuse, seemed -a matter of indifference to the Methodist itinerants. Their mission -was to carry the tidings of salvation to the lost sheep of Israel; and -more or less of ill usage suffered on their way counted for little in -the sum of their lives. 'Twas a miracle, considering the violence of -the mob and the inefficiency of rustic constables, that not one of -these enthusiasts lost his life at the hands of enemies scarce less -ferocious than the Indians on the banks of the Monongahela. But in -those savage scenes it seemed ever as if a special providence guarded -John Wesley and his followers. Many and many a time the rabble rout -seemed possessed by Moloch, and the storm of stones and clods flew fast -around the preacher's head; and again and again he passed unharmed out -of the demoniac herd. Missiles often glanced aside and wounded the -enemy, for the aim of blind hate was seldom true; and if Wesley did not -escape injury on every occasion, his wounds were never serious enough -to drive him from the stand he had taken by the market cross or in the -churchyard, in outhouse or street, on common or hillside. He might -finish his discourse while a stream of blood trickled down his face, or -the arm that he would fain have raised in exhortation hung powerless -from a blow; but in none of his wanderings had he been silenced or -acknowledged defeat. - -It was John Wesley's privilege, or his misfortune, at this time to -stand alone in the world, unfettered by any tie that could hamper him -in his life's labour. He was childless; and hard fate had given him a -wife so uncongenial, so tormenting in her causeless jealousy and petty -tyranny, that 'twas but an act of self-defence to leave her. In the -earlier years of their marriage she accompanied him on his journeys; -but as she quarrelled with his sister-in-law, Charles Wesley's -amiable helpmeet, and insulted every woman he called his friend, -her companionship must have been a thorn in the flesh rather than a -blessing. His brother Charles--once the other half of his soul--was now -estranged. Their opinions differed upon many points, and John, as the -bolder spirit, had gone far beyond the order-loving and placable poet, -who deemed no misfortune so terrible for the Methodists as to stand -outside the pale of the Church, albeit they might be strong enough in -their own unaided power to gather half the Protestant world within -their fold. Charles thought of himself and his brother Methodists only -as more fervent members of the Church of England, never as the founders -of an independent establishment, primitive in the simplicity of its -doctrine and observances, modern in its fitness to the needs of modern -life. - -John Wesley was now almost at the height of his power, and strong -enough in the number of his followers, and in their profound affection -for his person, to laugh at insult, and to defy even so formidable an -assailant as Dr. Lavington, Bishop of Exeter, with whom he was carrying -on a pamphlet war. - -George Stobart loved the man and honoured the teacher. It was a -pleasure to him to share the rough and smooth of Wesley's pilgrimage, -to ride a sorry jade, even, for the privilege of riding at the side of -one of the worst and boldest horsemen in England, who was not unlikely -to come by a bad fall before the end of his journey. In those long -stages there was ample leisure for the two friends to share their -burden of sorrows and perplexities, and for heart to converse with -heart. - -Wesley was too profound a student of his fellow men not to have -fathomed George Stobart's mind in past years, when Antonia's lover -was himself but half conscious of the passion that enslaved him; and, -remembering this, he was careful not to say too much of the young wife -who was gone, or the love-match which had ended so sadly. He knew that -in heart, at least, Stobart had been unfaithful to that sacred tie; -but although he deplored the sin he could not withhold his compassion -from the sinner. The Methodist leader had been singularly unlucky in -affairs of the heart, from the day when at Savannah he allowed himself -to be persuaded out of an engagement with a girl he loved, to the hour -when he took a Zantippe for his spouse; and it may be that his own -unfortunate marriage, and the memory of Grace Murray, that other woman -once so dearly loved and once his plighted wife, made him better able -to sympathise with the victim of a misplaced affection. - -It was after Stobart had been working with him all through the summer -and autumn, and when that eventful year of 1760 was waning, that Wesley -for the first time spoke of Antonia. - -"Your kinswoman Lady Kilrush?" he inquired. "What has become of so much -beauty and fashion? I have not seen the lady's name in the evening -papers for an age." - -"Lady Kilrush has withdrawn herself from society. She has discovered -how poor a thing a life of pleasure is when the bloom of novelty is off -it." - -"Aye, aye. Fashion's child has cut open the top of her drum and found -nothing but emptiness in the toy. Did I not hear, by-the-bye, when I -was last in London, that the poor lady had come through an attack of -confluent smallpox with the loss of her beauty? If it be so, I hope -she may awaken to the expectation of a kingdom where all faces are -beautiful in the light that shines around the throne of God." - -"No, sir, her ladyship has lost but little of her beauty. And it is not -because she can no longer excel there that she has left the world of -fashion." - -And then Stobart took courage for the first time to speak freely of the -woman he loved, and told Mr. Wesley the story of his wife's death-bed -and Antonia's devotion. But when questioned as to the lady's spiritual -state, he had to confess that her opinions had undergone no change. - -"And can this presumptuous worm still deny her Maker? Can this heart -which melts at a sister's distress remain adamant against Christ? It is -a mystery! I know that the man atheist is common enough--an arrogant -wretch, like David Hume, who thinks himself wiser than God who made -the universe. But can a woman, a being that should be all softness and -humility, set up her shallow reason against the light of nature and -revelation, the light that comes to the savage in the wilderness and -tells him there is an avenging God; the light that shows the child, as -soon as he can think, that there is something better and higher than -the erring mortals he knows, somewhere a world more beautiful than the -garden where he plays? Stobart, I grieve that there should be such a -woman, and that you should be her friend." - -"The fabric of our friendship was torn asunder before I went to -America, sir. I doubt if the ravelled edges will ever meet again." - -"And you heave a sigh as you say it! You regret the loss of a -friendship that might have shipwrecked your immortal soul." - -"Oh, sir, why must my soul be the forfeit? Might it not be my happiness -to save hers?" - -"You were her friend and companion for years. Did you bring her nearer -God?" - -"Alas, no!" - -"Abjure her company then for ever. I warned you of your peril when -you had a wife, when I feared your spirit hovered on the brink of -hell--for remember, Stobart, there is no such height of holiness as -it is impossible to fall from. I adjured you to renounce that woman's -company as you would avoid companionship with Satan. I warn you even -more solemnly to-day; for at that time it was a sin to love her, and -your conscience might have been your safeguard. You are a free man now; -and you may account it no sin to love an infidel." - -"Is it a sin, sir, even when that love goes hand in hand with the -desire to bring her into Christ's fold?" - -"It is a sin, George. It is the way to everlasting perdition, it is the -choice of evil instead of good, Lucifer instead of Christ. Do you know -what would happen if you were to marry this woman?" - -"You would cease to be my friend, perhaps?" - -"No, my son. I could not cease to love you and to pity you; but you -could be no more my fellow worker. This pleasant communion in work and -hope would be at an end for ever. At our last Conference we resolved -to expel any member of our society who should marry an unbeliever. We -have all seen the evil of such unions, the confusion worse confounded -when the cloven foot crosses the threshold of a Christian's home, the -uselessness of a Teacher whose heart is divided between fidelity to -Christ and affection for a wicked wife. We resolved that no member of -our society must marry without first taking counsel with some of our -most serious members, and being governed by their advice." - -"Oh, sir, this is tyranny!" - -"It is the upshot of long experience. He who is not with me is against -me. We can have no half-hearted helpers. You must choose whom you will -serve, George: Christ or Satan." - -"Ah, sir, my fortitude will not be put to the test. The lady for whom -I would lay down my life looks upon me with a chilling disdain. 'Tis -half a year since I forced myself upon her presence to acknowledge her -goodness to my wife; and in all that time she has given me no sign that -she remembers my existence." - -"Shun her, my friend; walk not in the way of sinners; and thank God on -your knees that your Delilah scorns you." - -George Stobart spent many a bitter hour after that conversation with -his leader. To be forbidden to think of the woman he worshipped now, -when no moral law came between him and her love, when from the -worldling's standpoint it was the most natural thing that he should try -to win her; he, who for her sake had been disinherited, and who had by -his life of self-denial proved himself above all mercenary views. Why -should he not pursue her, with a love so sincere and so ardent that -it might prevail even over indifference, might conquer disdain? There -was not a man in his late regiment, not a man in the London clubs, who -would not laugh him to scorn for letting spiritual things stand between -him and that earthly bliss. And yet for him who had taken up the Cross -of Christ, who had given his best years and all the power of heart and -brain to preaching Christ's Law of self-surrender and submission, how -horrible a falling away would it be if he were to abandon his beloved -leader, turn deserter while the Society was still on its trial before -the sight of men, and while every fervent voice was an element of -strength. He thought of Wesley's other helpers, and recalled those -ardent enthusiasts who had broken all family ties, parted from father -and mother, sisters and brothers and plighted wife, renounced the -comforts of home, and suffered the opprobrium of the world, in order to -spend and be spent in the task of converting the English heathen, the -toilers in the copper mine or the coal pit, the weavers of Somerset and -Yorkshire, the black faces, the crooked backs, the forgotten sheep of -Episcopal Shepherds. - -But had any man living given up more than he was called upon to -surrender, he asked himself? Who among those soldiers and servants of -Christ had loved a woman as beautiful, loved with a passion as fervent? - -He went back to London discouraged, yet not despairing. There was still -the hope, faint perhaps, that he might lead that bright spirit out of -darkness into light; win her for Christ, and so win her for himself. -Ah, what an ecstatic dream, what an ineffable hope! To kneel by her -side at the altar, to know her among the redeemed, the chosen of God! -For that end what labour could be too difficult? - -But, alas! between him and that hope there came the cloud of a terrible -fear. He knew the Tempter's power over senses and soul, knew that to be -in Antonia's company was to forget the world present and the world to -come, to remember nothing, value nothing, but her, to become a worse -idolator than they of old who worshipped Moloch and gave their children -to the fire. - -Wesley had warned him. Should he, in defiance of that warning from the -best and wisest friend he ever had, enter the house where the Tempter -lay in wait to destroy him, where he must meet the Enemy of Man? Call -that enemy by what name he would, Satan, or love, he knew himself -incapable of resistance. - -He resolved to abide by Wesley's advice. He went back to his desolate -home, and resumed his work in Lambeth Marsh, where he was welcomed with -an affection that touched him deeply. His many converts, the awakened -and believing Christians, flocked to his chapel and his schools; -but that which moved him most was the welcome of the sinners and -reprobates, whom he had taught to love him, though he could not teach -them to forsake sin. - -Before resuming his mission work in the old district he had ascertained -that Lady Kilrush no longer went there. She still ministered to the -Lambeth poor by deputy, and Mrs. Sophy Potter came among them often. He -was weak enough to think with rapture of conversing with Sophy, from -whom he would hear of Antonia. And so in the long dark winter he took -up the old drudgery, teaching and exhorting, strenuous in good works, -but with a leaden heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -"AS A GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED." - - -John Wesley was not without compassion for a friend and disciple -for whom he had something of a fatherly affection. He too had been -called upon to renounce the woman he loved, the excellent, gifted, -enthusiastic Grace Murray, whose humble origin was forgotten in the -force and purity of her character. He had been her affianced husband, -had thought of her for a long time as his future wife, lived in daily -companionship with her on his pious pilgrimages, made her his helpmeet -in good works; and yet, on the assertion of a superior claim, he had -given her to another. That bitter experience enabled him to measure the -pain of Stobart's renunciation. He watched his friend's course with -anxious care, lest heart should fail and feet stumble on the stony road -of self-sacrifice; and their intercourse, while the great itinerant -remained in London, was even closer than it had been before. - -Mr. Wesley had much to do that winter at his home by the Foundery -Chapel. He had his literary work, the preparation of his books for -the press, since each year of his life added to the list of those -religious works, some of them written, others only edited, by himself, -which were published at his risk, and which for several years resulted -in pecuniary loss, though they were afterwards a revenue. He had the -services of the chapel, which were numerous and at different hours, and -he had his work abroad, preaching in many other parts of London. - -It was in the early morning after one of his five-o'clock services at -the Foundery that he was told a lady desired to see him. He had but -just come in from the chapel, and his breakfast was on the table in -the neat parlour where he lived and worked, a Spartan breakfast of -oatmeal porridge, with the luxury of a small pot of tea and a little -dry toast. It was only half-past six, and Mrs. Wesley had not left her -chamber--a fortunate circumstance, perhaps, since the visitor was young -and beautiful. - -Mr. Wesley had many uninvited visitors, and it was nothing new for him -to be intruded on even at so early an hour. He rose to receive the -lady, and motioned her to a seat with a stately graciousness. He was -a small man, attired with an exquisite neatness in a stuff cassock -and breeches, and black silk stockings, and shoes with large silver -buckles. His benign countenance was framed in dark auburn hair that -fell in waving masses, like John Milton's, and at this period showed no -touch of grey. - -"In what matter can I have the honour to serve you, madam?" he asked, -scanning the pale face opposite him, and wondering at its beauty. - -It had not the bloom of health which should have gone with the lady's -youth, but it was as perfect in every line as the Belvidere Apollo, and -the eyes, with their look of mournful deprecation, were the loveliest -he had ever seen--lovelier than Grace Murray's, which had once been -_his_ loveliest. - -"I have come to you in great trouble of mind, sir," the lady began in a -low voice, but with such perfect enunciation, such beauty of tone, that -every syllable had full value. "I am a very unhappy woman." - -"Many have come to me in the same sad plight, madam, and I have found -but one way of helping them. 'Tis to lead them to the foot of the -Cross. There alone can they find the Friend who can make their sorrows -here their education for heaven." - -"Oh, sir, if I believed in heaven, and that I should meet the dead whom -I love there, I should have no sorrows. I should only have to wait." - -"Alas, madam, can it be that you are without that blessed hope--that -this world, with its cruel inequalities and injustices, is the only -world your mind can conceive? Can you look upon the martyrdom of -so many of your fellow creatures--diseased, deformed, blind, dumb, -imbecile, or held for a lifetime in the bondage of abject poverty, -never knowing respite from toil, or the possibility of comfort,--can -you contemplate these outcasts, and yet believe there are no -compensations hereafter, and that a God of infinite mercy can overlook -their sufferings?" - -"You believe in a heaven for these--a land of Beulah, where _they_ will -have the fat things? But what if one of these be a blasphemer? What if -he curse God and die? What will be his destiny then, sir? Oh, I know -your answer. The worm that dieth not--the fire that is not quenched. -What of your scheme of compensations then, sir?" - -"Did you come here to shake my faith, madam, or to ask for spiritual -aid from me?" Wesley asked severely. - -His searching gaze had taken in every detail of her appearance: the -lovely face, whose ivory pallor was accentuated by a black silk hood; -the grey lute-string gown, whose Quaker hue could not disguise the -richness of the fabric; the diamond hoop-rings that flashed from under -a black silk mitten. Dress, bearing, accent stamped the woman of -quality. - -"I meant no affront, sir. I talk at random, as women mostly do. I came -here in weariness of spirit, and I scarce know how you can help me. I -came because I have heard much of your merits, your amiable character, -your willingness to befriend sinners. And I have listened to your -sermons at West Street Chapel in the month last past with admiration -and respect." - -"But without belief in Him whose message I bring? Oh, madam, you might -as well be at the playhouse laughing at that vulgar buffoon Samuel -Foote. My sermons can do you no good." - -"Nay, sir, if I thought that I should not be here this morning. I rose -after a sleepless night and came through the darkness to hear you -preach. If I cannot believe all that you believe, I can appreciate the -wisdom and the purity of your discourse." - -"Look into your heart, madam, and if you can find faith there; but as a -grain of mustard seed----" - -"Alas, sir, I look into my heart and find only emptiness. My sorrows -are not such as the world pities. My heart aches with the monotony -of life. I stand alone, unloved and unloving. I have tasted all the -pleasures this world can offer, have enjoyed all, and wearied of all. I -come to you in my weariness as the first preacher I have ever listened -to with interest. Mr. Whitefield's discourse, whom I heard but once, -only shocked me." - -"Come, and come again, madam, and may my poor eloquence lead you to -Christ. I should rejoice for more reasons than I can tell you, if, -among the many souls that I have been the means of snatching from the -brink of hell, Lady Kilrush should be one." - -"What, Mr. Wesley, you know me?" - -"Yes, madam, I remember the Bartolozzi head which was in all the -printsellers' windows two years ago; and I should be more a stranger to -this town than I am if I had not heard of the beautiful Lady Kilrush -and her infidel opinions." - -"You have heard of me from my lord's cousin, Mr. Stobart, perhaps." - -"Mr. Stobart has spoken of your ladyship, deploring, as I do, the gulf -that yawns between you and him." - -"That gulf has widened, sir; for I have seen Mr. Stobart only once -since he came from America." - -"He has been travelling about England with me--and only came to London -last October. I know, madam, that his respect for your person is only -less than his grief at your unhappy opinions." - -"We cannot change the fabric of our minds, sir." - -"_We_ cannot; but God can." - -"You believe in instantaneous conversions--in a single act of faith -that can make a Christian in a moment?" - -"The Scriptures warrant that belief, madam. All the conversions related -in the Gospel were instantaneous. Yet I will own that I was once -unwilling to believe in the miracle of Christian perfection attained by -a single impulse of the soul. But in the long course of my ministry I -have seen so many blessed examples that I can no longer doubt that the -Divine Spirit works wonders as great in this degenerate age as on that -day of Pentecost, the birthday of the Christian Church. Instead of the -miracle of fiery tongues, we have the miracle of changed hearts." - -"And you think that Christian perfection attained in a moment will -stand the wear and tear of life, and be strong enough to resist the -world, the flesh, and the devil?" Antonia asked, with an incredulous -smile. - -"Nay, madam, I dare not affirm that all who think themselves justified -are secure of salvation. These sudden recruits are sometimes deserters. -I do not hold the tenets of the Moravians, who declare that the -converted sinner cannot fall away, whereas, after our justification by -faith, we are every moment pleasing or displeasing unto God according -to our works, according to the whole of our present inward tempers and -outward behaviour. But I have never despaired of a sinner, madam; nor -can I believe that a spirit so bright as yours will be lost eternally. -Long or late the hour of sanctifying Grace must come." - -"Perhaps, Mr. Wesley, had you been reared as I was--taught to doubt -the existence of a God before I was old enough to read the Gospel--you -would be no less a sceptic than I am." - -"I was indeed more fortunate--for I was born into a household of -faith. Yet I have never hardened my heart against the man or woman -whose education has only taught them to doubt, for I have sometimes -thought, with unspeakable fear, that, had I given my mind to the study -of mathematics or geometry, I too might have been one of those nice -philosophers who will accept no creed that cannot be demonstrated like -a proposition in Euclid. I thank God that I learnt to love Him, and -to walk in His ways, before I learnt to pry into the mysteries of His -Being or to question His dealings with mankind." - -"No doubt that is happiest, sir--to shut one's mind against facts and -believe in miracles." - -And then, gradually won to fullest confidence by his quick sympathy, -Antonia told John Wesley much of her life story, only avoiding, with -an exquisite delicacy, all those passages which touched the secrets of -a woman's heart. She told him how she had been left alone in the world -with all the power that riches can give to a young woman, how she had -tried all the resources of wealth, and found all wanting, even her -experience of mission work among the outcast poor. - -"I doubt you were happier engaged in that work than you have ever been -in the mansions of the great," he said. - -"No, Mr. Wesley, I will not pretend as much. While the pleasures of the -great world were new I loved them dearly; but a third season brought -satiety, and I sickened of it all. I know not why I sickened of my -visits to the poor, for my heart was ever touched by their sufferings, -and sometimes by their patience. It may be that it was because I was -alone, and without an adviser, after Mr. Stobart left England." - -"Will you resume that work now, madam? I doubt you are familiar with -the parable of the talents, and know that to have youth and wealth, -intellect and energy, and not to use them for others' good----" - -"Oh, it is hateful! Be sure, sir, I know what a wretch I am. I spent -last summer in Ireland, where the poor love me; but I hardly ever went -near them. I did not let them starve. My steward and my waiting-woman -carried them all they wanted, while I dawdled in my rose-garden or -yawned over a novel. I was discouraged somehow. Those poor creatures -are all Roman Catholics. They would talk to me of a creed which I had -been taught to despise. There was a gulf between us." - -"But you will resume your charitable work in London, where the people's -religion need not offend you, since they are mostly heathens." - -"Not at Lambeth! I cannot go back to Lambeth Marsh." - -She knew that Stobart was spending all his days in the old places. Not -for worlds could she go back to the work which she had shared with him, -and which had once been so full of innocent happiness. - -"Your ladyship can choose your district. The field is wide enough. Will -you visit the sick poor in this neighbourhood, and will you accept my -help and counsel?" - -"With a glad heart, sir. I sorely need a friend." - -"But you will not go as a heathen among heathens? You will carry the -Gospel with you." - -"Yes, sir. If it will help your views that I should read the New -Testament to your people, I would as leave do so as not. Indeed, I have -read the Gospel to those who have asked me; and be sure I have never -been so foolish as to obtrude my opinions upon them. 'Tis only by close -questioning they have ever discovered my barren creed." And then she -went on with a sigh, "Ah, sir, if you knew how I envy you the faith -which opens new worlds, now that I have lost all interest in this one." - -"Do not despair of yourself, madam. I do not despair of you. The Lady -Kilrush I had pictured to myself was an arrogant unbeliever, possessed -by a devil of pride, and glorying in her infidelity. There is hope for -the sceptic who has discovered how poor a thing this life is when we -think it is all." - -She rose to take leave, and Wesley conducted her to the street, where a -hackney coach was in waiting. He begged her to call upon him as often -as she pleased during his stay in London, which would not be long; and -he promised to send her the names and addresses, and particulars as to -character and necessities, of the invalids whom he would advise her to -visit. - -"On second thoughts I will not send you amongst the unconverted," he -said, "but to some faithful Christians whose piety I doubt you will -admire, however you may despise their simplicity." - -He went back to his study full of thought. Antonia's conversation had -surprised and interested him. Unlucky as he had been in his own too -hasty choice of a wife, he was a shrewd judge of women, and he felt -assured that this was a good woman. Would it not then be a hard measure -were he to come between George Stobart and an attachment which death -had legitimatised? And what better chance could there be for this -woman's conversion than her union with an honest, believing Christian? -The Society's stringent rule had been inspired by the evil wrought by -women of a very different stamp from this one. - -And yet was not this avowed infidel, so beautiful, so winning in her -proud gentleness, only the Philistine Delilah in a new guise? The -temptress, the lying spirit that betrayed the strong man of old, was -there, perhaps, waiting to ensnare George Stobart's soul. - -"I must see of what spirit she is," Wesley told himself, "and if she -may yet be numbered among the children of light." - - * * * * * - -A new phase of Antonia's life began after her interview with John -Wesley. All that she had done in the past, in those dens of misery and -crime by the Marsh, was as nothing compared with her work under his -direction. At Lambeth she had but exercised a fine lady's capricious -benevolence, obeying the whim of the moment: a creature of impulse, -too lavish where her heart was touched, too easily revolted by the -ugliness of vice. In the squalid regions that lay around the Foundery -her charities were administered upon a different system. One of Mr. -Wesley's best gifts was the faculty of order, and all things done -under his direction were done with an admirable method and proportion. -His Loan Society, which made advances of twenty shillings and upwards -to the respectable poor--to be repaid in weekly instalments--his -Dispensary, his day and night-classes all testified to his power -of organization. From the days when a poor scholar at Oxford, he -lived like an anchorite of the desert in order that he might feed -starving prisoners and rescue fallen women, he had been experienced in -systematic charity. From him, in the hours he could spare her before -starting on his northern pilgrimage, she learnt how to distribute her -alms with an unfailing justice, and how to make the best use of her -time. Her visits in those homes of sickness and penury, which might -have been hopelessly dreary without his directing spirit, became full -of interest in the light of his all-comprehending mind. - -She sold three of her dress carriages and dismissed her second -coachman. A hackney coach carried her to Moorfields every day, and she -employed the greater part of the day in visiting the poor. She was -often among Wesley's hearers at the evening service at the Foundery. -His sermons touched her heart and almost convinced her reason. His -simplicity of style and force of argument impressed her more than -Whitefield's dramatic oratory. Mr. Wesley had no deep-drawn "Oh!" for -Garrick to envy. His action was calm and pleasing, his voice clear and -manly. He appealed to the heart and mind of his hearers by no studied -effects, no flights of rhetoric, yet he never failed to hold them in -the spell of that simple eloquence. - -Antonia was interested in the congregation as well as in the preacher. -She was moved by the spectacle of all those fervent worshippers--mostly -in the lower ranks of life--men and women of scantiest leisure, who -gave much when they spent their evenings in the chapel; instead of at -the playhouse, or by the fireside in the cosy parlour with cards and -congenial company. For the first time she began to understand what -the religious life meant, the life in which all earthly things are -secondary. The earnest faces, the voices of a vast concourse singing -Charles Wesley's exquisite hymns, moved her deeply. - -Her work took her mostly among the humble members of that Methodist -Society which had begun twenty years before by the gathering together -of eight or ten awakened souls, yearning for help and counsel, groaning -under the burden of sin, and which was now so widespread a multitude. -In the garrets and cellars, where she sat beside the bed of the sick -and the dying, she found a fervour of unquestioning faith that startled -and touched her. For these sufferers the Gospel she read was no history -of things long past and done with, no story of a vanished life. It was -the message of a living Friend, a Redeemer waiting to give them welcome -in the Kingdom of the just made perfect, the world where there is no -death. He who had promised the penitent thief a dwelling in Paradise -was at the door of the death chamber; and to die was to pass to a life -more beautiful than a child's dream of heaven. - -As the days and weeks went by, that Gospel story read so often under -such solemn influences, with death hovering near, took a deeper hold -upon Antonia's imagination. The message that she carried to others -was for her also. She learnt to love the wise Teacher, the beneficent -Healer, the Saviour of mankind. That name of Saviour pleased her. From -the theologian's point of view she was, perhaps, no more a Christian -than she had ever been. She dared not tell John Wesley, whom she -revered, and who now accepted her as a brand snatched from the burning, -that her faith was not his faith, that she was neither convinced of sin -nor assured of Grace. - -Her awakening had been no sudden act, like the descent of the Spirit -at Pentecost, but a gradual change in her whole nature, the widening -of her sympathies, the growth of pity and of love. It was not of -Christ the Sacrifice she thought, not of His atoning blood; but of -Jesus the Great Exemplar, of Jesus who went about doing good. She -would not question how it came to pass, but she believed that, in the -dim long-ago, Divinity walked among mankind and wore the shape of -man; to what end, except to make men better, she knew not. In all her -conversation with Wesley's converts, however exalted their ideas might -be, that earthly image was in her mind, Jesus, human and compassionate, -the Comforter of human sorrows, the Sinless One who loved sinners. - -Wesley rejoiced with exceeding joy in her conversion. He had met her -from time to time in the dwellings of the poor, had sat with her beside -the bed of the dying, had seen her often among his congregation; and -he believed that the work of Grace had begun, and that it needed but -good influences to ensure her final perseverance and justification by -faith. He wrote to George Stobart the night before he left London for -the North. - - * * * * * - -"You have passed through a fiery trial, dear friend, and -I admire your fortitude in renouncing a passion that was -stronger than all things, except your hope of salvation. The -lady you love has become my friend and fellow-worker, and I -dare venture to believe that she has escaped from darkness -into light, and that you may now enjoy her society without -peril to your soul. Let me hear by-and-by how your suit -prospers. Her ladyship is a woman of rare gifts, and of a -noble character. - - "Yours in Christ, - - "J. W." - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -"CHOOSE OF TWO LOVES." - - -Wesley's letter came upon George Stobart like the sudden opening of a -gate into Paradise. It was a year since he had seen Antonia's face. -For a year he had been the martyr of obedience to his spiritual guide, -had surrendered every hope of earthly happiness, and had submitted to -regard his life on earth only as an apprenticeship to the life to come. - -And in a moment he was free, free to hope, free to behold the face, to -hear the voice he loved. Free to win her, if he could. There was the -question! He had never yet presumed, in his more thoughtful moods, to -believe his love returned. How coldly she had bidden him adieu when -last they met! Her manner had been without resentment, and without -kindness. It seemed as if, when he offended her by his shameless -addresses, he had ceased to exist. Her goodness to his wife had no -relation to her friendship for him. - -How could he approach her? Not in her own house, till he had some -ground for hoping that her door would not be closed against him. -He would steal upon her path unawares, and endeavour to regain her -confidence by gentle means. He hurried to the Foundery to answer -Wesley's letter in person, and found that good man busy with his -preparations for leaving London. From him he heard of Antonia's -progress in good works, and in her attendance at Wesley's services. - -"That heart which you thought adamant has melted, George, and the -Redeemer's saving Grace will be exemplified in this ransomed soul. She -is so fine a creature, so generous, charitable, compassionate, that it -wrung my heart to hear her, in this room, less than three months ago, -boldly confess herself an infidel." - -He told Stobart all that Antonia had done for his poor, and, at his -request, gave him the addresses of some of the people she visited. - -"They have all learnt to love her," he said, "which has not been always -the case when I have sent women of exalted piety upon such missions. -Her high-bred manner has a genial charm that wins them unawares. She -does not attempt to teach, but she reads the Gospel to them; and I may -tell you that she has an exquisite voice, and is a most accomplished -reader. It was but the other day I approved of a female preacher, the -first we have ever had, whose work so far has prospered. Should Lady -Kilrush continue in well-doing, I should like her occasionally to -address a room full of working women. A woman should know best how to -reach women's hearts." - -Stobart smiled at the suggestion. Antonia, the Voltairean, the friend -of Lady Bolingbroke, the avowed sceptic, the woman of fashion, -preaching the Gospel to a crowd of tatterdemalions in a Whitechapel -kitchen! If Wesley could bring her to that pass he was indeed a -miracle-worker. Could it be that she had cast a spell around the leader -of the Methodists, and that his belief in her conversion was but the -delusion of a kind heart, willing to think the best of so beautiful and -gracious a creature? - -Stobart was not an ardent believer in sudden conversions, though, in -the course of his field preaching, it had been a common thing for -him to see men and women fling themselves on their knees and declare -that they were "saved," convinced of sin, justified, sanctified, on -the instant, by one single operation of the Holy Spirit. He had seen -something of the convulsionists of Bristol. The miracle of Pentecost -had, in a lesser degree, been often repeated before his eyes; and among -these instantaneous conversions he knew of some that had been the -beginning of changed and holy lives. But he could not picture Antonia -amongst Wesley's easily won converts. Had he not wrestled again and -again with that stubborn spirit of unbelief, in the days when they were -friends, and when he never spared hard words? All his arguments, all -his pleadings, had failed to change her. - -He did not allow for the influence of time, satiety, _Weltschmerz_, the -aching void of a life without love. - -He rode with Wesley as far as Barnet, on the first stage of his -Northern journey, heard him preach there in the evening to a -closely-packed audience, and rode back to London next morning. It was -late in the afternoon, a mild spring afternoon, when, after visiting -several houses in the neighbourhood of Moorfields, he discovered Lady -Kilrush in an underground kitchen, seated by the sick-bed of a cobbler, -a young man with a wife and two children, dying of a consumption. The -wife sat on one side of the bed, her husband's hand clasped in hers, -Antonia on the other side reading the Gospel of St. John, in those -thrilling tones which Wesley had noted. She looked up as Stobart -entered the kitchen, and her cheek crimsoned as she recognized him; but -when she spoke her voice was cold as at their parting. - -"I thought it was Mr. Wesley," she said. "Has he sent you to see our -poor Morris? This gentleman is one of Mr. Wesley's helpers, Morris." - -The sick man smiled faintly, and held out a wasted hand to the visitor. - -"Morris and I are old friends," Stobart said gently. "No, Lady Kilrush, -I was not sent here," and then seeing there was no vacant chair, he -stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, waiting for Antonia to go on -reading. - -"'I am the true Vine,'" she began, and read to the end of the chapter; -then rose quietly, bent over the dying man, murmured a few kind words, -pressed the wife's hand tenderly, and stole from the room, almost as -noiselessly as if she had been indeed the good angel these people -thought her. Stobart's survey of the wretched room had shown him that -her charity had provided the sufferer with every comfort and even -luxury that could be administered in such a home. - -He followed her into the squalid street. The sky above the dilapidated -red tile roofs was blue and bright, and the north-west wind blew the -freshness of April flowers from the fields and gardens between Finsbury -and Islington. Antonia had no carriage waiting for her. - -"I forget that I am a fine lady when I come here," she said, smiling at -him. "I walk from house to house, and take a hackney-coach when I have -done my day's work." - -"Shall I get you a coach now? It is nearly six o'clock. Or will you -walk a little way?" - -"I should like to walk. The fresh air is very pleasant after that warm -room; that room which he will only leave for the grave, poor soul. But -it is not of him one thinks most, but of the wife. She so loves him. -Happily she counts on being with him again--in a better world. She has -what Mr. Wesley calls vital religion." - -"Mr. Wesley has told me something that has made me very happy," Stobart -said in a low voice that trembled ever so slightly. "He has told me -that your heart is changed, that you do not think as you once thought." - -"Oh, I am changed--heart, mind, desires, fancies--yes, all are changed. -But I know not if it is for the better. I have left off caring for -things. I feel ever so old. Nothing in this life interests me, except -sorrow and suffering. I went to Mr. Wesley when my spirits had sunk to -despair, and he has been my good friend. I go home almost happy, after -I have worked all day among his poor." - -"And he has taught you to believe in Christ?" - -"One does not learn to believe. That must come from within, I think. I -have come to feel the need of God, the need of a world after death; but -I doubt I am no nearer believing in miracles than I was ten years ago -when first I read Voltaire. If to love Jesus is to be a Christian, why -then I am a Christian. But if a Christian must think exactly as you do, -or as Mr. Wesley does, I am outside the pale." - -"Oh, but the fuller light will come! 'God is light.' He will not leave -a soul so precious in darkness. I knew long ago, when I saw you among -those wretched creatures at Lambeth, I knew you could not be for ever -lost." - -They walked on a little way in silence, facing towards the setting sun. -They were crossing the public garden at Moorfields, where the cits and -their wives and families walked on fine evenings. - -"Will you not resume your work in my district? Our people long for you. -Miss Potter is very kind--and your bounty is lavish--but they all want -_you_, all those whom you visited three years ago, and who remember -you with affection. Cannot you spare a little time from these new -pensioners for your old friends?" - -"Oh, sir, I doubt they are well cared for, now they have you." - -"But will you not help me a little? Ah, madam, could you but understand -what your help means for me! If you avoid the old places, the old -people, can I believe that you have pardoned my sin of the past? Surely -that one passionate hour has been expiated by the remorse of years." - -"I have long since pardoned your folly, sir. Pray suffer me to forget -it." - -Her cold disdain stung him to the quick. She did not even account his -passion worth her anger. How could he ever hope to break through that -adamant, to melt that ice? - -He was persistent in spite of her coldness, and at last she promised to -return occasionally to her old work at Lambeth, and to visit the people -he deemed most in need of her. - -"I can but give them my surplus hours," she said, "since the best part -of my life is pledged to Mr. Wesley. And now, sir, be so obliging as to -call a coach, and suffer me to bid you good evening." - -There was a stand of coaches close by, and he handed her to her seat in -one. He stood bareheaded, watching her drive away. Her serious manner, -with that touch of hauteur, kept him at an immeasurable distance. The -familiar confidence of her old friendship seemed irrecoverably lost. - - * * * * * - -Nearly a year had gone since that meeting in the Whitechapel kitchen. -It was spring again, but early spring, and the days were still short, -and the skies still grey and cold, when George Stobart walked home -with Antonia after her visit to another dying bed, the bed of extreme -old age this time, the gradual fading out of the vital flame, feebler, -paler, day by day, the bed of boundless faith and ecstatic anticipation -of a new and fairer life. - -She had seen the last sands of another life run down in the autumn of -the past year. She had kept her promise, and had gone back to Bellagio -in September, and had watched by her Italian grandfather's dying bed--a -peaceful end, in the odour of sanctity. She had followed the old man -to his last resting-place, and had stayed at Bellagio long enough to -make all arrangements for Francesca's wedding, and her establishment -as mistress of the old villino. She was married at the New Year, -handsomely dowered by her English cousin, and having chosen a worthy -mate. Antonia's obligations to her humble kinsfolk had been fulfilled. - -Mr. Stobart and Lady Kilrush were on friendliest terms now; but no word -of love had been spoken. To be with her, to hear her voice, to know -that she liked his company, was so much; and to declare himself might -be the breaking of a spell. They had been together often among the -homes of the poor, in the library at St. James's Square, and sometimes -in the churches and chapels where Wesley, Romaine, and other lights of -the evangelical school were to be heard. But in all that time Stobart -had obtained no farther profession of faith from Antonia. - -"If to love Christ is to be a Christian, I am one," she told him, when -he tried to bring her to his own way of thinking, and that was all. - -Final perseverance, sanctification, justification, conviction of sin! -Those phrases seemed to her only the shibboleth of a sect. But all the -strength of her heart and intellect were engaged in those good works to -which the Methodists attached only a secondary merit. Her compassion -for human suffering was the dominating impulse of her life. She could -feel for the thief in Newgate, pity the slut in Bridewell whose life -had been one long disgrace. She had gone with Stobart into the prisons -of London, those dark places as yet unvisited by Howard or Elizabeth -Fry. She shrank from no form of suffering, so long as it was possible -to help or to console. - -She had done with the world and its pleasures. The recluse is soon -forgotten in the merry-go-round of society. Her duchesses had long -ceased to trouble themselves about her. The princes and princesses -had forgotten her existence. The new reign had brought with it new -interests, a new set. Women were the top of the fashion who had been -dowdies; men who had been blockheads were wits. - -Lord Dunkeld had married a rosy-cheeked damsel of eighteen summers, -daughter and heiress of a Lord of Session, was settled on his Scotch -estate, and had come to think Edinburgh the focus of intelligence -and _ton_. The people who had courted and admired Lady Kilrush had -long ceased to think of her, except as an eccentric, like Lady -Huntingdon, who had caught the fever of piety that had been in the air -for the last twenty years--the contagion of Methodism, Moravianism, -Predestinarianism--some boring and essentially middle-class form of -religion which banished her from polite company. - -A woman who neither visits nor gives entertainments is socially dead. -Her female friends spoke of her sometimes with pity, as an unfortunate -who was afraid to let the town see her altered face, and who had -taken to religion as a substitute for beauty. The idea that she was -disfigured having once got abroad, her old rivals were slow to believe -her face unspoilt, though people who had seen her at one of Lady -Huntingdon's Thursdays swore that she was almost as handsome as ever. - -"If she had not a cold, proud look that keeps an old friend at -a distance," said one of her admirers, who had suffered one of -Whitefield's sermons in order to meet her. - -"She would not have you near enough to discover the ravages of that -horrid malady. I'll wager her countenance is plastered a quarter of an -inch thick with white lead," retorted the rival belle. - -The library in St. James's Square was in the half light of a spring -evening, as it had been a year ago when Stobart entered the room with -so agonized an apprehension. He came in now with Antonia, a privileged -guest, coming and going as in the years gone by, taking his rest by -her fireside, after the burden of the day. Her only other visitors -were Lady Margaret Laroche--who was faithful to her in spite of what -she called her "degeneracy," and who came now and then to pour out her -complaints at the foolishness of a world whose follies were necessary -to her existence--and Patty Granger, whose dog-like fidelity made her -ever welcome, and who loved to talk of Antonia's girlhood, and her own -free and easy life in Covent Garden, when the General was a submissive -lover, and not a peevish husband. - -Stobart had been unusually silent during the walk from Lambeth, and -Antonia had been full of thought, impressed as she ever was by that -mystery of the passing spirit, that unanswerable question, "Whither -goest thou, oh, departing soul, or is thy journey for ever finished, -and is man's instinctive belief in immortality a vain dream?" - -Antonia sank into her fireside chair, weary after a long day in -wretched rooms, hearing and seeing sad things. She was almost too tired -to talk, and was glad of Stobart's silence. Sophy would come presently -and make the tea--it being supposed that no man-servant's hand was -delicate enough to brew that choice infusion--and their spirits would -revive. But in the meantime rest was all they wanted. - -It startled her from this reposeful feeling when Stobart rose abruptly -and began to pace the room, for some minutes in silence, broken only by -a sigh, then bursting into impassioned speech. - -"Antonia, I can lock up my heart no longer! 'Tis a year since I came -from America to find a desolate home. For a year I have known myself a -widower. Dare I break the spell of silence? Shall I lose all in asking -for all? Will you banish me in anger, as you did when it was so black a -sin to speak of my love?" - -He flung himself on his knees beside her chair. - -"Say you will be pitiful and kind, you who are all pity; and if you -cannot give me what I ask, promise not to make me an outcast from your -friendship." - -"I shall never again cease to be your friend, sir!" she answered -gently. "I think we know each other too well to quarrel. We are neither -of us perfect creatures; but I believe you are a good Christian, and -that your friendship will ever be precious to me." - -"Make the bond something nearer than friendship, Antonia. Let it be the -hallowed tie that makes two souls seem as one. Ah, my angelic friend, -seldom has woman been so worshipped as you are by me. The love that -stole upon my mind and heart unawares, in this room, when it was so -foul a sin to love you; the love purified by years of repentance; the -love that haunted me in the wilderness, through long days and nights -of toil and pain, when your following ghost was nearer and more real -to me than the foe that hemmed us round or the storm that beat upon -our heads--that love is with me still, Antonia; time cannot change nor -familiarity lessen it. Will you be for ever cold, for ever deaf to my -prayer?" - -She had heard him to the end. Was it for the joy of hearing him, though -she knew what her answer must be? She knew now that she loved him, -and had always loved him, from those days of a so-called friendship. -She knew that he took all the zest out of her life when he left her; -and that the want of his company had been a dull pain, underlying all -varieties of pleasure, a sense of loss coming on her on a sudden amidst -the tempestuous gaiety of a masquerade, haunting her in some melody -at the opera house, saddening her in the midst of a gay throng, where -arrows of wit flashed fast to an accompaniment of joyous laughter. - -"Can you forget what I told you years ago?" she said. "A marriage -is impossible for me. I am married to the dead. I gave myself to my -husband for ever. I swore in his dying moments to belong to none but -him." - -"'Twere madness to keep so wild a vow." - -"What! Do the Methodist Christians think it no sin to break their oath?" - -"They would violate no vow made in their rational moments. But your -promise was given in the delirium of grief, and he to whom you gave it -could not be such a self-lover as to fetter youth and beauty to his -coffin." - -"'Twas he who claimed the promise, and I gave it in all seriousness. I -loved him, sir. I would have given all the residue of my life for one -year of happiness with him. I loved him; and our lives were severed by -my act, severed for years, to unite in death. If there be that other -world Mr. Wesley believes in, I may see him again, may be with him in -eternity. That, sir, is indeed a great perhaps. I will not hazard such -a chance of everlasting bliss." - -"'Tis the pagan's heaven you picture, not the Christian's--the -resumption of human ties, not union with Christ. Oh, can you be so -cruel as to make my life miserable, to deny the lover who adores you, -for the sake of the dead man who lies in the quiet sleep that has no -knowledge of you and me--must lie there unknowing, uncaring, till the -Day of Judgment?" - -"If ever that day come he shall not find me forsworn; no, not even for -you; not even to make you happy." - -He had watched the exalted look in her face as the firelight shone upon -it. She had looked upward as she spoke, her eyes dilated, her lips -tremulous with emotion, and a fever spot on her cheek. But now on a -sudden her head drooped, and she burst into tears. - -"Not even for you," she sobbed. - -It was her confession of love. In the next moment she was in his arms, -and their lips had met. She let him hold her there, she let her head -lie upon his shoulder, and suffered his impassioned kisses in the -surprise of his wild vehemence. - -"You love me, Antonia, you love me! No dead man shall stand between us. -You must, you shall be mine!" - -She released herself from his arms, and sprang to her feet. - -"I am not so weak a thing as you fancy me, sir." - -"I will not let you go. Shall a profligate's pale spectre stand between -me and the woman I worship? A vow made under such conditions is no vow. -Can it better him that my life should be miserable, that lovers as true -as you and I should pine in solitude, go down to the grave without ever -having known happiness? It shall not be." - -"You are very imperious, Mr. Stobart; but I am the mistress of my own -fate." - -"I am very resolute. You love me, Antonia. Your tears, your lips have -told me that divine secret." - -"Be it so. I love you, sir. But I will not break my promise to one I -loved better, my first dear love, the man who brought sunshine into my -life, and extinguished the sun when he left me. The man who loved me -better than he thought." - -"Antonia!" - -"Leave me, Mr. Stobart. If we are still to be friends, you had best -leave me." - -"It is no longer a question of friendship. I know now that you love me, -and I swear I will not lose you." - -"Leave me, sir," she exclaimed. "If you ever wish to see my face again, -leave me this instant." - -"At least be merciful. Do not send me from you in despair. Antonia, be -kind! I cannot live without you." - -"Go, sir; your vehemence, your boldness, leave me no power to reason or -even to think. Go; and if after a night of thought I can bring myself -to believe that I am not bound, body and soul, by my promise to the -dead----" - -"You will be mine," he cried, with outstretched arms, trying to clasp -her again to his heart, but she drew herself away from him indignantly. - -He grasped her unwilling hand, covered it with kisses and tears, and -rushed from the room. - - * * * * * - -The watchmen were calling "Half-past eleven, and a fine night," when -Lady Kilrush left her dressing-room, carrying a lighted candle and a -key, and crossed the gallery to that other side of the spacious house -where the late lord's rooms were situated. The household had retired -soon after ten, and the great well staircase lay like a pit of darkness -below the massive oak banisters. An oppressive silence, an oppressive -gloom, pervaded the house, as Antonia unlocked the door that had seldom -been opened since the coffin was carried out on the first stage of its -long journey, on a summer night that memory recalled as if it had been -yesterday. The atmosphere, the feelings of that night were in her mind -as she crossed the threshold of the room which had never known the uses -of human life since Kilrush occupied it. The wainscot mouse, the spider -on the wall, the moth lurking in the window drapery, had been its only -inhabitants. - -The tall silver candlesticks, the portfolio and standish were on the -table in the oak-panelled ante-room where Antonia remembered the lawyer -and the doctor talking beside the empty hearth. The vastness of the -bed-chamber had an appalling air in the glimmer of a single candle. -Antonia's hand trembled as she lighted those other candles, the candles -that had burnt beside the dying man when he spoke the words that made -her a peeress. - -How near that night seemed, as she stood beside the bed, funereal under -the dark velvet hangings, a catafalque rather than a bed. She could -hear the Bishop's full-mouthed tones, and that other voice, faltering -and faint, but to her the world's best music. - -"Oh, my beloved," she cried, falling on her knees beside the pillow on -which his head had lain. "Oh, my dearest, kindest, best, surely it is -you I love and none other--you, only you, only you!" - -Her arms were folded on the coverlet, her head resting on them. She -remained thus on her knees, for a long time, dreaming back the past. -She lived again through those hours in Rupert Buildings, those hours -spent in endless talk with Kilrush. They seemed to her now the most -blissful hours of her life. She looked back and wondered at that -happiness. Perhaps there was some touch of illusion in that dream of -the past, something of the light that never was on sea or land; but -to her there was no shadow of doubt that the joy of those past days -exceeded all she had known of gladness since her husband's death. - -She had made her night toilet and put on a loose silken _neglige_, -meaning to spend the long hours in this room. Her first night in a -husband's chamber--her wedding night, she thought, with a melancholy -smile. - -She had come here to solve the problem of the future, to determine -whether she should or should not break her promise to the dead. For -her, the free-thinker, it might seem a small thing to break a vow, when -her keeping it would make a good man's life desolate. But despite the -vagueness of her hope in the Hereafter, despite that early teaching -which had bidden her believe in nothing that her human intelligence -could not comprehend, her husband's image was a living presence in that -room, a living influence in her life, and she could not imagine him -lying in the dust, unconscious and indifferent. Somehow, somewhere, by -some mysterious unthinkable means, the dead still lived, still loved -her, still claimed her fidelity. - -"My first dear love," she cried, in a burst of hysterical sobs, "I am -yours and yours only. I can never belong to another, never own any -husband but you." - -Her tears, her reiterated vow soothed her. She rose from her knees, -by-and-by, and sat on the bed, as she had sat when she held her dying -lover in her arms. Gradually her head sank on the pillow where his head -had lain, and she fell asleep. - -"Past two o'clock, and a rainy night," called the watchman in the -square. - -Antonia did not wake till after five. The dead man was in her dreams -through those three hours of deepest sleep. It was not George Stobart's -impassioned embrace that haunted her slumber. The arms that encircled -her, the lips that kissed her, were the arms and lips of the lover -irrevocably lost, and there was a poignant joy in that embrace. Her -wedding night! The words were repeated in her dreams. It was a night -of dreams that ratified her promise to the dead. Surely he was near -her! The voice that sounded so close to her ear, that very voice she -knew so well, the lips whose touch thrilled her, gave her the assurance -of immortality; and in some dim land she could not picture, under -conditions beyond the limit of human intelligence, they two would meet -again, husband and wife, spirit or flesh, reunited for ever. - - * * * * * - -George Stobart was at Kilrush House before nine o'clock. His patience -could endure no longer. He had spent the night as he spent that other -and much more miserable night after Whitefield's sermon, wandering -about the waste places between Lambeth Palace and Vauxhall. Slumber or -rest was out of the question. - -The hall porter was more awake than usual, and answered his inquiry -briskly. - -"No, sir, not at home. Her ladyship has left London. She will lie at -Devizes to-night, on her way to Ireland." - -"Gone! Impossible!" - -"It was very sudden, sir, and as much as could be done. 'Twas nearly -six o'clock this morning when the servants had their orders. Her -ladyship takes only Miss Potter, her French waiting woman, and one -footman, in her travelling carriage and a post-chaise." - -"What time did they leave?" - -"They may have been gone over half an hour, sir. I heard the clock -strike eight after the coaches left the door. I have her ladyship's -letter for you, sir." - -Stobart took the letter, speechless with mortification, and left the -house before he broke the seal. It was a miserable morning, and he -stood in the rain, under the low grey sky, while he read her letter, -her letter of one line-- - -"Farewell for ever." - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -"AND CLEAVE UNTO THE BEST." - - - - -_From the Revd. John Wesley to Mr. George Stobart._ - - "At Mrs. Berry's Lodgings, Bristol, - - "May 5th, 1762. - - "MY DEAR FRIEND, - - "Your letter surprised and grieved me; for I had hoped that - Lady Kilrush would have smiled upon your suit, and that an - union between two natures so ardent in Christian charity - would be not only for your happiness, but for the spiritual - welfare of that dear lady, and for the greater glory of God. - - "Yet though I regret your disappointment I can but honour - her ladyship for the reverence in which she holds her - promise to the dead; nor can I do other than admire that - chaste and heavenly disposition which would dedicate a - lifetime to the memory of a husband who was hers only in one - dying hour. Such widows are widows indeed! - - "You ask for my counsel at this so serious crisis of your - life, when the nature of your future work for Christ rests - on your choice of action; first, whether you should take - Holy Orders, before you go to America, a voyage upon which - you tell me your mind is irrevocably fixed; and next whether - you should accept her ladyship's munificent gift of the - major portion of her funded property, and her mansion in - St. James's Square, she retaining only her Irish estate, - and the family seat on the Shannon. This latter question I - unhesitatingly answer in the affirmative. The fact that this - noble lady had executed the deed of gift which transferred - her property to you before she declared her intention, in - the touching letter which you send me, would show that - she had deliberately resolved upon this sacrifice, and - was influenced by the desire of doing justice to her late - husband's nearest kinsman. She has indeed honoured me with - a letter to that effect, and has moreover told me that she - intends to spend the rest of her life in Ireland, where I - hope occasionally to visit her. - - "I say to you, George, accept this fortune, even though, - in your present temper, it may seem a burden. Lady Kilrush - will be still a rich woman; and you will have a wider scope - for the employment of money in the service of Christ than - any woman, not even that Mother in Israel, Lady Huntingdon, - could find. - - "The more serious question of your ordination I must leave - to your own heart and mind, and the Spirit of God directing - you. As an itinerant lay-preacher your ministry has borne - good fruit, and if you transfer your labours to Georgia I - shall sorely miss your help; but as an ordained priest you - will enter a higher sphere of usefulness, and feel yourself - sent out upon a nobler mission: so, my dear brother in - Christ, I bid you go on and fear not. We desire to rivet the - chains that bind us to the Church of England, not to loosen - them; and the idea that we are drifting apart from that - Church--_injusta noverca_ though she has been to us--is a - source of fear and trembling to many weak spirits, most of - all to my dear brother Charles. - - "For myself I care but little whether we continue to belong - to the Established Church or be cast out; for sure I am - that we have kindled a flame which neither men nor devils - will ever be able to quench. Our fundamental principles - are the fundamental principles of the Church, and will - suffer no change. I have no fear for the Society, which, - from so insignificant a beginning, has attained so vast - an influence. I remember how, less than thirty years ago, - two young men, without friends, without either power or - fortune, set out from college to attempt a reformation, - not of opinions, but of men's tempers and lives, of vice - in every kind, of everything contrary to justice, mercy, - or truth. For this we carried our lives in our hands, and - were looked upon and treated as mad dogs. Knowing this of - me you cannot think that I should fear to stand alone, the - untrammelled shepherd of my flock. Your ordination, should - you meet with a bishop of liberal mind, like Whitefield's - friend, that good Bishop of Gloucester, ought not to hang - tediously on hand. But I hope I may have many occasions for - conversing with you before you sail for America, where, - supplied with ample fortune, and armed with the faith that - can move mountains, you may do much to maintain those noble - enterprises, the Schools, the Orphanages, and Asylums, which - Mr. Whitefield initiated, and to which he ever returns with - fresh vigour. Would that he had a more robust constitution, - and that we might hope to see his ministry continued to a - green old age; but I fear he cannot long stand against the - inroads of disease, accelerated by strenuous toil, preaching - three times a day, long journeys in all weathers, the rough - usage of the mob, and that fiery spirit which has been - always like the sword that wears out the scabbard. - - "On my return to the Foundery in the autumn I shall seek for - you in your house at Lambeth. Till then, esteemed friend and - fellow labourer, farewell. - - "JOHN WESLEY." - - - - -_From the Revd. John Wesley to the Revd. George Stobart._ - - "At the George Inn, Limerick, Ireland, - - "November 11th, 1768. - - "MY DEAR FRIEND, - - "It is with poignant grief that I take up my pen to write - the saddest tidings it has ever been my lot to send you. - Your last letter was full of enquiries about Lady Kilrush. - Alas, George, that noble being, whom we have both loved and - revered, no longer inhabits this place of sin and sorrow, - and I dare hope that her pure and gentle spirit has taken - flight to a better world, and now enjoys the companionship - of saints and angels. Rarely have I met with a nature so - free from earthly stain, nor have I often beheld a life - so rich in good works; and although she may not even at - the last have attained that unquestioning faith which I so - desired to find in her, I would hazard my own hope of Heaven - against the certainty of her everlasting bliss; for never - did I know a better Christian. - - "Her death was worthy to rank in the list of martyrs. You - may have heard that this city--the filth and squalor of - whose poorer streets and alleys no pen can depict--was - lately visited by an outbreak of small-pox. Lady Kilrush was - at her mansion by the Atlantic, a delightful spot, where I - once spent a reposeful week in her sweet company, preaching - in the neighbouring villages, and narrowly escaping death - at the hands of a wild mob, egged on by a bigot priest. In - this healthful retreat she heard of the pestilence that was - mowing down the poor of Limerick, and at once hastened to - the dreadful scene. Secure from the disease herself, by past - suffering, she spent her days and nights in ministering to - the sick, aided in this pious work by a band of holy women - of the Roman Catholic faith, and by such hired nurses as her - purse could command. - - "For six weeks she laboured without respite, scarcely - allowing herself time for food or sleep; and when my - itinerant ministry brought me to Limerick I found her marked - for death. She had taken cold in passing from close and - heated rooms into the windy street, had neglected her own - ailments in her anxiety for others, and the result was a - violent inflammation of the lungs, attended with a raging - fever. - - "Alas, dear sir, I can give you no message of affection from - those once so lovely lips. She was delirious when I saw - her, and though your name was mixed with her wild ravings, - 'twas in disjointed sentences of no meaning; but on the day - preceding her death the fever abated, and indeed it seemed - for a short space as if my prayers had prevailed, and that - she would be spared still to adorn a world where by her - charities and inexhaustible beneficence she shone like a - star. Her senses came back to her within an hour of the - last change. She knew me, and received the Sacrament from - my hand, and I dare hope that in those last moments perfect - faith in her Saviour was conjoined with that perfect love - which had long been the ruling principle of her life. - - "I had been kneeling by her bedside in silent prayer for - some time, her marble hand clasped in mine, when she cried - out suddenly, 'Husband, I have kept my vow,' and, looking - upward with a seraphic smile, her spirit passed into - eternity. I assisted in the funeral service, and saw her - mortal remains laid in the family vault, where her coffin - was placed beside that of the last Lord Kilrush. - - "Yours in sorrow and affection, - - "JOHN WESLEY." - - - - -EPILOGUE. - - -Thirty years later, on the anniversary of Antonia's death, George -Stobart, Bishop of Northborough--the fighting bishop, as some of his -admirers called him, a profound scholar, a fiery controversialist, a -celibate and an ascetic, once famous as a Methodist field-preacher, and -now the leader of the extreme High Church party--sat by the fireside in -his library in the episcopal Palace, a lofty and spacious room, where a -pair of wax candles on the writing-table served but to accentuate the -darkness. He sat leaning forward in the candlelight, with one elbow on -the arm of his chair, looking at a long dark ringlet that lay in his -open hand, bound with a black ribbon to which was attached a label in -Wesley's writing-- - -"Antonia's hair, cut after death by her sorrowing friend, J. W." - -"Only a woman's hair," murmured the bishop. "'Tis said that Swift spoke -those words in pure cynicism over a ringlet of his ill-used Stella. -Only a woman's hair! And for me the memorial of a life's love, the one -earthly relic which reminds the priest that he was once a man. Oh, thou -who wert the idol of this heart, dost thou in some undiscovered region -still live to pity thy desolate lover? Shall we meet and know each -other again, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage? 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